Wednesday, December 22, 2010
1. Revenues generated by men's college basketball versus women's
2. Attendance at men's games versus women's
3. TV ratings of men's games versus women's
4. The number of different teams that have won a national championship in the past 25 years in men's college basketball versus the number of different teams which have won national championships in women's college basketball in the past 25 years
Very few people give a shit about women's college basketball. Sorry Ms. Femi-Nazi, but you can't look at the sky and argue it is magenta. This isn't a chauvinist thing, this isn't gender inequality, this isn't a male-dominated society trying to keep women in their place. This is facts. This is reality. There are a very small handful of teams in women's college basketball who are good. There a ton who absolutely fucking suck. It is like Brunei. Sure, the Sultan and a few of his homies are rick as shit, but then there is the rest of Brunei. In the past 16 years, there have been 6 different women's champions. UCONN has 7 of those titles, Tennessee has 5. 75% of the titles with two teams in this span, with over 100 teams total. In the 29 total years of the women's tournament existing, these two schools have won 15 titles, or 52%. No one else can win. Who cares that you are beating absolutely no one. If I take 4 of my friends to elementary school playgrounds and win 5,000 straight games, who gives a fuck? I will promise you that Hasbro Games is not furiously pumping out new versions of Trivial Pursuit to alter the answer to the question "Who holds the record for most consecutive games won in college basketball?" from "UCLA" to "UCONN". There is no reason to compare these records. Whatever the previous women's record was....well you eclipsed that. You didn't eclipse UCLA. Deal with it.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Scout Chronicles: I Just Learned the Story of Jesus Today from that Religious Freak Beagle in the Dog Park
He told me all about it. I think that little fucker is tooting blow in his kennel all day. He will not shut the fuck up about Christ and the Holy Spirit and how you've got to give up dry-humping shit if you ever want St. Peter to open the fucking golden gates for you and blah, bark, blah. I mean Jesus Christ dude, give it a rest. Some of us are trying to sniff some anus around here, not listen to you drone on endlessly about your savior. Anyway, I listened long enough to catch the gist of the story: A virgin teenage girl gets knocked up by a ghost, without any sex occurring, mind you, and gives birth to the apparently fully human son of an omnipotent entity who is nowhere and everywhere all at once, floating around in a cloud paradise somewhere, presumably above us given that is where all the Latin baseball players point when they cross home plate after going yard, and all the VIPs in town want to kill the baby, even though they haven't a fucking clue who he is to begin with.......HAH! You have got to be fist-fuckin' me dude! Maybe I would have bought that story when I was like 6 months old and still pissing the rug. But the Scoutmeister shits outside now and doesn't need fairy tales anymore. I mean come the fuck on. I don't buy that story, and I still think grizzly bears on TV are in our living room. I'm just saying beagle, you're going to have to get up a lot earlier in the morning to pull that one over on ol' Scouter. I'm not really on board with this whole story my parents have been feeding me either, the one about this fat-fuck in a red suit who is apparently going to sneak into our condo through the chimney on our gas fireplace, somehow without me hearing him (and I wake up when our neighbor 4 doors down the hall cuts a fart in the middle of the night, mind you). However, at least that fucking guy is supposedly bringing me some sweet potato treats and a stuffed rhino this weekend, so I'm not laughing them out of the building when they spin that ghost story. Live and let live beagle, I'm going to go run around in circles until I'm dizzy and then bark at that old lady sitting on that bench. Hope the savior and his son bring you some cool shit on Saturday.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Could Somone Please Buy Me the Brett Favre "The Streak 297 Starts" Autographed Football for Christmas....
