Friday, July 02, 2010

Nobody Asked Me, But...

1) The latest wave of terrorism comes from Al Diptera.

2) "...And STAY dead!"

3) I suppose the alternative is he would swallow? I see what you do here, Howard Kurtz! On the other hand, good for you, Lindsey, speaking truth to the moronic.

4) This is a plan everyone, regardless of party or dampness of bag, should get behind. Roosevelt electrified rural America. Eisenhower paved it. Both utilities brought enormous change and progress to rural America. Obama will go down in history as one of the great ones if he can get this passed, which he should.

5) Mel Gibson's new tape should be titled "Passion Of The...KEEEEEEEEEEEE-rist!!!!!"

6) Of course, it's possible Mel merely thought Oksana should go forth and multiply. He might be on Angle's blast fax list.

7) Worried you might see your end of days? Find out for sure.

8) I want to borrow my own column for a few paragraphs. Lately, there's been a lot of talk in America about how glad people are the US is out of the World Cup. Soccer is a game for little children. Soccer is socialist.

It all really comes down to one thing: soccer is, allegedly, boring.

Boring...boring...boring...and unmanly.

Bad soccer is boring, just like bad baseball or bad basketball or even bad hockey. Or bad writing (I'm looking at you, Thiessen). Good soccer is not.
But, good NFL football is boring, too. And there's the irony of the whining from the Sliwa's and Thiessen's of the world.

Here's a typical football game. Imagine it's a little after one on a Sunday afternoon in October. You've just come back from your son's soccer game. It was such a pleasure watching six year olds chase after a big friendly multicoloured ball, have fun, and get some exercise.

You click on the TV. Twenty-two men are lined up facing each other, their breath visible in the crisp autumn air. Wearing artificial body enhancements like shoulder pads and cups to accentuate their studliness, they glare across at the opposing team.

The ball is hiked, passed between the legs of a man bent over at the waist to the man standing directly behind him, firmly placing his ball in the quarterback's hands. The quarterback grasps the ball with both hands and begins to withdraw. He turns, and shoves his ball into the crotch of a large muscular sweaty man behind him. This man takes the ball and runs straight into a pile of men from the opposing team, extending his body in a plunge of tumescence, penetrating their territory one full body length.

OK, that part's actually...kind of arousing. But that gets him 2% closer to his goal. Only 50 more of those, and he can score!

You glance at the clock. A whole three seconds has run off. Both teams gather in a clump on opposite sides of the bed, I mean, line and spend the next five minutes discussing the color of the drapes, whether the down lineman on the other side is really dating her(!), and oh, yea, figuring out the next position.
I mean, play. The telecast goes into commercial after fifteen minutes of two guys drunk on cheap beer talk about how "the football" moved six feet forward and the quarterback's skillfull hand-off of "the football" to the fullback. 

Apparently, the guys are broadcasting a football game but attending the ballet and need to remind themselves constantly that they're working, and not goofing off.

The first of a string of beer and pickup truck commercials begins. You pick up War And Peace, which you haven't read since high school, and crack open the cover. As you read, various messages urging you to be a man and buy Amurican trucks and beer (built in Mexico and brewed by a Belgian company, respectively) waft thru the air like Muzak in an elevator.

Somewhere around the point where Prince Andrei leaves Lise and his father to go to war, the screen goes black, which is the universal symbol that corporate male bonding has stopped and the game is about to begin again. The huddles are still formed, and the topic of conversation has moved onto who on the team would make the best back-up dancer for Lady Gaga.

They clap hands, in delight presumably, and break the monotony. I mean, huddle. They line up, man on man, pawing the ground in anticipation and eagerness to collide with their counterpart on the opposite side. The quarterback barks out GPS coordinates to the nearest IHOP, and once again, the center passes his ball thru his anal cleavage to the quarterback, who hungrily accepts it, and shares it with the fullback once more.

With an almost orgasmic delight, the fullback dances and pivots his way into the pile of men....mmmmmmmmmmmmmm, so exciting! In a grand jeté, he leaps into the pile, practically shouting "Take me! TAKE ME!" The imapct jars loose his most prized possession, overinflated balls, which drop to the ground like an exhausted sailor in a whorehouse.

The defense, sensing a chance to be tops, pounce and smother his ball. The fullback grimaces and writhes in agony at his fumble. The referees, apparent furry-lovers wearing zebra shirts, race over to the pile either to try to get sloppy seconds or to extricate the ball. Whistles, the kind you'd hear on a dance floor at Studio or the Ramrod, blow with delight as the men disentangle. One man wins the prize, and races off the field, his trophy held high over his head. His teammates slap his rear-quarters, copping a cheap feel while he's still numb from all the manflesh he fought through.

To let him and his fellows rest, a fresh crop of men trot out onto the field as the announcers begin to analyze what went wrong, showing the replay of the fullback's balls over and over again, from every possible angle including some that are practically pornographic in their detail. "The football" is mentioned often as if it is a living, breathing being, revered as a god when in reality it's just flesh that's been pumped hard.

You glance at the game clock. Another five seconds has run off, but there's a time out on the field as the refs reposition the piles of men and face them in the opposite direction, presumably so they can get even tans.

Except darkness is beginnning to fall. It's gets late early these days: it's barely halfway thru the first quarter and already the wife is calling you to dinner!

The announcers warn of a commercial. An image of the Dodge Ram appears on your screen as you pick up WAP again. Prince Andrei has his vision of the battle of Auterlitz as the game resumes. It's Wednesay, 5AM. You have voicemails from work that eventually see you fired that your 30 year old son was arrested for DWI, and your wife left you fourteen years ago for the soccer coach.

Another sweaty beefy man passes his ball through his anal crack to the quarterback, who fondles it gently and steps back, caressing it. Suddenly, he thrusts his arm back and forward, and ejaculates a long pass to a fleet-footed gazelle prancing down a sideline in the open, having evaded the pack of jackals tasked with restraining him. His hands creep skyward, and he cradles the QBs ball with delicacy and intimacy, nestles it in his bosom and begins to sprint towards his goal. Pursued by the jackals, he has no choice but to distract them by shimmying his hips, flaunting his fanny, and basically perform a ritual mating display down the sidelines.

Diving over the goal line, the receiver, a "wide out"..boy, there's a loaded term!...lays on the grass-like substance for a second, basking in the glory of his accomplishment. His teammates swarm over him, piling on top like he was Easy Mary at the drive-in on a Saturday night, kissing and holding him in various ways too disgusting to describe in a family newspaper. The defense...which until last week was the offense...stomps off the field, madder than a man who missed the annual sale at Barney's because his Filofax wasn't up to date.

The two teams line up for the point after, which is really kind of like cuddling after sex. Now, here's the funny part:

The ball is explosively expelled from the center's anal cavity to a quarterback lined up a few yards back. Pretty impressive, but here's the kicker, literally: a little foreign guy, WHO WASN'T MAN ENOUGH TO PLAY SOCCER because he'd have to expose everything except his shins, kicks the ball through the uprights, a Freudian symbol in itself!, and leaps into the arms of his team for scoring one. Stinking. Point.

And that, my friends, is why soccer is better than Americans deserve!

(h/t to Thers for setting me off)

9) *Whew!* That was exhausting! I need a shower now. (Much of that was off the top of my head but was based on an email I sent to a DJ friend of mine who whined about how boring soccer was on his show one day).

10) If your car has to be towed out of a creek, don't tell the cops you hydroplaned. They may not stop laughing. (Um, the name alone tells you all you need to know about this story)