1. It must be almost college football season, because it has been a week since Sports Illustrated launched the beatification process for Jesus H. Tebow. Don't get us wrong; he seems like a fine young man. He gives inspirational speeches to prison convicts and helps poor kids in the Philippines and can probably run off tackle twice as far on water as either Sam Bradford or Colt McCoy.
But we think back to the most horrifying example of man-on-Tebow love we have encountered, the national championship game in January, when Fox's announcers stroked him so hard that Jesus -- wherever he hangs out for BCS games -- probably wondered, "What the hell is going on here?" And we wonder: If Tim Tebow did everything he did now, except that his name was Muhammad Al-Tebow and his dad was an imam and he told prison convicts that Allah would provide and he pulled himself out of two-a-days to get down on his prayer mat every day -- if all these things were true, how would he be covered? Would the Fox announcers still think he was the greatest guy in the world? Would members of the press stay more at arm's length from his private life, since he didn't play for "our team"? Would they ignore it completely, or perhaps call him out as a bit of a freak?
Does it matter? It kinda does to us. We're just that way.
2. We're looking forward to an expansion of the "beer summit" concept. There are limits -- we're going to have to get the Israelis and the Palestinians to ramp up their suds intake before we can solve the whole Mideast thing -- but we fully support the idea that if you can sit down and drink a beer with somebody, things can't be that bad and might even get better. Now, absinthe -- that's a whole 'nuther story.
3. I don't really care whether Big Papi was juicing -- geez, at this point, who wasn't. And as somebody we know said (whom we've seen in pictures wearing a Red Sox cap, it should be said), at least he juiced and won. But if we care this much about whether ballplayers are taking drugs, shouldn't we be drug-testing politicians, who, unless you're loading up bets on baseball, are actually doing something that affects us? Not like the insurance and pharma companies woudn't be happy to hand out a little product to keep the system from changing too much. Maybe we could put them in chastity belts too.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Quick three: We want Vick
1. We hope our favorite team signs Michael Vick for one reason, and one reason only: PETA protests! Naked PETA babes in body paint in cages (we know of them pulling this one before when the circus comes to town) outside the stadium on game day. Might be enough to pull us away from the tailgate a few minutes early.
2. If some team brings Vick in as a backup, and wants to bring him in for a few plays a game to run the Wildcat formation, we humbly submit that they rename it the Pitbull formation. Please?
3. If we don't get either one of those, Vick in Cleveland playing in front of the Dawg Pound will suffice. That is all.
2. If some team brings Vick in as a backup, and wants to bring him in for a few plays a game to run the Wildcat formation, we humbly submit that they rename it the Pitbull formation. Please?
3. If we don't get either one of those, Vick in Cleveland playing in front of the Dawg Pound will suffice. That is all.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The biggest waste of time in sports
*2008 presidential election preseason All-America (Democrat): Hillary Clinton
*2008 presidential election preseason All-America (Republican): Rudy Giuliani
This message is brought to you by People Who Think Preseason Polls and All-Star Teams Are a Ridiculous Waste of Time, and we approved this message.
Don't look at the preseason all-conference team. Don't look at the preseason player of the year. For god's sake, don't look at the freshman of the year, selected from among people who haven't even set foot on the field during an actual college game yet.
Read something else. Do a crossword puzzle. Play with the kids. You're better than this, we know it.
*2008 presidential election preseason All-America (Republican): Rudy Giuliani
This message is brought to you by People Who Think Preseason Polls and All-Star Teams Are a Ridiculous Waste of Time, and we approved this message.
Don't look at the preseason all-conference team. Don't look at the preseason player of the year. For god's sake, don't look at the freshman of the year, selected from among people who haven't even set foot on the field during an actual college game yet.
Read something else. Do a crossword puzzle. Play with the kids. You're better than this, we know it.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Money on the table
This here's capitalism in the good old USA, as you know; everybody has the God-given right to go out and make as much money as they want. And that's what most people do. We believe it's a pretty good system, with certain limitations.
One person that we can think of that doesn't is the guy who owns Chick-fil-A, who keeps his restaurants closed because he's religious and wants to honor the Sabbath rather than make a bunch more money selling chicken sandwiches and tic-tac-toe-board-shaped potato thingees.
We find that interesting, even though you wouldn't call us religious or pious or not-hellbound. Leaving money on the table is a lot more interesting than making it sometimes, because so few people do it (on purpose).
Opening on Sunday might cost Chick-fil-A some fans, because some churchgoers probably appreciate the policy and see it as an extension of his (and their) faith. But the cost of being closed is far greater than the money that it stops at the locked door. Any day you're closed and your competitor is open is a day that the consumer can fall in love with the other guy's chicken. (Sorry, that doesn't sound very savory.)
