Happy Labor Day, everyone! Or as we the unemployed like to call it, “Monday when some of our friends are off work.” In honor celebration of both this and our long national nightmare of being subjected to breathless Darrelle Revis coverage that we don’t care about being over, why don’t we all join hands in a chorus of the official Labor Day anthem. Oh, you didn’t know there was an official Labor Day anthem? Well, your ass better caaaaaaaaalllllll somebodaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy!!!!!!!
Who’s going to celebrate Labor Day with me? Well, you might just have to find out after the jump.
Damn, that sounds like an alarm clock of some sort. Time to get up and not read. So, bench-clearing fights are kinda hilarious. But have you ever kinda wanted your team to lose one? That’s the situation I was in Wednesday night during the Nationals-Marlins game, and apparently, the Nationals may have felt the same way. Before we check out the video, how about a small recap of the week in which centerfielder/moron Nyjer Morgan finally went all in in terms of being Milton Bradley Lite. Now the guy was already appealing a 7-game suspension for throwing a ball at a fan in Philly (which may or may not have been the result of Philly fans’ inability to catch, but if it’s 7 games, there’s probably something going on). Then last Saturday, Nationals (bad) manager Jim Riggleman took time out from misusing reliever Tyler Clippard to the point of probably jeopardizing his career to move Morgan from leadoff down to 8th. Not a bad place for a guy hitting .250 with no power. Nyjer Morgan was so butt-hurt by this move that he decided the take it out on the St. Louis Fightin’ Glenn Becks’ backup catcher by intentionally missing home plate and elbowing him. A bush-league play to say the least that resulted in his getting called out and then benched the next game by Riggleman. Which of course lead to massive whining in the papers. Yes, we have a diva wide receiver on our hands, but at least Terrell Owens is actually good. Anyway, Njyer celebrated his return to the lineup by A) sucking, B) cursing out a Marlins fan, which is like cursing out a unicorn since they don’t exist, and C) running over Marlins’ catch Brett Hayes, likely putting him out for the rest of the year. OK, you’re gonna run over the catcher once in a while, but you’re not getting the benefit of the doubt when you tried a Macho Man Randy Savage elbow on a catcher a few days before. Not to mention, a good evasive slide would have scored the go-ahead run for the Nationals. He likely also ran over the catcher to disguise that he doesn’t know an evasive slide because he’s fundamentally incompetent. So the revenge-seeking Marlins throw at him once. He steals two bases down 10 runs, which I’ll get two later. And the Marlins, who are not blameless in this incident, throw at him again. Morgan charges the mound, which for a guy already appealing a suspension is retarded, unless he’s showing a deep-seated desire not to play baseball (which is probably the best thing he could do for the team. Update: Despite getting an additional 8 games, he was inexplicably in the lineup last night, which helps explain why they lost). As he charges the mound, Marlins’ first baseman Gaby Sanchez throws a John Bradshaw Layfield “Clothesline From Hell,” (which, coincidentally is the only move that scrub knew) and put Nyjer on his ass. The whole Marlins team collective beat the shit out of him for a while and then the Nationals were like, “Shit, I guess we gotta go do something.” But their reticence says about all you need to know about how they feel about Morgan’s act. Team leader Ryan Zimmerman said, “He still has a bit to learn about baseball,” and that he’d already talked to him earlier in the week about cutting this shit out. And of course, in typical drama queen fashion, Morgan gestured to the crowd indicating this really was all about him and he was the man. Because he really thinks he is. A little more on this situation after the jump. Now watch the video.
Get the funk up! (Wow, does that song ever not hold up). So if you’ve been around these parts consistently, you may be familiar with my extended family’s obsession with a mysteriously-named port known as Cockburn. And its resulting legacy as a running joke. Well, during our aforementioned vacation, we happened to be staying next door to a Canadian munitions and explosives expert. And perhaps the one Canadian I’ve encountered who likes George W. Bush (either that or I really didn’t get his sense of humor). Anyway, his idea of beach vacation time did not involve supporting the Aggro-Ketchup Movement. Rather constructing a potato/tennis ball cannon out of PVC pipe and wires and butane. Apparently you plug the wires into something and butane and when the pawn hits the conflicts and it all came out to me sounding like “Science, science, science, science …” Namely, I need lecoqsportif’s help.
