A-Rod sucks at public relations

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

God damn it, A-Rod.

I've spent the last several years defending you against critics, telling them that they had you pegged all wrong. I said they couldn't possibly know you. They don't know how you tick.
But still, you kept doing things to embarrass yourself. And I kept defending you.

But damn it, man. Passing out during the birth of your kid? What the hell? That's the last straw. You're dead to me.

See, I'm not sure you're aware of this, but there is a thing called public relations. It helps control how you are viewed in the public eye. Your image.

When you slap at Bronson Arroyo's glove, or talk about how you and Derek Jeter don't sleep over anymore, or get caught hanging around with burly strippers, or pass out during fucking childbirth, it hurts your image.

LeBron James understands this. His handlers carefully control his image and his likeness. He's a brand right now. When people think of LeBron James, they think of a cool badass who dominates the game. When they think of you, they picture a pretty boy passed out on a tile floor while his wife gives birth.

You and LeBron both play your sports at incredibly high levels. So why the difference in public perception?

Because you suck balls at public relations.

Back in the 1980s, during a brief respite from journalism, I worked in the PR world. I had just been fired from the San Jose Mercury News for stealing the break-room fridge, and was looking for a new gig. Thanks to an old connection, I landed at Nike.

At the time, Nike was known as a running shoe company. That was their niche. But I barged in and told Nike that no one gave a shit about Steve Prefontaine and running. They nearly threw me out, but then I told them -- sign Michael Jordan. Sign that rookie from North Carolina and let's build a shoe for him.

They listened.

So we created the Air Jordan line. In fact, I designed the first shoe. I decided that Spike Lee was the perfect complement for Jordan's first television commercials. I said we should pony up the cash to get these ads on prime-time TV.

The ads were a huge hit. Kids loved them, and begged for the shoes. I remember a meeting I had with him, where I told him he needed to keep his image squeaky clean. And if he did, parents would embrace him as a role model for their kids.

He listened, and the Jordan brand took off. The man knew how to market himself. He was savvy. People adored him. Eventually, the man became the second recognizable face in America, behind Jesus Christ.

All because of me, really.

But that's beside the point. The point is that you, A-Rod, need to get some PR help. I'm available, should you need my services. I can also negotiate deals for you, cook great Lebanese food, and make balloon animals that look like genitalia. Contact me for an all-inclusive package.

Remember "Be Like Mike?" That was my idea. And really, who would actually want to be like A-Rod at this point?

Stop looking like a douchebag, you douchebag. Get an image.

Call Marv today!

I invented mock drafts

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

The NFL Draft is this weekend, which means you've probably spent much of your week wading through the various mock drafts all over this Internet. Well, if you love them, you can thank me. If you hate them, you can go frost my ballsack.

See, back in 1973, when I worked at the Dallas Morning News -- before being fired for conducting a 14-person orgy in the newsroom -- I got the idea to try and predict how the picks would fall in the NFL Draft. This was before Mel Kiper made his pathetic living from forecasting draft picks. I paved the way.

It was just a flippant column, but I did a little research and ended up nailing 22 of the 26 picks that year, including the surprise pick of that Mormon, Burgess Owens, to the Jets. It was a big hit with people, and the concept caught on.

That was the last mock draft I wrote. But this year, my head filled with remembrances of orgies in newsrooms, I decided to forecast the top 10 picks. Here they are, hombres.

1. Dolphins: Glen Dorsey (DT, LSU). All this blithering talk about Jake Long, blah blah blah, contract details announced, blah blah blah. Bill Parcells is an enigma, so go ahead and put me in the camp of believing it when I see Long's name escape the thinly-parsed lips of Roger Goodell. I know the Dolphins like the Long brothers here, but I think they're going to go with the black guy because they'll value "talent" over "work ethic."

2. Rams: Jake Long (OT, Michigan). He's a big motherfucker, and I hear he trains by dragging tractors around by his johnson. He'll anchor that line for a decade. Only a 5.17 40 time though? Weak.

3. Atlanta: Matt Ryan (QB, Boston College). In 1983, while with the Tacoma Tribune, I wrote a feature story about a 6th grade boy with cerebral palsy who was allowed to play quarterback for one series for his Pee Wee football team. It was heartwarming and inspiring, and the boy was a better quarterback than Joey Harrington. Ryan is the pick here.

4. Raiders: Chris Long (DE, Virginia). Howie Long always seemed like one of those guys who, if I were a woman, I'd really enjoy getting to know. Great smile, big hands. He really seems like he'd know how to take care of you.

5. Chiefs: Ryan Clady (T, Boise State). Gotta be an offensive lineman here. Carl Peterson is a dummy, but he ain't dumb enough to not fix his offensive line.

Scratch that. They'll probably draft Darren McFadden to back up Larry Johnson. Please note that this is my second giggle-inspiring reference to "johnson" in this column.

6. Jets: Vernon Gholston (DE, Ohio State).



7. Patriots: Keith Rivers (LB, USC). Oh my God, what a steal, the Patriots are so much smarter than everyone else by absolutely snowing the rest of the goddamn NFL with their great pick of Keith Rivers! They could draft Maria Sharapova and people would splooge all over New England's outside-the-box thinking. There is so much to work with in that last sentence, especially when Bill Belichick's video camera is introduced into the equation.

8. Ravens: Darren McFadden (RB, Baltimore). Same thing that happened to the Vikings last year, with McFadden being too good to pass up despite already having a strong running back in-house. Except McFadden's no Adrian Peterson. He's like Reggie Bush, only not quite as fast, and with more attitude problems, and a less-powerful running style and some other bullshit. Not as sweet a ride.

9. Bengals: Sedrick Ellis (DT, USC). Jesus Christ, mock drafts are boring to write. I can't imagine having to read this shit. What are you people still doing here?

10. Saints: Mike Jenkins (CB, South Florida). Who the hell are you?

Oh my God, I can't take it anymore. You people who update mock drafts every week from November on need to be shot. You can't find anything better to do with your time?

I'm exhausted just from the 10 minutes it took to guess on these picks. I'm dehydrated (which might be because of the alcoholism) and I can't stop sweating (which is surely because of the mescaline). But damn you people for this journalistic trend. It was so innocent when I started it, so long ago.

Power rankings, mock drafts, various lists. What happened to journalism? What happened to searching out for stories? Penning prose? Spinning similes? Writing words? Is this what we've come to?!

God help us all.

I'm drunk.

Take that money, Billy

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Bill Self is dumb.

Despite a rumored offer from Oklahoma State that would include a $6 million signing bonus, and many more millions of dollars per year in salary, Self is staying at Kansas.

Sportswriters everywhere are happy about this. Except for me (full disclosure: I was booted from the National Sportswriters Association after I set fire to Bill Plaschke's shoes during a conference in 1981).

Sportswriters always get really upset when players and coaches leave their current locales so they can make more money. As if these writers, fat on free pizza and bad metaphors, wouldn't do the same thing. I know I would.

And you know what? I have.

I totally understand Bill Self's situation; I do not understand his decision. Back in 1973, I was working in Arizona as the sports editor of the Bisbee Union. It was a nice little paper, and I worked my ass off getting all the relevant scores, updates and occasional provocative photo of myself in the newspaper.