And then de-friend you on Facebook. Then block all of your email addresses. Then erase your phone number from my cell. Then call your parents and tell them I saw you making out with a gay dude at a bar, in the corner behind the jukebox, to an Elton John song, and your hand was in his pants. Then break into your house when you aren't there and download "Hardcore Elementary School Orgy" onto your hard drive with a shortcut on the desktop called "Sand Storm". Then call the Department of Homeland Security anonymously from a pay phone and tell them I overheard you talking to a Jihad'ish looking dude at the WalMart, about "Operation Sand Storm" and that all the plans are on your hard drive. Then give them your address. Then the week before you go to prison I throw you a "Going Away to Prison" party. At the party I slip a shitload of roofies into your drinks. When you are passed out from the roofies I pay a tattoo artist to come over and tattoo a giant set of awesome tits on your back, so that when you get to prison dudes will want to rape you more. Then while you are in prison getting bitched out to the Mexican gang by your cell-mate Big Ronnie, I get your sister and your mom addicted to heroin. Then I turn them out to start tricking, in the neighborhood of an ethnic group you don't like. At the end of their long day of tricking I give them a cheeseburger and take all the money they made, possibly a slap in the face. Then I show up to all your parole hearings and tell them you send mail to me from the joint talking about how you are going to get out of prison and trick out a white van with window-black, beaded curtains and track lighting and start hanging out at local elementary schools and "show all the kids what they've been missing". At some point during this time I killed your dog with antifreeze.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Urban, you've got a long row to hoe if you want to supplant Bayou Brett as sports' most egomaniacal, narcissistic douche bag. But brother, you're well on your way. Last December you lost the SEC Title game to fellow It's All About Me asshole extraordinaire Nick Saban. You were undefeated going in, and had you won you would have been in the national title game and everyone would be talkin' Urban all the time, and not the dude Nicole Kidman is fucking. But you lost, and no one was talking about you. Like Hitler you couldn't fucking stand it, so you invaded Poland. Actually you just held a self-press conference to announce you died of a heart attack or got AIDs or were in love with Tim Tebow, or whatever, you said you couldn't handle it and were walking away. You got more than you could have ever hoped for when ESPN fell all over itself like only ESPN can do, and started fellating you around the clock. Once everyone was talkin' Urban again, you had a miraculous comeback 48 hours after you walked away. The fawning went into hyperdrive. You used your Jesus-rising-from-the-dead story to steal a recruit from Ohio State by texting him that God told you he should come to Florida. Fast forward one December later and we've got deja vu. Urban the family man is walking away again to be with his family. Last year he needed less than two days to be with his family. How long this year? It was interesting that last year's retirement coincided with losing the SEC Title game to Saban and not getting what you wanted. Just as interesting is how this year's retirement coincides with a bad year for Florida leading to playing in the Toilet Bowl where no one is going to talk about you because the other coach is 83 year old Joe Paterno. I'm pretty sure you won't be with your family for very long this year either. Type-A egotistical assholes don't care much for their families because although they are a part of you, unfortunately they aren't actually you. You might unretire from Florida again. You might take the Miami job. You may even go fill the coaching vacancy in Denver so you and your life partner Tim Tebow can take long hikes in the Front Range and fill each other's "vacancies". Whatever it is, you are a douche bag. Keep your nose to the quit and unquit grindstone and one day soon you might get to fly in the same rarefied assclown air as your mentor Brett Favre.
P.S. Your daughter is hot.
If I have one more fucking bus fly by my stop without stopping this week because it is too full, I am going to get on one the following day strapped to the tits and sporting a trench coat like Neo in the Matrix and go fucking postal. The only good news is that it is colder than a well-digger's ass right now, so you get a side of frostbite to go with your stewing fury as you wait for the next late and as a result overloaded bus to roar past and tell you to eat shit. Here is a novel fucking idea: During evening and morning rush hours, run more buses to accommodate the significantly higher commuter volume. Done and fucking done. The train situation is no better. My favorite part of the winter commute is that when you get on the bus with your wool hat, wool scarf, insulated wool pea coat, sherpa-lined gloves and Wookie sized winter boots, the bus driver typically keeps the bus at a balmy 97 degrees Fahrenheit. Nothing like walking into work with swamp ass when its -4 outside. And the absolute worst part of it all? I am going to bend right over and shake it like a little whore and let CTA cram it right up my ass. What else am I going to do, walk? Fuck that.
Monday, December 6, 2010
-Gather Osama bin Fuckstick and any of his other buddies we've got rotting in Morocco, Guantanamo, central Florida, whatever shithole we've got them languishing in, and fly their asses to NYC under cover of darkness.
-Build a giant WWF-style cage around all of Central Park with only one entrance/exit
-Gather up all police, fireman, transit authority, port authority, any first-responders in the NYC metro area
-Tell all of these people there is a party for them tomorrow at Madison Square Garden, be there 8 a.m. sharp
-When they show up the following morning, turn on the beer taps and bring out the hard liquor and serve them all the freebies they want
-Also give them copious amounts of cocaine. Anyone refraining from the cocaine, just put speed in their drinks
-While this is going on, take bin Fucko and associates to Central Park and lead them through the only entry/exit.