Now we're hungry. Good thing it's not Sunday. What were we talking about again?
One person that we can think of that doesn't is the guy who owns Chick-fil-A, who keeps his restaurants closed because he's religious and wants to honor the Sabbath rather than make a bunch more money selling chicken sandwiches and tic-tac-toe-board-shaped potato thingees.
We find that interesting, even though you wouldn't call us religious or pious or not-hellbound. Leaving money on the table is a lot more interesting than making it sometimes, because so few people do it (on purpose).
Opening on Sunday might cost Chick-fil-A some fans, because some churchgoers probably appreciate the policy and see it as an extension of his (and their) faith. But the cost of being closed is far greater than the money that it stops at the locked door. Any day you're closed and your competitor is open is a day that the consumer can fall in love with the other guy's chicken. (Sorry, that doesn't sound very savory.)
Now we're hungry. Good thing it's not Sunday. What were we talking about again?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Bitter on Twitter
We twitter, or tweeter, or twatter, or whatever you want to call it. We're @crackstaff if you're interested, although we don't do much more than pimp our columns (our lack of motivation knows few boundaries).
From our relatively short time on Twitter, we have found it full of new-age cheats, frauds and charlatans, an unprecedented collection of unrepentant hucksters whose sheer number and audacity would bring tears to the eyes of H.L Mencken (perhaps tears of joy for all the column inches he could wring out of them, though a modern-day Mencken would have probably already taken the layoff shiv in the back from The Sun).
We remember fondly the days in the late 1990s when any bozo could roll out a sure-to-fail plan and still extract enough money from a foolish venture capitalist to keep a small office in Post-It notes, pastries and Friday keg socials for a few months, until reality came rudely calling. (Well, almost any bozo. We were still typing on an IBM Selectric at the time. This whole Internet thing has never come easy for us.)
Those people at least had to break a sweat to be fraudulent. They had to have some sort of idea — online dog food warehouse, whatever — to steal cash. Today's Twitter hucksters just position themselves as gurus, able to impart to the magical knowledge of social networking in 140 characters or less to any business that can pay them. They don't even have to come up with a crappy plan. Businesses, not knowing any better, hopelessly desperate not to be left behind, ante up.
But don't think we're running from Twitter faster than ESPN from a Ben Roethlisberger civil suit. We're there. We're in. We're typing. We'll never be smart enough (or patently dishonest enough) to label ourselves a guru, but we promise to be smart enough to always laugh at those who do.
From our relatively short time on Twitter, we have found it full of new-age cheats, frauds and charlatans, an unprecedented collection of unrepentant hucksters whose sheer number and audacity would bring tears to the eyes of H.L Mencken (perhaps tears of joy for all the column inches he could wring out of them, though a modern-day Mencken would have probably already taken the layoff shiv in the back from The Sun).
We remember fondly the days in the late 1990s when any bozo could roll out a sure-to-fail plan and still extract enough money from a foolish venture capitalist to keep a small office in Post-It notes, pastries and Friday keg socials for a few months, until reality came rudely calling. (Well, almost any bozo. We were still typing on an IBM Selectric at the time. This whole Internet thing has never come easy for us.)
Those people at least had to break a sweat to be fraudulent. They had to have some sort of idea — online dog food warehouse, whatever — to steal cash. Today's Twitter hucksters just position themselves as gurus, able to impart to the magical knowledge of social networking in 140 characters or less to any business that can pay them. They don't even have to come up with a crappy plan. Businesses, not knowing any better, hopelessly desperate not to be left behind, ante up.
But don't think we're running from Twitter faster than ESPN from a Ben Roethlisberger civil suit. We're there. We're in. We're typing. We'll never be smart enough (or patently dishonest enough) to label ourselves a guru, but we promise to be smart enough to always laugh at those who do.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Interactivity: Vastly overrated
We disabled comments. We're just not that into you.
If you absolutely have to comment, e-mail us. If we feel like it, we'll post it as an add to the post. We'll pick a random adjective and a random noun from the dictionary as your user name.
Interactivity isn't really for us. Call us throwbacks.
UPDATE: We put comments back up. Not because we feel any different. Just because we're bored.
If you absolutely have to comment, e-mail us. If we feel like it, we'll post it as an add to the post. We'll pick a random adjective and a random noun from the dictionary as your user name.
Interactivity isn't really for us. Call us throwbacks.
UPDATE: We put comments back up. Not because we feel any different. Just because we're bored.