Late one night, I was sitting at the local pub, The Mono Borracho, when I was approached by a man in a dark overcoat and bowler hat. He had stinky breath and a thin mustache. I immediately suspected a rapist.

"Marv," he said.

Drunk, and still horny from watching high school girls play volleyball, I growled at him.

"Who are you?"

"Let's just say I'm a representative of the Pima Weekly Press, over in nearby Graham County."

I paused. I thought. I responded.

"What the fuck is that?"

I took a long swig of cheap whiskey. It burned like syphillis.

"It's a weekly newspaper. Circulation of about 2,500 people," he said.

I dismissed him. "My newspaper reaches almost 8,000 people. I'm not interested. It'd be a step down."

He smiled at me. He touched my leg gently, but in a manly way.

"What if I told you we could offer you -- how shall I say it? -- a more comfortable lifestyle?"

I farted loudly. Several bar patrons looked in my direction.

He continued, unfazed. "My sources tell me that you're currently making $8.85 an hour here in Bisbee. Eight days vacation per year."

"Uh huh."

"Well, what if we offered you our sports editor position, along with a salary of $10.15 an hour. And 10 days vacation. That's two full weeks, Marv."

I turned to face him. I looked into his beady, rapist eyes. Thoughts of working for a lesser paper filled my mind. It'd be a step backwards for my career. The paper's operation had fewer resources. It'd be a bigger challenge. I'd have to work even harder just to achieve the same results.

But, that gleaming thought of an extra $50 a week. I couldn't get past it. It offered promise. Security. Hope.

And shortly after, I accepted Pima's offer. I was a journalistic whore. But I made a lot more money. And I was damn good at my job. I turned that newspaper around in three short months. Boosted circulation by 20 percent. That was until my managing editor found out I was using the break room freezer to store my sperm bank donations. I was immediately fired.

But the same principle remains: Always take the money. No one can blame you.

You're no different, Bill Self. If T. Boone Pickens is still interested in giving you all that cash, take it. Take it and don't you ever feel guilty.

Don't you ever feel guilty.

Bracket-urology

The West

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock



How will the West be won in 2008, haha?! There are SO many good teams in this portion of the NCAA Tournament, it HAS to be considered the toughest region in the tournament, besides the East and maybe the South. Hello, UCLA – is there a LOVE DOCTOR in the house? – is easily the favorite to win the whole thing, but how can you ever discount the greatest college sports franchise of all time, Duke? And look out for Professor X and Connect-I-Cut in the Sweet 16.

The way I see it, there are only a few teams who could win the regional: the ones I’ve already mentioned, plus BYU, Drake, Purdue, West Virginia, Arizona, Texas A&M or Belmont. Between Duke, Drake, BYU and Purdue, there are probably more white people in this bracket than any other, which means GREAT DEFENSE and lots of 3-point shooting. I love the DUKIES, who will be the second-seed, and think they could be the team to beat, unless they get upset by West Virginia, Xavier, Purdue or Connecticut.

UCLA, of course, has the LOVE DOCTOR, along with lots of other guys that are really good. Kevin Love has carried his team all year, and even though they’ve played in a lot of close games, there’s no substitute for a PAC-10 TITLE. Plus, they’ve been in the Final Four the last two years, which means they’re really experienced, even though their best player is a freshman. So, they’ll probably win the bracket.

But Duke is really good, and XAVIER! Anytime you have a school named after one of the best X-Men in history, you know they’re going to do well. They have mind control! More importantly, they have David West, who is a beast for the New Orleans Hornets.

I TOTALLY FORGOT BAYLOR WAS IN THIS BRACKET. Forget everything I just said, UPSET CITY BABY. I like Baylor to get to the Elite Eight and lose to either UCLA or Western Kentucky. Can you imagine if Drake played Duke in the bracket? THOSE NAMES ARE TOTALLY SIMILAR, and they both wear blue in the jerseys. I would be so confused which team was which. I guess the difference is that one team would have COACH K GENIUS MASTERMIND calling the plays. Drake’s probably not going to get that far though, unless they shock the world and beat Connecticut.

The South

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old



Austin Peay! It sounds like pee! Peay Peay pee pee.

Silly Austin, he should change his name so people don’t always say mean things, like “Austin, do you have to Peay, because the potty is over there!” Maybe it won’t matter because Texas will beat them in the first round of the South region. Texas is still mad that Kevin Durant went to the NBA, and they are going to teach him a lesson. Poor Austin Peay.

Tanner also thinks it’s funny to say “Oral Roberts” all the time, but I don’t get why. I don’t think it’s funny to make fun of a man who loves Jesus so much. What if Jesus sends lightning down to kill Tanner? My favorite part about Oral Roberts is that their eagle likes to beat people up. I think they will beat Pittsburgh, because the eagle will kick the hurt Pittsburgh players like Levance Fields.

I am also cheering for Temple and St. Mary’s, because they also remind me of Jesus. Mary was Jesus’ mommy, and she bought him gifts like gold and Frankenstein. I think Frankenstein is scary, but not Jesus. He was not afraid and said, “ I will now make a bunch of loaves of bread and wine.” I can’t drink wine yet, but someday, I will sneak into daddy’s liquor drawer and try some.

I don’t really know much else about basketball. I like Tigers (rahr!), and Memphis has some, so they’ll probably win the whole thing. Tanner says only smart people play for Cornell and Stanford, so they will probably do a lot of thinking when they play against each other, and talk about math and science and then hit a couple baskets. I hate math and science, but do you know what I love? DUCKIES. So I’m cheering for Oregon, too.

The East

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief


That Bruce Pearl is a crazy sonofabitch. Wearing orange, sweating a lot, hugging Erin Andrews. I'm sure you all saw that recently on Deadspin or something. You didn't see it here.

I used to cover Bruce as a coach back when he was at Southern Indiana University. I had taken a job a small Evansville weekly after being fired from the Boston Globe -- I siphoned gas out of my editor's car when I was short on cash -- and got to know him pretty well. I have a story about me, Bruce and three transgender Vietnamese midgets that I could tell, but I won't.

OK, fine. I will. One night, Bruce and I decided to an interview at the local Asian cuisine dinery. I always got the fried rice. Bruce always got the fried rice. He would sometimes tell them he wanted the "flied lice" and they would laugh a lot, and I would laugh a lot, and so would Bruce.

That night, we were talking about his team's postseason chances when into the restaurant wandered these three Vietnamese midgets. As usual, I was doing the interview with a fair amount of Scopolamine in my system, and things were foggy. The night was foggy. The midgets were short.

I got up to go to the bathroom, because I had had two burritos before coming to the Asian Cuisine place. I was in there for about 30 minutes or so. When I came back out, chaos reigned. Bruce was naked and sweaty, and rolling around on the floor, which was covered in a six-inch layer of shrimp flied lice. Two of the midgets were naked, and the other was smoking a cigarette while standing on stilts, near the corner of the restaurant. There were two ducks gallivanting about near the service counter. The guy on stilts was talking to the shopkeeper about the skyrocketing price of fennel. As Bruce hoisted one midget high into the air, he paused, then dropped the poor little fella. The midget hit the floor, hard.

Bruce stood back and observed the three midgets, the shopkeeper and myself.