-Give all of them one Nerf brand weapon of their choosing. Nerf bazooka, Nerf rifle, Nerf baseball bat, etc
-Start showing images of 9/11 on the Jumbotron at MSG. Images of the towers, the towers collapsing, the fallen, the families of the fallen, the terrorists partying afterward
-While the images are being shown, play really aggressive metal with some sad songs mixed in. Every Rose Has Its Thorn at some point, for sure
-Let the entire liquor-addled, coked-up crowd from MSG out, and take them on buses straight to Central Park
-Hand every one of them an old-timey weapon as they exit the buses: brass knuckles, rubber truncheons, socks filled with rocks, etc.
-Announce to this crowd that within the cage currently surrounding Central Park is Osama bin Laden and numerous of his tee-totalling douche bag buddies
-Open the only entry/exit to Central Park and let them in
End of chat.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
I was retelling a story last weekend that a friend told me about in college. His dad was an underwater welder and has seen catfish next to bridge supports in the Ohio River in deep pools of water that are large enough to swallow a human whole. They stay on the bottom their entire lives eating river scum and become gigantic due to never being caught. Pretty fucking terrifying, right? Well my brother informs me this is an urban legend. Apparently there are no catfish the size of blue whales at the bottom of the Ohio or Mississippi River. Who knows, maybe there are no underwater welders either. There should be, because it sounds pretty fucking cool. Using fire underneath water and all. I've told this story no less than 25 times in my life, fully believing this to be true. Honestly I wanted to stop the goddamned car and tell my brother he could walk his know-it-all fucking ass the rest of the way. My pride was pretty injured. No one likes being told they were duped, except for really stupid people. They seem to get a kick out of that shit. Watch the David Blaine street magic video sometime where he goes into the Cowboys locker room. He pulls one playground magic trick on Emmet Smith, who responds like a Neanderthal that was just shown fire for the first time. He had a ball with it. I'm no rocket-scientist, but I'm confident I could best Emmet in a knowledge bowl. Even if two of the categories were "Football" and "Emmet Smith's Life", I'm pretty sure I'd win. So my brother can fuck off with the too sly to be duped by the man-eating catfish story attitude.
Anyway, conceptually I think I understand how a donkey show works. A bunch of highly intoxicated and coked-up bikers, frat guys, traders and other upstanding members of a moralistic society (Luckily I was only a frat guy and a trader, but never a biker) gather in a poorly ventilated structure somewhere in the Baja peninsula, usually a quaint little suburb of Tijuana. They pay $50 or so a man and are allowed to drink Tecate from a cooler that was probably also recently used as a transport for a chopped-up drug runner named Paco whose family owed a little too much money to the local narco traficante. Once these social aberrations are all oiled up they probably play a little mariachi number, maybe fire a pistol. A shower curtain opens to a retarded donkey with, as you might guess, a donkey dick swinging between his legs. From a location you don't even want to know about stumbles in a woman fucked 6 ways to the weekend on booze, black tar heroin and ketamine. All the poppy plants in Afghanistan will not help this poor soul to forget the multiple nicotine-stained finger-blastings she received from her mom's boyfriends during her trailer park Christmases in Bakersfield, CA. She gives the donkey an HJ, maybe a short blowie, and then its go time. I do not know the logistics of a chick fucking an equine, to be honest with you. Once upon a time when I was about 15 we were hanging out somewhere and my friend Tony popped in a bestiality porn that he claimed he "Found" somewhere. Two chicks were in the process of fucking a horse. I made it through about 30 seconds of that, and then left the room and drank enough Cisco to kill the very horse I think I saw get fellated. Thankfully I no longer possess any memory of that event. Needless to say a chick crams a monstrous donkey cock into her holiest of holies, presumably the donkey gives the crowd a money-shot, and they in turn go wild. The bikers bike off to start some trouble in Belize. The traders head back to Wall Street to gamble away your kid's college fund. The frat guys drift into Tijuana to "Do some fucking bombs, bro!" The protagonist of the show goes back to wherever it is she came from to cook up the shot to end all shots and lays on the floor of her pimp's trailer as his homeboys run a train and visions of marrying Prince William of Great Britain dance through her head.
At least that is how I envisioned the spectacle. But this catfish wool that got pulled over my eyes has made me question even the sanctity of the donkey show. Say it ain't so, Joe. So can someone confirm, with irrefutable evidence, that they've been to a donkey show. Or am I an even bigger gullible asshole than I thought?