We no peep
You know us. We don't take moral stands. We'd paper this blog with porn ads, ankles over elbows, if it were of reasonably good taste and the checks cashed. So take heed when we say this.
We're not going to watch it.
You know what we're talking about, you pervs. The Erin Andrews peephole video that's been burning up the Internets, that's what. We've read time and again that it shows ESPN's princess of the sidelines in all her why-would-anybody-be-watching-me-through-my-hotel-room-peephole glory, but we're sitting this one out. And we don't sit many out.
If this had been a sex tape, that's one thing. If you're silly enough to make one of those things and think it's going to stay private, then we're certainly silly enough to watch you putting on a show.
But Ms. Andrews did not choose to make a vid, so we choose not to watch it. And we hope her dad or maybe a whole group of suitably brawny male relatives get hold of the peep creep. (But can we say here that the vigor with which some bloggers and posters have lept to her defense is almost a little creepy itself. There's a lot of that creepy going around this summer.)
Regardless of what happens from here, there will be some awkward moments when Ms. Andrews returns as part of a sports that ESPN broadcasts and people actually watch. "Now let's go down to the sideline, where Erin Andrews is going to tell us about a very special tight end ..." We, of course, will be spared that.
You can join us in abstaining if you wish on moral grounds, or you can do it because you're scared of the virus that is said to be attached to some versions of the file, and that brings us to another point: If we're ever featured in some sort of embarrassing video — say, committing unnatural acts with underage livestock at a West Virginia rest stop on or about ... but no need for that many details, we're just making up an example off the top of our heads, right? — we're going to say there's a virus attached to it. Fine strategy.
We're not going to watch it.
You know what we're talking about, you pervs. The Erin Andrews peephole video that's been burning up the Internets, that's what. We've read time and again that it shows ESPN's princess of the sidelines in all her why-would-anybody-be-watching-me-through-my-hotel-room-peephole glory, but we're sitting this one out. And we don't sit many out.
If this had been a sex tape, that's one thing. If you're silly enough to make one of those things and think it's going to stay private, then we're certainly silly enough to watch you putting on a show.
But Ms. Andrews did not choose to make a vid, so we choose not to watch it. And we hope her dad or maybe a whole group of suitably brawny male relatives get hold of the peep creep. (But can we say here that the vigor with which some bloggers and posters have lept to her defense is almost a little creepy itself. There's a lot of that creepy going around this summer.)
Regardless of what happens from here, there will be some awkward moments when Ms. Andrews returns as part of a sports that ESPN broadcasts and people actually watch. "Now let's go down to the sideline, where Erin Andrews is going to tell us about a very special tight end ..." We, of course, will be spared that.
You can join us in abstaining if you wish on moral grounds, or you can do it because you're scared of the virus that is said to be attached to some versions of the file, and that brings us to another point: If we're ever featured in some sort of embarrassing video — say, committing unnatural acts with underage livestock at a West Virginia rest stop on or about ... but no need for that many details, we're just making up an example off the top of our heads, right? — we're going to say there's a virus attached to it. Fine strategy.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
British Open and closed
You'll pardon us if we're a little low, but we're having a tough time with Tom Watson's tragic explosion over Scotland. We'll admit it, we were pulling for the old man, and after 71 holes we were almost convinced he could do it, but when he gave the Putt He'll Always Think About that granny tap on 18, we knew what was coming. Not quite Jean Van de Velde territory, but painful nonetheless.
Don't get us wrong: We have nothing against Stewart Cink except that he looked like a human version of those awful day-glo Slurpees we used to get at 7-Eleven when we were young and didn't realize you shouldn't drink anything that's bright green. An enthusiastic Twitter user, he's already posted his clubhouse clutch with the Jug. Perhaps it's good that Watson hasn't embraced the technology; otherwise we would waiting for an iPhone snap of the old guy throwing his tired bones into the Irish Sea.
Sometimes things seem like they should be, feel like they should be, SHOULD be, dammit, and they aren't. That is our imperfect world. Babies die. Villains prosper. Controversy peddlers disguise themselves as writers even though most of their prose has all the craftsmanship of a Waffle House menu. People eat haggis.
If Watson had crapped out after a great first day, as he did at the U.S. Open a few years back, his life story would essentially read the same. Now he's written a new chapter, and who knows how it will read a few years down the road, or even a few weeks. For the moment, though, it feels like a sad ending.
Don't get us wrong: We have nothing against Stewart Cink except that he looked like a human version of those awful day-glo Slurpees we used to get at 7-Eleven when we were young and didn't realize you shouldn't drink anything that's bright green. An enthusiastic Twitter user, he's already posted his clubhouse clutch with the Jug. Perhaps it's good that Watson hasn't embraced the technology; otherwise we would waiting for an iPhone snap of the old guy throwing his tired bones into the Irish Sea.