"My GOD!" he exclaimed. "Look at you! You're in a 1-2-1-1 formation! That might actually work! There's no way I can get through this!"

Still naked, he ran across the rice-covered floor and outside. He hopped in his car, and sped away. And that, my friends, is how Bruce created his infamous full-court press scheme.

That sort of moxie and innovation is what I like in a coach. That's why Tennessee is my pick to win the East Region. Book it, hombres.

The Midwest

By Dr. Charles P. Ipswich IV
University Professor


Oh, you silly Americans and your round-ball. You exclaim that March is your time for madness, implementing the alliterative name because you feel it captures some sort of idealistic passion for sporting. I must tell you that your version of madness is inconsequential; for true madness, you should consult Thomas Lovell Beddoes, who became fixated upon death in his writings, and eventually killed himself.

That, you wankers, is madness.

Alas, I am here, so I may as well tell you what to expect from the Midwest Region of you bracket.

First, do not pick Kansas to win anything. Coach Bill Self is the modern-day equivalent of King Harold II, who seemed promising but was then destroyed during the Battle of Hastings. You may not understand this analogy, but it because you do not have tenure on the faculty staff of a major Ivy League institution.

Mmm, yes, diamond.

My teams to watch are Georgetown, Vanderbilt and USC. Georgetown has a lovely History Department, and a beautiful colonial campus where one can spend hours losing himself in the library, whether you want to study things ranging from John Burgoyne to Isabel of Gloucester.

Vanderbilt, meanwhile, is represented by a Commodore, which, as you know, is equivalent to Brigadier in the British Army. This demonstrates a passion going beyond most other teams in your round-ball gaming tourney. Yes, you cannot go wrong by employing the quiet strength of a Commodore, especially in his dazzling uniform.

USC has OJ fucking Mayo. Watch out.

Bob Costas. Douchebag.

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

It seems that Bob Costas has chimed in with his opinion of bloggers. Apparently, and disappointingly, he hates them.

But it's one thing if somebody just sets up a blog from their mother's basement in Albuquerque and they are who they are, and they're a pathetic get-a-life loser, but now that pathetic get-a-life loser can piggyback onto someone who actually has some level of professional accountability and they can be comment No. 17 on Dan Le Batard's column or Bernie Miklasz' column in St. Louis. That, in most cases, grants a forum to somebody who has no particular insight or responsibility. Most of it is a combination of ignorance or invective.''

Bob is one of sports journalism's most smug and pedantic personalities, so we shouldn't be surprised by this. Naturally, he whipped out the "parent's basement" argument, which is the sportswriter equivalent of Godwin's Law. Use it, and you fail.

First of all, Bob, I live in a shack in rural Montana -- not my mother's basement. Second, I have a life. It involves waking up late, eating dozens of strips of bacon for breakfast, and standing on my front step in my untied bathrobe, shooting at deer.

What the hell makes you any better than me? I've worked at "real" media outlets. And you know what? They suck. Content is dictated by space, which is dictated by how much advertising is in that day's paper. The sportswriters themselves only land in prominent positions by sticking around long enough, or having favorable connections. Christ knows it's not because of talent. Have you ever read something by Bill Plaschke or Woody Paige? Once writers land in those roles, they do one of two things:

1. Write safe, boring fluff stories to satisfy their editors
2. Intentionally try to drum up controversy by spouting blustery, unfounded nonsense.

Both of these approaches exist only to help the writers keep their jobs.

I'm not sure what made you so reactionary and defensive about blogs. Is it because you're threatened that some upstart is going to take your own job? I think that's unlikely. After all, no one does a voice-over story about an Olympic athlete whose dog tragically died from hip dysplasia better than you. We don't want to take that away.

No, all we lowly bloggers want is a voice (and maybe a house of our own!). I think most readers are smart enough to know which voices they should listen to. The guy who argues that Alex Rodriguez is definitely gay, on a blog titled, "Red Sawx 4ever, Bitches!" doesn't have much credibility. No one will take him seriously. So what are you afraid of?

However, there are bloggers who do good work. They break stories and work hard for scoops. They're constantly posting news and information, usually faster than the real media outlets. They take their work seriously.

We here at Flotsam don't take our work that seriously. We're all goddamn nutbags. But through the beauty of the Internet, people still want to come read our site every day. It confuses the hell out of us at times. Maybe if the "real" journalists offered up something new for once, readers wouldn't need to seek out the sports opinions of a seven-year-old, or a deranged war veteran, or a high school socialite with no actual sports knowledge.

But as long as thousands of sportswriters continue to write boring stories, filled with antiquated ideas that shred whatever small bit of credibility remains in the world of sports journalism, there will be a place for us.

Thanks for that, Bob. Tell your colleagues to keep up the great work.

Devean George is a peckerhead

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

I don't even have a column idea. I just wanted to publicly say that Devean George is a peckerhead. When you run your own media empire and you wear the goddamn pants -- figuratively, of course, because I don't actually wear pants most of the time, sometimes due to laziness, sometimes due to comfort issues, other times because I've misplaced them -- you can do things like that.

If you haven't heard (and if you haven't, you've probably been under a rock somewhere with my pants), the Nets and Mavericks agreed to a massive eight-player trade involving Jason Kidd. The Nets would get back Devin Harris, who is a good little player, Devean George, Jerry Stackhouse and some expiring contracts that will net them major financial relief.

Devean George, who is a peckerhead, decided that he would exercise his no-trade rights and block the deal. Apparently he doesn't want to go to New Jersey.

Well boo hoo, Devean. No one wants to go to New Jersey. What makes you so special?

He followed up this bold move by going out last night and missing all 11 of his shots in 33 minutes of action.

I know you think you're special, Devean. You're tall, and you averaged a carer-high 7.4 points per game four seasons ago. Good on you. You went to Augsburg College. I don't know what the hell that is. You were a first-round draft pick. Cool. So was Zoran Planinic.

So come off it already. Go to New Jersey. You'll love it there.

OK, fine, you'll hate it. But no one cares what you think. Because you're a peckerhead.

Super Bowl wrap-up

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Man, even after shaking off my Nyquil and Becherovka-induced slumber, I'm still stunned by last night.

I hate sports cliches like chiggers in my denim shorts, but that game brought to mind several of the most well-known:

"That's why they play the games."

"Defense wins championships"

'Never give Eli Manning 2-plus minutes, while trailing, at the end of a game."

Shit, hombres. Wrap your fuzzy little gourds around that one. Eli Manning is a Super Bowl MVP. He joins illustrious company such as John Elway, Joe Montana, Bart Starr and Fred Biletnikoff.

Back on December, when I was live-blogging the first Patriots-Giants game, I kept highlighting how much Cris Collinsworth hated Ellis Hobbs. In a fairly lame joke, I ended up blaming Ellis Hobbs for everything that happened in the game.

Well, Ellis Hobbs got torched last night by Plaxico Burress, who played with a sprained ankle and a mildly-torn MCL.

Again, I blame Ellis Hobbs. Tell me, Ellis -- what the hell am I supposed to do with this?

You can send my reimbursement check to:

Marv Blackstone
That cabin in the woods, you know, the one with the flamingo sex scene in the front yard
Montana, US

Last night is why we love sports. We love that we never know what will happen at any given time. We love that, sometimes, underdogs come out on top. We love improbable catches on top of player's helmets. We love that, sometimes, our bowels cooperate with that fried-chicken and bratwurst chili and we only need to make one trip to the outhouse during the game, and when we get there, we find out that we actually DO have toilet paper.

Sometimes it's a good day like that.

For the Patriots, I think this loss is only going to get tougher as time goes on. Some are saying that it will only make them more hungry for next season. But how much hungrier can they really be? They reeled off 18 straight wins and pretty much smacked the snot out of the NFL for five months. That's not happening again next season. Pursuing perfection is far too exhausting.

I should know. Back in 1996, I attempted to achieve perfection on NBA Jam for Super Nintendo. I fancied playing as the Seattle SuperSonics, with Detlef Schrempf and Shawn Kemp. The mix of speed and power, shooting and dunking, pasty white and very, very black was perfect. As my prowess progressed, I began to learn how to steal nearly every inbounds pass the opposing team would make. I began winning game by obscene scores. 164-11. 171-8. 194-6.

That's when I decided that I would try and completely shut out an opposing team. I laced up my sneakers as Schrempf and Kemp and I went to work against the Sacramento Kings, the patsies from California. Using the unlimited turbo that I maintained through all of my "on fire" stages, I staked a 38-0 first lead. That lead expanded to 79-0 at halftime. By my count, Mitch Richmond had 39 turnovers. I was a machine. Kemp had 64 points on 32 dunks. It was a glorious span in my life. At the buzzer of the third quarter, Schrempf swiped the ball -- his 44th steal of the night -- and drilled a three-pointer from the corner to make it 117-0. Perfection was within my grasp.

At this point, I decided to take the air out of the ball. After I would retain possession, I used the entire shot clock before taking my own shot. With 38 seconds left, I did a front-flip dunk by Kemp that pushed my lead 132-0. I rose from my couch in anticipation.

On the Kings' next possession, Kemp dove for the steal on the inbounds pass and missed. I switched to Schrempf who floated back on defense. Then, in the blink of an eye, Richmond fired a bullet pass cross-court, and Wayman fucking Tisdale hit a short floater from the paint. With 34 seconds left, the score was 132-2 and my hope for a perfect game was gone. Done. I fired my controller into the television, kicked my SNES across the floor and stormed out of the cabin, driving 74 miles to shoot a few shotgun blasts at my next-door neighbor's dog.

And because of that, it felt good to me to see Bill Belichick run off the field before the game was officially over last night. Everyone knows he's a cold-hearted dick, but seeing him abandon his team while they were still on the field -- there couldn't have been a more perfect ending to the season. As much as I loved them, Kemp and Schrempf were only digital renderings of actual people. Wes Welker is a real person. And surely, his Hobbit-like blue eyes misted as he watched his coach abandon his team on the field.

If Tom Coughlin had any stones, he would have tried to score another touchdown when the Patriots only had about seven defenders on the field, just to to run up the score. I don't think anyone would have blamed him.

I certainly wouldn't have. I was too busy lighting Wayman Tisdale's latest jazz album on fire.

Super Bowl prediction time

Marv Blackstone: I just am not going to allow myself to choose Eli Manning as a Super Bowl-winning quarterback. Look at him. I plan to sit back and watch Eli line up behind right guard Chris Snee no fewer than six times, fumble at least two snaps, throw at least two picks and get a wedgie from Osi Umenyiora on the sideline. And I will laugh and coat my chest hair with Gold Bond and picante salsa. Patriots 34, Giants 10


Curtis Woodsworth: I am really hoping that the Giants don't wear those awful red jerseys during the game. They just end up looking like cherry tomatoes, and what football player wants to look like sweet little balls that you pop into your mouth? Plus, those jerseys color-clash with Tom Coughlin's face. Get you some moisturizer, boy! Patriots 30, Giants 0


Vern Beedle: You're asking me for my prediction, man? My prediction is that a government plot to expose the link between Barack Obama and Giants' offensive coordinator Kevin Gilbride will come to light. You're going to learn all about how Obama is in cahoots with Dennis Rodman and Tori Spelling to inflate oil prices to more than $40,000 a barrel. And it's all coming out after a post pattern to Amani Toomer. That's my prediction, man. Also, Giants 24, Patriots 23

Dr. Charles P. Ipswisch Ah, the American football Super Bowl! It's one of my favorite sporting traditions, ranking right up there with the Egyptian Croquet Federation Championships and the ICC Cricket World Cup. I will eagerly be watching to see if Tom Brady's superior diction and reasoning ability, along with his muscular right arm, will be able to carry his Patriotic men to a victory over the Giants from New Jersey. Deductively, I think that they will be able to triumph, asserting their dominance, much like the late-1970s West Indies cricket squad. Oh, what a chess match this one shall be! Patriots 108, Giants 2

Harvey McGuffin: I remember when you had to earn perfection. The 1972 Dolphins created their empire on grit, determination and heart. There were no pretty faces getting hounded by TMZ, no cornrows and certainly no white wide receivers. They were football players, damn it. Hell, I remember when the key to getting to the Super Bowl was a black head coach and black receivers, all of them gritty. These teams are as bland as cornflakes served in malt-o-meal. If Brian Billick had just saved his timeout, what storylines would we have to pursue? We haven't had a legend play in a Super Bowl since Otis Anderson. God damn it I'm angry and it's almost bedtime. Giants 24, Patriots 21.

Bandwagon Burt:THE PATRIOTS ARE GOING TO BE UNDEFEATED. Dude, did you see that Hitler video online where he's all mad about Dallas losing? THAT WAS HILARIOUS, and then he's like "Well at least I can watch the Patriots go undefeated, at least that's something." EVEN HITLER KNOWS that a dynasty is brewing. I have loved the Patriots since I was a little boy, but this is the crown jewel of my sporting world. Super Bowls are nothing if you don't go undefeated! The Giants won't possibly stand in their way, but I like little Eli and love how they've built all this momentum in road games. That defensive line is incredible, and they played New England SO TOUGH at the end of the season. After that last sentence, I think the Giants have a real chance!!! Prediction: Patriots 68, Giants 67 (9 OT).

Dakota Brezinksi: I don't want to go to bed before the end of the Super Bowl! You promised, daddy, that I could watch. I never get to watch! It's not fair. Every year I only get to see the first half, and I miss all the really good stuff after you make me go to bed. I'm sorry I called Caitlin a bad name when she said, "Who cares if they go undefeated, it's just a game." I'm sorry that I kicked her in the knee and threw her dolly into the pond. I was trying to look like Tom Brady! Tom Brady is my hero! I want to see him win the Super Bowl! THIS HAPPENS EVERY YEAR! I hate you. I hate you and mommy. Patriots 35, Giants 14.

Brenda McDonald: So my older brother is throwing this, like, Super Bowl party, and I'm totally debating whether to go or hang out at Kimmy Dykstra's house. Like, there's going to be beer and stuff, but last time I hung out with my brother's friends, I totally got hit on by his smelly college roommate. I made out with him, of course, but it was kind of awkward and ... I don't know, like, smelly. I don't understand why people love the Super Bowl so much ... I mean, they have one every year. Plus everyone thinks Tom Brady is so hot, but oh my god, have you SEEN Wes Welker's eyes? Patriots 10, Giants 3.

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.