Sometimes things seem like they should be, feel like they should be, SHOULD be, dammit, and they aren't. That is our imperfect world. Babies die. Villains prosper. Controversy peddlers disguise themselves as writers even though most of their prose has all the craftsmanship of a Waffle House menu. People eat haggis.
If Watson had crapped out after a great first day, as he did at the U.S. Open a few years back, his life story would essentially read the same. Now he's written a new chapter, and who knows how it will read a few years down the road, or even a few weeks. For the moment, though, it feels like a sad ending.
Friday, July 17, 2009
A world without the Worldwide Leader
Due to some unforeseen home improvements — OK, they were pretty foreseen, we just put them off till we didn't have a choice because we're like that — we're cutting some expenses, and one of the casualties is ESPN. That's right: Bristol will have to do without this household for a while.
We dropped to the bargain-basement DirecTV package, just one step up above rabbit ears and more snow than Aspen on the local CBS channel.
They call it the Family Package, but in DirecTV-land Dad must have run off from the family for a big Hooters-and-meth weekend and never come back, 'cause there's not much in this batch of losers for him to watch. It's anchored by shopping channels, which don't play well with the theme of saving money. After that it's kids' networks, religious broadcasters and home-type stuff (HGTV, DIY, etc.). Unless we're feeling ready to regress, repent or remodel (and I'm not sure which is least likely), there is officially nothing on TV.
If you're going to drop ESPN, though, this is the time of the year to do it. We're feeling about as much passion for MLS as David Beckham does, and we haven't mastered the over/under line in the WNBA (struggling to factor in recent returns from pregnancy), so we'll get by on local news and Internet porn for now without much trouble.
When fall comes, though, and Bristol is rolling out football on Thursday night, Wednesday night, Tuesday night, anytime the Anything for TV schools like Louisville, Boise State, South Florida or Fresno State are willing to play, we'll be shaking like a junkie in an alley.
Maybe the religious networks can pick up the slack. Doesn't anybody show Liberty football games? After all, up until we were about 14 we thought "The 700 Club" was a bowling show.
We dropped to the bargain-basement DirecTV package, just one step up above rabbit ears and more snow than Aspen on the local CBS channel.
They call it the Family Package, but in DirecTV-land Dad must have run off from the family for a big Hooters-and-meth weekend and never come back, 'cause there's not much in this batch of losers for him to watch. It's anchored by shopping channels, which don't play well with the theme of saving money. After that it's kids' networks, religious broadcasters and home-type stuff (HGTV, DIY, etc.). Unless we're feeling ready to regress, repent or remodel (and I'm not sure which is least likely), there is officially nothing on TV.
If you're going to drop ESPN, though, this is the time of the year to do it. We're feeling about as much passion for MLS as David Beckham does, and we haven't mastered the over/under line in the WNBA (struggling to factor in recent returns from pregnancy), so we'll get by on local news and Internet porn for now without much trouble.
When fall comes, though, and Bristol is rolling out football on Thursday night, Wednesday night, Tuesday night, anytime the Anything for TV schools like Louisville, Boise State, South Florida or Fresno State are willing to play, we'll be shaking like a junkie in an alley.
Maybe the religious networks can pick up the slack. Doesn't anybody show Liberty football games? After all, up until we were about 14 we thought "The 700 Club" was a bowling show.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
When you wish upon a scar
Sweet and holy Jesus in a Mickey hat, what is going on down at Walt Disney World? First the rock 'em, sock 'em Monorail episode (1 dead, 7 injured) and now two buses get together in front of the Contemporary (12 injured).
We don't judge, and you know we seldom question, but could it be that our friends at Disney got a little too ambitious when the Wonderful World of Layoffs made its debut in Orlando? We'd guess that driving buses, boats, trams or trains, all full of Disney-addled families who are long on sugar and stress and short on sleep and money, would fall somewhere fairly high up the tension scale, like air-traffic controllers in gaily themed uniforms. Tack on some extra shifts and the threat of sudden termination around every carefully landscaped corner, and we're not talking Happiest Place on Earth anymore.
Unless you're a personal injury lawyer. Line forms behind Scrooge McDuck at the big silver golf ball in Epcot.
We don't judge, and you know we seldom question, but could it be that our friends at Disney got a little too ambitious when the Wonderful World of Layoffs made its debut in Orlando? We'd guess that driving buses, boats, trams or trains, all full of Disney-addled families who are long on sugar and stress and short on sleep and money, would fall somewhere fairly high up the tension scale, like air-traffic controllers in gaily themed uniforms. Tack on some extra shifts and the threat of sudden termination around every carefully landscaped corner, and we're not talking Happiest Place on Earth anymore.