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.

LiveBlog: The Quest for Perfection

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Tonight the New England Patriots, in pursuit of perfection, take on the New York Giants. And since you kids seem to like reading neurotically-updated blogs, I thought I'd pop in here and write one for you to read. That is if you're a big enough loser to be sitting in on a Saturday night, reading a live-blog from an old man. At least I have an excuse: I'm old and live at least 80 miles from any sort of civilized area. I also can't find pants, so I can't go out in public. On the upside, my laptop is really warming my thighs right now.

Enjoy the game and the blog. I'll be here until I pass out.

6:54 While we're waiting for the game to start, here are other notable perfections for you to examine:



6:57 While waiting for the game, Wheel of Fortune is on TV. Vanna White just touches the number now? Doesn't even have to turn them? Lazy bitch.

7:00 Tonight's drinking game:

Mention of the word "perfection": 1 drink
Tom Brady touchdown: 4 drinks
Shot of Wes Welker's eyes: 6 drinks
Mention of Patriots' offensive line: 2 drinks
Brandon Jacobs' size mentioned: 2 drinks
Collinsworth subtly insults Gumbel: 3 drinks
Tom Coughlin stands with mouth agape: 2 drinks

7:08 Roger Gooddell talks like a dipshit.

7:16 Lil Eli Manning hits Plaxico Burress for a 52-yard bomb. Collinsworth says that Ellis Hobbs is the worst player on the Patriots.

7:18 Manning pass ruled incomplete, Coughlin throws red flag with his mouth wide open. That means two drinks.

7:19 For the record, I'm drinking Dewar's Whiskey.

7:20 Giants lose the challenge. Coughlin looks bewildered. Two more drinks. Shit. This is early.

7:23 Ellis Hobbs burned again on a Burress first down. Collinsworth says that Hobbs is the worst player in the NFL.

7:24 Gumbel says that Brandon Jacobs was "stoned in the hole by Vince Wilfork." I don't know what that means, but it makes me a little curious.

7:25 I'm stoned, too.

7:26 Lil Eli hits Jacobs for a short TD and the Giants lead 7-0. Collinsworth imitates Scooby Doo and says "Ruh-roh." Wish I would have incorporated that into my drinking game.

7:28 Took a trip to the outhouse during the break and my bowel movement formed a perfect 'V'. I think that's a sign that the Giants will get a victory. Or perhaps ... the Patriots?

7:29 Brady hits Moss on his first pass. Offensive line is mentioned. Drink.

7:30 Brady hits Welker and we see a camera shot of his eyes! Drink.

7:31 Gumbel says "stoned" for the third goddamn time tonight. I think he's watching ME.

7:34 Brady stands in pocket, eats a hot dog, checks his iPhone and hits Welker for a first down. I am very attracted to Wes Welker.

7:37 Pats have to settle for a FG. Collinsworth blames Ellis Hobbs. 7-3 Giants.

7:39 Someone help me -- what should I have for dinner? In my fridge I have three and a half slices of bologna, a five-year old jar of pesto and a potato. Can I make anything from that?

7:44 On-screen graphic says "perfection." One more drink.

7:46 Bryant Gumbel sounds like a gay Ethnic Studies professor.

7:47 Giants sack Brady; Brady sacks supermodel; Marv shotguns an Icehouse.

7:55 Brady hits Moss for a touchdown. That means four big swigs for me. Word to the wise: don't play drinking games involving the Patriots offense.

7:56 Burp.

7:58 Gahhhhh some dude named Hixon blows past every for a kickoff return touchdown. Giants lead 14-10. Collinsworth blames Ellis Hobbs.

8:08 I must have flalen asslep. I woke up and Gostkowski kicked a field goal, which is booooring. Booooring.

8:10 Did everyone have a good Christmas? Get anything cool? Mine was awesome. I bought myself a $500 gift card to Best Buy.

8:12 Another on-screen graphic mentioning the word "perfection." My handle of whiskey is gone. I'm moving onto some vintage 1977 Schlitz.

8:15 Tedy Bruschi makes a nifty move and Gumbel inexplciably mentions Keanu Reeves. Not sure if that's in referecene to the Matrix or My Own Private Idaho.

8:18 Pats ball. Wes Welker makes his 4,474th reception of the night nad the Patiosts are driiving.

8:21 I just filled out one of those eHarmony profiles and they said I'm "unmatchable." What the hell does that mean? I'm as matchable as anythign you'll ever see. Yeah.

8:23 Another Janigostkowski field goal. 16-14 Pats. Perfection is lame.

8:29 Lil Eli is actually executing a drive. Two minutes left. However, I demand the fat Giants quaterback be putttt in the game. Bering on fatty!

8:32 Fighting! Vince Wilfork pokes Brandon jacobs in the eye. the patrios are all pussies.

8:34. I tried to kill Lil Eli once. Couldn't stand the fucker and wanted him dead. Had my perch in a utility closet in the meadowlands, gun in hand, but I fell asleep before I could do the deed. never trust moonshine that you bought off an 18-year-old.

8:40 Who is Kevin moss? How did he just score? How are the Giants leading the Patriots 21-16 at half? How did I eat 24 beef bullion cubes for dinner?

9:00 And we're back! Had a little incident at halftime. Seems the warmth of the laptop on my thighs, combined with the whiskey, make me feel a little easygoing and I ended up peeing just a bit on the computer. Everything seems efine thoguh.

9:06 PLAXICOCOCOCO BURRESS! Touchdown! And the Giants leadthe Patios 28-16! So much for that pursiot of perfection bill belichcik.

9:10 you guys wanna see something hot? Check this out:



9:14 Gumbo says that we haven't seen m8uch fo Wes Wlker and they show a graphic saying that welker has 9 catches for 94 yards. good call.

9:16 I blame ellis hobbs for this.

9:19 Lauren Maroney scores to upll the patrios to within five touhcodowns or points or whatever.

9:20 hang on, there's a knock at my Door

9:23 Sorry, that was Nic cage askingme why i haven't gone to see national treasure too yet. i told him it was because of his face and that i also don't have a car anyermo

9:25 eeeeeeeeeeeee.

9:28 JUNIOR SEAU IS STILL PLAYING FOOTVSALL!?!?

9:30 so so sleepy. funny word. sleepy. slee pee.

9:34 one quarter left. I can't tdo it. Tell Bill belichick that if he still wants me, to tie a yelow flag to the old oak tree out back. i will see it when I pass on the trnia on my way back. i hope this is nt' boogbyde bill. byyyyye.

Monday Morning Second-String H-Back Used in Third-and-Long Passing Situations

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Given my long, quasi-illustrious background in sportswriting (to recap: degree from Columbia J-school; 40-plus years of experience writing about sports; the opportunity to work at, and be fired from, six of the 10 largest newspapers in America), I know good sportswriting when I see it. And I know bad sportswriting when I see it. And then I know Peter King when I see it.

It looks like a saber-toothed fat guy with bad hair and coffee-stained teeth, squeezing into clothes that his 235-pound wife bought for him at a Dillard's outlet mall. It smells like pastrami.

This week, I've decided to use my editorial background to re-edit and trim down Peter King's MMQ column. His columns usually run about 18,572 words and look like they've been put together by a sixth-grade student who just learned how to outline, so I thought I'd save you the time and highlight the important stuff.

Enjoy the extra 15 minutes of your life.

Name dropping, Week 16
"I spoke with Parcells twice about this on Sunday ..."

"After that 2002 Super Bowl game, I told Belichick at the Patriots' team party ..."

"A prominent GM told me the other day that college athletic directors are often concerned ..."

"A few minutes later, Parcells called back."

"My first question to Fred Taylor postgame ..."

"Interesting comment from a prominent league official last Friday ..."

"Cleveland linebacker Willie McGinest, who told me Sunday night ..."

Definitive decision of the week
"The NFL rule is that if a front-office man does not have control over the draft and free agency, and he is being offered a job with that final football authority, then his team would be obligated to allow him to interview if permission were requested.

Will that apply in Miami? Maybe."

Exclamation that probably didn't make Fred Taylor feel better
"Couldn't have said it better, Fred! In fact, down in Ten Things, you'll get a much longer take on how fans, players and coaches should vote for the Pro Bowl."

Enjoyable poorly-constructed sentence of the week
"12. Seattle (10-5). A bit of a surging ground game against the Ravens: 34 carries, 148 yards."

So what are you waiting for, Peter?
"Someday we'll give Vanden Bosch the credit he deserves for being one of the top five defensive ends in football."

Do you know Cam Cameron?
"But if I know Cameron, he'll make lemonade out of the lemons he's been handed. Talk about a power-of-positive-thinking guy."

How about, "Peter King doesn't talk about himself for an entire column?
"'Todd Collins Leads Redskins To Brink of Playoffs.' Can't think of a more unlikely newspaper headline in 2007."

Correctly identifying what sport I write about for a living
"Packers 12-3, Bears 6-9. Pack 0-2 versus Bears. Go figure. That's football."

Glove tackiness note of the week
"What a TD catch by T.J. Houshmandzadeh in the second quarter against Cleveland. The ball went through his hands, and he caught the end of the ball, probably helped by the tackiness of the gloves."

Pointless, narcissistic story of the week
"The blessing of all blessings: My biggest road trip in the last seven days was a 40-minute train trip, which was on time in both directions, to HBO last Wednesday. Every air traveler I've encountered in the past few days has some tale of holiday woe to tell. That's one great thing about being off the road most weekends this season."

I like coffee more than you
"Very inside version of Coffeenerdness: Judy Schenk, be prepared to meet Andrew Perloff this morning. Judy runs The Barge, the campus coffeehouse at Colgate University in Hamilton, N.Y., which also employs Mary Beth King. Andrew edits pro football at SI.com, and he is spending Christmas with family in Hamilton and staying at the Colgate Inn, a few storefronts down the street from The Barge. This morning, Judy, be on notice that Andrew plans to come in for some Christmas Eve coffee."

Thanks for the Christmas present, Peter
"The merriest of Christmases to you who celebrate tomorrow, and the happiest of holiday seasons to all. In honor of the day, I hope you don't mind me skipping my Tuesday column this week."

Behold the Heisman Trophy

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Ahh, the Heisman Trophy.

It's my favorite of all sports awards, boasting such illustrious winners as Jason White, Eric Crouch, Chris Weinke, Ron Dayne, Rashaan Salaam and Gino Torretta.

And tomorrow night, four young men -- three of whom are white -- will find out if they will be able to take their place in history, joining other elite names like Ty Detmer, Andre Ware and Danny Wuerffel.

Let's take a look at this year's candidates:

Chase Daniel, QB, Missouri: Chase doesn't want to pluralize his name, which makes me think he'd be better suited to swap his names and go by Daniel Chase. He's a junior and he plays football in the god-awful state of Missouri. He's short for a quarterback. However, the most-commonly repeated statement about Daniel is, "It doesn't matter if he's short, you don't need to be tall to play quarterback well!"

Yes you fucking do. Of the top 14 quarterbacks in the NFL, by QB rating, only Jeff Garcia is shorter than 6-foot-2. Daniel Chase is listed at 6-foot, but that's generous.

He's a very good college player who won't be good in the NFL. So, this makes him a logical choice for this award.

Tim Tebow, QB, Florida: Tim Tebow makes me rock hard under my orange hunting pants. Trust me. I mean, you'd definitely notice if the material weren't so thick and coarse. It's raging though. Trust me.

Tebow could become the first sophomore to ever win a Heisman. This year he tossed 29 touchdowns against only six interceptions. That's Tom Brady-like. Also, just for the hell of it, he ran for 838 yards and 22 touchdowns. The man accounted for 51 touchdowns! He has to deal with Urban Meyer on a daily basis! His name sounds like T-Bone! Give him the god damn award already.

Colt Brennan, QB, Hawaii: Fuck Colt Brennan. And fuck his coach, June Jones, who was apparently named after Johnny Cash's wife, June Carter. June said that Tim Tebow is just a system quarterback.

This, of course, is in response to the criticism lobbed against Brennan, the soon-to-be 25 year old who was able to throw 50 times every game against opponents like Northern Colorado, UNLV, Idaho, the Tacoma School for Cystic Fibrosis and San Jose State. He threw seventy-five passes against San Jose State. Danny Wuerffel could rack up huge number with that many attempts, and I think he's dead.

In that article, June says that Brennan runs a pro-style offense and Tebow couldn't do that. June would know; he was the coach of the Atlanta Falcons in 1996, when they went 3-13 with Jeff George running Jones' "pro-style" offense that ranked 19th in the NFL in points scored and led to a league-leading 30 interceptions.

Fun stat:

Colt Brennan passing yards per attempt: 8.84
Tim Tebow passing yards per attempt: 9.88

Fuck Colt Brennan and his grinning and his backwards cap. He's like Tony Romo, only shitty.

Darren McFadden, RB, Arkansas: Darren McFadden is a monster. He runs hard. Really hard. One time, an undersized safety from Kentucky tried to tackle him high around the pads. He's dead now.

He has a quick burst that gets him through the line and his speed takes over from there. If you get in his way, he'll either ram his helmet through your sternum, or if he's feeling fancy, he'll sell a juke and slip right past you.

Then he takes it to the house and bangs your mother under the goalpost.

He's awesome, and will be the best NFL player out of this group of candidates.

I expect him to finish third in the voting.

Thanksgiving recap

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Folks, it's been a little while. For that, I lend my apologies. I hate abandoning thousands of loyal fans, which is why it was so hard for me to break up Soundgarden like I did.

But I have a good explanation: Thanksgiving was a bitch this year. It kept me way too busy to update this site. Here's the deal.

Good Things About Thanksgiving 2007

1. I ate a lot of turkey. When you celebrate Thanksgiving every year with just yourself and your pack of dogs, there's a lot of turkey to go around. A few weeks ago, I took a roofie with my Wild Turkey and accidentally invited Curtis to come have Thanksgiving dinner with me. I forgot about it until 10 a.m. on Thanksgiving when I heard a knock on my window and saw Curtis peering through, with three pumpkin pies and six cans of whipped cream in his arms. I pretended to be dead and didn't answer the door.

2. All of my dogs survived this year. Each year since 1993, at least one of my dogs has died on the holiday, whether it's from overeating, shotgun accidents, silly string overdose, worms, being dinner, coyotes or inbreeding. I managed to avoid that this year.