Unless you're a personal injury lawyer. Line forms behind Scrooge McDuck at the big silver golf ball in Epcot.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
First and long
Far be it from us to question the experts of the porn industry, who have their fingers on the engorged, throbbing pulse of America and prove it by pumping out a trillion different titles every year, or at least enough to cause repetitive stress injuries in every adult American several times over.
But doubt has crept into our mind about just what the gods of porn valley are thinking when they come up with this, and, no, of course it's not safe for the workplace, dummy. For those too timid to click, "X-Play has just announced the upcoming release of 'Not Monday Night Football XXX.'"
Pardon us while we adjust our raincoat, but are you telling us that somebody was watching a network football broadcast and decided it was great fodder for a skin flick? (We're coming at this from the straight side of the street, Bucko, and don't you forget it.) Sure, there are cheerleaders, but we hear that was covered in some little "Debbie" movie years ago. And, yeah, there are sideline reporters, but still, there's mostly a lot of athletic guys and a few athletic-for-being-that-fat guys knocking the crap out of one another while two or three non-athletic guys talk about it.
Maybe it was porn's Super Bowl debut this year. Perhaps Mike Tirico has something to do with it. Maybe the departure of John Madden from "MNF" really was the act that would set the Apocalypse in motion, just like that little voice in our head told us. Shut up! Shut up! Oh, sorry, did we say that out loud?
All we know is, we don't get it. You're getting old when you don't get the popular music. When you don't get the porn, you're pretty much dead.
But doubt has crept into our mind about just what the gods of porn valley are thinking when they come up with this, and, no, of course it's not safe for the workplace, dummy. For those too timid to click, "X-Play has just announced the upcoming release of 'Not Monday Night Football XXX.'"
Pardon us while we adjust our raincoat, but are you telling us that somebody was watching a network football broadcast and decided it was great fodder for a skin flick? (We're coming at this from the straight side of the street, Bucko, and don't you forget it.) Sure, there are cheerleaders, but we hear that was covered in some little "Debbie" movie years ago. And, yeah, there are sideline reporters, but still, there's mostly a lot of athletic guys and a few athletic-for-being-that-fat guys knocking the crap out of one another while two or three non-athletic guys talk about it.
Maybe it was porn's Super Bowl debut this year. Perhaps Mike Tirico has something to do with it. Maybe the departure of John Madden from "MNF" really was the act that would set the Apocalypse in motion, just like that little voice in our head told us. Shut up! Shut up! Oh, sorry, did we say that out loud?
All we know is, we don't get it. You're getting old when you don't get the popular music. When you don't get the porn, you're pretty much dead.
Drunk and drunker
It appears Arizona has an "extreme DUI" charge, and WNBA star Diana Taurasi has found herself facing one (she pleaded not guilty).
Extreme DUI? Really? It's like a whole 'nuther level of sloppy driving, reserved only for the best and drunkest. Although the name has an X Games kind of feel to it, too, don't you think? Legit drunken driving incorporates a little bit of slalom, anyway.
But if you're going to set aside a special class of road drunks, shouldn't you make the bar a little higher than 0.15 percent, which is the cutoff for extreme DUI? After all, we would probably blow 0.15 on our way to church some Sundays. But don't worry -- Arizona has that covered too.
That's right, there's a super extreme DUI charge, reserved for anyone hammered enough to break the 0.20 barrier. SUPER EXTREME DUI!
Gotta wonder if there are some off-the-books classifications above that, like super-duper extreme DUI at 0.25 or supercalifragilistic DUI at 0.30. Like so many things in this world, if they don't exist, they should.
Extreme DUI? Really? It's like a whole 'nuther level of sloppy driving, reserved only for the best and drunkest. Although the name has an X Games kind of feel to it, too, don't you think? Legit drunken driving incorporates a little bit of slalom, anyway.
But if you're going to set aside a special class of road drunks, shouldn't you make the bar a little higher than 0.15 percent, which is the cutoff for extreme DUI? After all, we would probably blow 0.15 on our way to church some Sundays. But don't worry -- Arizona has that covered too.
That's right, there's a super extreme DUI charge, reserved for anyone hammered enough to break the 0.20 barrier. SUPER EXTREME DUI!
Gotta wonder if there are some off-the-books classifications above that, like super-duper extreme DUI at 0.25 or supercalifragilistic DUI at 0.30. Like so many things in this world, if they don't exist, they should.
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