3. Brett Favre was tremendous. I approve of any quarterback with a beard, and Favre tore shit up. Watching the grizzled old coot complete 20 straight passes while I rubbed cranberry sauce on my belly was a good way to spend an afternoon.

4. I got to hear my good old friend John Madden. That guy loves Thanksgiving. We hung out back in the 1970s some. I'm one of the few people on Earth who know that "turducken" was inspired by a Turkish hooker who walked like a duck. Her name was Efromiya and she was only 4-foot-8.

5. Curtis actually believed I was dead and went away after about three hours of staring through my window.

Bad Things About Thanksgiving 2007

1. Tony Romo. Stop smiling, damn it. Just stop smiling all the time. Stop patting the referees on the ass. Stop putting your arm around Terrell Owens whenever you're on the sidelines. Stop breaking Wade's hand every time you celebrate a completion. Stop having cyber sex with Peter King every Sunday night. Stop.

2. I clogged my toilet around 8:15 p.m. This is also a Thanksgiving tradition, but it's one that I don't really enjoy.

3. Apparently, tryptophan making you sleepy is all a myth. Because of that, I didn't sleep for almost 55 hours after eating my meal.

If you're keeping track, that's five good things to three bad things. Chalk up a Thanksgiving win for Marv Blackstone. Back with more soon, homeys.

Stupid, stupid America

Hi, America. You're pretty stupid.

Today Jimmy Rollins was named the MVP of the National League. This was decided by a group of sportswriters who earned the honor through ... well, I don't know. But they received the honor. And now they get to make very publicized bad decisions and abuse it.

To be brief, Matt Holliday was screwed. David Wright was screwed. Even Prince Fielder was screwed. Hell, Hanley Ramirez was screwed, since Rollins wasn't even the best shortstop in his own division. Four other Philadelphia Phillies were screwed, since Rollins finished FIFTH on his own team in OPS. Fifth! How can the fifth-best hitter on a team be considered the most valuable player in an entire league?

Flotsam was prepared for an immediate outcry from the knowledgeable fans of America. The baseball fans who make up the fabric of this land and are the backbone of America's pastime.

Turns out, you're all fucking stupid.

We browsed through the ESPN comments section of the article and read gems like these from fans:

Love all the Philly haters out there. Rollins had a great year and had the best ALL AROUND numbers and stats. Lets not forget he also won the gold glove. Boo Hoo to all the haters out there.

Better all-around numbers?

Rollins: .296 average, .344 OBP, .531 SLG, .875 OPS
Holliday: .340 average, .405 OBP, .607 SLG, .1.012 OPS

Hell, Holliday's batting average was almost higher than Rollins' on-base percentage.

Holliday's REAL stats if he hits in a normal ballpark. .299 AVG, 20 HRs, 70 RBIs

People haven't gotten the memo, but Coors Field is now the size of Dikembe Mutumbo's johnson. It's a huge, huge ballpark. The offensive pinball of several years ago no longer applies. In fact, what rated as the most homer-friendly ballpark in baseball in 2007? Gasp! Philadelphia!

to all those rocky fans who are using statistics as argument just shut up.....rollins was the real mvp.

I hate all of you. Death to America.

Silly Rays, sunshine's for gays

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Yesterday, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays unveiled a new logo and an updated set of uniforms to their fans. Switching away from the green look, which switched away from the original purple, teal and yellow seizure, the team is going to introduce a "classic" navy and white look. The uniforms were modeled during a fashion show by the team's players, which sounds incredibly gay.

Not that there's anything, uh, you know.

Companies are always re-packaging their products, slapping labels like "New look, same great taste!" on the packaging. What the shit is that supposed to mean? That I'm paying more for my weekly box of chili just because the bastards down at Hormel decided to hire a new graphic design firm to give their product a more rugged feel? I know it's still the same salty, beefy chili inside. God damn, it's 6:36 in the morning and I already want chili.

My point is, why do baseball teams do this? The Devil Rays will still suck, but they expect to appease all 38 of their fans for another year with new aesthetics. Maybe they should go get some fucking pitching first.

As for me, I'm going to go get some chili before I type another word.

Don't be angry

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

I hate Boston.

Quick Marv background: I worked at the Boston Globe in one of my first jobs after graduate school at Columbia. Great staff, great newspaper. Terrible personnel policies. I did a lot of hanging with Bill Russell during that time and he told me all about the women with whom he slept (they loved the cackle. Also, his large penis.). I decided this would be good public information, so I wrote a tell-all column about it for the sports daily.

Well, my editor nixed the thing and said it was inappropriate for public consumption and for a "family newspaper." Well, sticking to my guns, I snuck my way into the pressroom right before print time and re-jiggered the front page of the newspaper so my column appeared intact. The next day, more than a million people learned of the time Bill Russell and Willie Naulls took on 18 New England women in one night.

Having done my public duty and informed the masses, I triumphantly reported to work wearing my favorite fedora and something resembling a smile. I was denied access to the building. I had been terminated.

Of course, I was fine with that. I packed my bags and left for a better place. That place was Lovell, Wyoming.

I hate Bostonians and their cocky attitudes. I hate their accents. I hate their shitty chowder. I hate the traffic. I hate Larry Bird. I hate their harbor. I hate their fake-tough Irish attitude. I hate Robert Frost. I hate "More Than a Feeling." I hate Ben Affleck.

But damn it, I don't hate that the Patriots are beating the hell out of the NFL. That game yesterday against the Redskins -- despite the irony of some patriots pissing all over a team from Washington, D.C. -- was amazing to watch.

Why kick a field goal when you're up 40 in the fourth quarter? Why not go for it on fourth down and score another touchdown? Everyone has their knickers in a bunch over this, but you'd love it if you were a Pats fan.

Plus, you'd do the same thing if you were playing Madden.

This is professional, smash-mouth, hardcore, tea-bagging, showboating football, you fucking crybabies. This isn't the infant retard league (IRL), where everyone needs to leave the game feeling good about themselves so they can find their lives worthwhile. They don't need to feel special. I'm sure the Redskins were fine. The players went home and drank champagne with beautiful women on piles of money and Joe Gibbs went home and put on his slippers and fell asleep during 60 Minutes.

I watch the NFL for entertainment. And the Patriots are entertaining. If I was concerned about etiquette, I wouldn't have fed 15 gallons of applesauce to a gander of geese and set them loose in the Globe's offices after they fired me.

If you want to root against the Pats, fine. If you want to wish injury on Tom Brady, fine. If you wish Bill Belichick to get hit by a MBTA bus, fine. But don't hate them for running up the score on your local football squad.

You can hate them for being from Boston though. I hate Boston.

Monday Night Jihad

We tried assigning a columnist to tackle this story, but really, why do we even need to put a spin on it?

Apparently, Denver Broncos kicker Jason Elam has authored a book about a football player named Riley Covington who goes into combat. Jason co-wrote the book with his pastor and they settled on the clever title of Monday Night Jihad. Wih the deft touch of Tolstoy, Jason weaves together stories of football games and combat battles in the Middle East.

The Rocky Mountain News article has an excerpt from the book. In our opinion, it reads like a Hardy Boys book, mixed with the fictional stylings of Jerry Bruckheimer's little brother. We will just go ahead and close by posting it below for your enjoyment. Jihad on, Jason!

Excerpt, Monday Night Jihad
Bagram Valley

Helmand Province, Afghanistan

His count was off. Second Lieutenant Riley Covington of the United States Air Force Special Operations Command was on watch at a perimeter security post. He had been lying at the top of a low rise, watching his sector, for four hours, and each time he had counted the boulders on the hill across the small valley, he had come up with 36. This time, however, the count reached 38.

"You seeing anything, Taps?" Riley whispered into his com. At the other security post, located on the opposite side of the harbor site, Airman First Class Armando Tapia was stretched out behind a small, hastily constructed rock wall.

"Everything's good to go," came the reply.

WHOOMPF! The unmistakable sound of a mortar tube echoed through the valley below.

"Incoming!" Riley yelled as he opened fire with his M4 carbine at "boulders" thirty-seven and thirty-eight, causing one to stumble back down the hill and the other to remain permanently where it was.

A flare lit up the night sky as heavy machine-gun fire, rocket-propelled grenades, and small arms rounds targeted Riley's ODA. Riley looked to his left and saw an anticoalition militia approaching from the north, right over Tapia's position. Riley, seeing the size of the enemy force, let off a few more three-shot bursts, then bolted back down to the harbor site.

Off to his left, about fifteen meters away, an MK19 automatic grenade launcher was mounted on its low tripod. Riley rocketed out from safety and across the dirt. He stumbled forward, launched himself behind the Mark 19, and let loose.

It took him just under a minute and a half to empty the ammunition can of sixty grenades. The sound was deafening, and the explosions from the shells hitting the enemy positions lit up the night. But RPGs and mortar rounds kept dropping into the camp.

Riley half ran, half staggered over to what remained of his ODA. The rest of his team huddled around him and he took a quick head count. Not good. They would be outnumbered if a second wave came.

Riley drew his team close. "Okay, men, we have two options. We dig in here and try to hold off another attack, or we surprise them while they're regrouping."

"Tell ya what, Pach," said Kim "Tommy" Li, a man with an itchy trigger finger and way too many tattoos, "if there's gonna be target practice going on here, I'd rather be the shooter than the bull's-eye."

"Okay, then, here's how it's going to work. Murphy and Li, I want you to belly out to those boulders twenty meters north to meet their feint. Logan, you and Ross remount the Mark on the Humvee and circle it around east; then everyone open up with everything and blow the snot out of these desert rats. Got it?"

An excited mixture of "Yes, sir" and "Yeah, boy" was heard from the men.

"We've got five of our guys down, with at least one probably out - that's unacceptable. Let's make 'em pay." Riley locked eyes with each member of his team and tried to draw from them the same courage he was attempting to instill. "Ready . . . go, go, go!!"

A point-point-counterpoint

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THE WORLD SERIES?

Well, everything. But also, the crisp October air in New York! And Boston! And WEATHER OR NOT, here comes the Boston Red Sox and their awesome seriously great pitcher Josh Beckett in game one Wednesday night!

I love the Rockies and what they've done, but bow to the American League juggernaut! MANNY IS ALWAYS BEING MANNY, and David Ortiz is still the clutchest baseball player ever and Jason Varitek is the catcher (which is why he wears that "C" on his jersey) but he's also the TEAM CAPTAIN! He's like Derek Jeter, except whiter and a catcher. But then there's Beckett who is what my black friend Will Smith would call a BAD, BAD MAN! He's like The Nasty Boys, except just one Nasty Boy. I wouldn't mess with Becks.

Did you see that X-girlfriend of his sing the National Anthem in Cleveland? She's smoking! That was the turning point of the ALCS.

Boston is just better in every facet of the game. They have more Manny, more hitting, more fielding, more baserunning, more Rookie of the Year candidates, more MVP candidates, more Cy Young candidates and a better manager. Terry Francona! He's like the architect from the Matrix. HE BUILT THIS CITY ON ROCK AND ROLL.

Plus, Boston has the tradition. They made the World Series a couple years ago and the Rockies have not. It's all about track record once you get to this point.


What is this deal with Burt taking a stance on something? I don't even know what to do with this.

What about the Rockies winning 21 of 22 games? What about Troy Tulowitzki's defense, which is tighter than Burt's mother on her wedding night? What about Matt Holliday, who's as good of a hitter as anyone on the Sox? What about the Boston outfielders trying to cover that gigantic pasture at Coors Field?

What about David Ortiz trying to play first base in the thin air, without the aid of an oxygen tank?

What about the Rockies really loving Jesus?


I don't know who loves Jesus more, but I do know that JOHNNY DAMON is Jesus and plays in the Boston outfield. Or used to. Manny is so laid back and awesome, and it's not the end of the world if he loses, but he's TOTALLY going to step up his game in the World Series! Did I mention which team has Josh Beckett and JONATHAN PAPELBON. What kind of dance will he come up with when they win the Series? It's going to be a RIOT!

But Marv has me thinking. The Rockies are pretty sweet too, with Matt Holliday (MVPMVPMVPMVP) leading the charge and the Canadian Dudley Do-Right JEFF FRANCIS with the left arm of God! Dudley Do-Right was that Canadian park ranger, right? The play in the thin air and are going to have lots of fans cheering in the TEN INCHES OF SNOW. Manny will be making snow angels and Troy Tulowitzki is going to totally hit liners down the line that just stop in the snow! It's going to be madness! Like Hurricane Katrina with snow!

I don't get it about my mom. Tight defense? Also, my mom was never married. ZING.

I can't decide who's going to win? THE RED SOX? THE ROCKIES? So many choices! TODD HELTON.

THERE'S ONLY ONE ROCKTOBER!


You know, Dane Cook is a cultural phenomenon that I don't understand. Apparently, he's a stand-up comedian, and pretty much all of those suck (except for David Cross, who I love like a son. In fact, he might be my son. There are lots of those floating around, and we do share quite a few common traits).

I did some research, and here are some choice Dane Cook quotes:

"One brother, five sisters ... dude, I'd have to wear a tampon just to fit in."

"I invite her back to my apartment, or as I call it, the 'Death Star.' I'm still working on it, it's not completely operational."

"You're with someone for like two weeks in and you're like, 'No way. I can't stand this person. I'll stay around for five or six years and we can end this thing violently. I got time."

"I was literally cheated on. I woke up and they were on top of me."

What the hell is this? Why would he feel the need to fit in with his sisters? The Death Star? And the last one is the worst play on words since that asshole who sent in ten puns to his newspaper, hoped to win, but no pun in ten did.

God damn it. God damn Dane Cook for bringing this up.

And he's not even one of those comedians where you need to hear his delivery for the jokes to really have an effect. In fact, I think that makes him worse. All he does is shout at me and writhe around on stage like an epileptic, functionally-retarded Joe Cocker with a tight-fitting graphic T-shirt. And now that he's on TV all the time, all he's doing now is shouting at me that there's only one October. Well, no shit. There's also only one March, and one June, and one Boxing Day (Canada).

Dane Cook sucks.

Also, since Glowing Green Burt switched his allegiances to the Rockies, they got their ass handed to them, 13-1, in Game 1.

What say you now, Burt?


DUSTIN PEDROIA! He's Eckstein with hair! RED SOX!