He apparently successfully shot off a tennis ball, but neglected his promise to us that we could be witnesses (which would beat the shit out of being a witness to Chalkdust Torture the Bandwagon Yankee Fan). He then gifted us the quasi-weapon because he didn’t think he could successfully transport it back across the Canadian border without suspicion. (He was probably right considering lecoqsportif got detained by the border police for attempting to move back to the US). So what on earth would we do with an explosive projectile device? I really think there’s only one true purpose for it — delivering Cockburn to losers around the world.(more…)
Mother fuck Snoop, mother fuck Dre, mother fuck Death Row. Presumably all at the same time. And good morning to you. So last weekend, Indianapolis Colts defensive tackle John Gill was arrested for public intoxication when he was found passed out in a ditch by the side of the road at 4 AM. Amazingly, he wasn’t charged. Maybe the horseshoe on the Colts’ helmets was actually up his ass. However, those wily Colts are going to find a way to keep him deactivated all season in a “special roster category.” They just haven’t thought of it yet. Maybe Marvin Harrison will shoot him. But that’s not the interesting part of the story. The true gem comes from the police report in which arresting officer Ricardo Flores Jr. described Gill’s blue shirt and khaki shorts as “disheveled and soiled.” Now maybe he just meant that rolling around in a ditch made him dirty. But when I read “shorts” and “soiled” in the same sentence, you know what I’m thinking he’s saying. That Mr. Gill engaged in encopresis. Or as we say in layman’s terms, /SHITS PANTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Good morning, geniuses. And welcome to the Sunday Brunch, a feature that during my “annual review” last Tuesday, I agreed to continue despite the dissolution of the circumstances that brought it about in lieu of a Sunday Eye Opener. So yay! More long-form, overly wordy, occasionally about sports prose that’s deathly in need of an editor!
So I don’t generally write about my personal life pretty much ever. For a few reasons. One, I used to and my brother finally beat some sense into me with the maxim, “Hate not lest ye be hated upon!” Basically, regardless of the comedic potential and spike in readership, it’s bad form and ungentlemanly. And I’m nothing if not the Lady Byng of bloggers. Secondly, it probably increases the likelihood that women would go out with me if they know I don’t discuss my personal life online. And thirdly, it’s bad karma. So today, against my better judgment (and mostly because nothing funny happened in sports this week) I’m kinda going to risk that bad karma a bit. But I’m not writing about my personal life in specifics. It’s more tangential to writing about decisions made in the course of human events. And while trying to invoke good karma. Oh, and it has Kristen Bell in it.
Good morning, foreigners! Yeah, how long since you thought about that song? Anyway, as I said last Saturday and many times in the past with varying degrees of seriousness, I’m the resident trendsetter around here. F’(x) is the rainmaker. (Did we ever find out who picked up his piece and got us all those readers?). I’m the motherfucking trendsetter. And I’ve got another one for you. A bit unconventional of course, but that’s the beauty of forward thinking.
A few weeks ago during the World Cup, I mentioned I owned a Cameroon national team kit courtesy of my brother the biologist doing a study in Africa. My other soccer kit is that of the Peruvian national team, courtesy of my brother leading a wilderness trip in Peru. Yes, he’s just as awesome as those dickbags with the TV shows; he just doesn’t have a publicist. Apparently, according to Fuse, had I shopped more at Marshalls and TJ Maxx in Massachusetts, I’d have discounted kits up the dildo-hole, but unfortunately, I haven’t finished my time machine to make that happen. Oh, who am I kidding? You know it’s my brother who’d make the time machine.
Anyway, I happened to be wearing my Peruvian soccer kit the day I flew to Manchester, New Hampshire and then drove with my college roommate and his now-wife to Littleton, NH for my other college roommate’s wedding. Their flight had been delayed, so by the time we got there, we had to race to the formal wear rentalry to try on our shit. Not full tux. Black jackets and pants and silver ties. We kinda looked like badasses. Or as badass as I’m capable of looking. Anyway, instead of fishing out more appropriate fitting attire, to save time, they just said throw on the jacket. So I did. Over my Peruvian jersey. And maybe I was just woozy from a full day of travel, but it looked kinda awesome. So yeah, I’m declaring this right now. The new look is suit jacket over soccer kit. I just need a celebrity to rock this in public and we’re set. At the very least maybe it will be more successful than my quest to bring back the expression “doing the wild thing.”
Good evening. Buenos noches! Bonne nuit! I thought of something positive I could say about today. Broken Social Scene released the first song from their new album. Take a gander at “World Sick.” Of course, we have to wait for May 4 for their new album, Forgiveness Rock Record, to come out. I wonder what my life will be like on May 4. Chances are I still won’t have a job for next year and still won’t be getting laid. So let’s just hit the damn fast forward button to then!
So I can’t post videos, but let’s relax with some of the fabulous brilliance that BSS has offered us in the past.
As we well know, unless you’re a pro athlete or a college coach, all actions have repercussions. I thought full well that given our stout 5 page views a day, my Gilbert Arenas column would safely fall on deaf eyes. Not so. Last night, after the Washington Wizards’ double-OT road loss to the Bulls, Arenas’ lackey Nick Young broke into my apartment and … well, let’s just say I’m out a relatively useful set of footwear. Wait a minute! I hear something! He’s back! Hey, not on the rug … man! Son of a whore! It really tied the room together. Having learned my lesson about targeted speech, I think it’s best to present a column that’s as lazy and unfocused as Gilbert himself possible. Wake up, Fuse! Time for the Bag of Crap! W00t!
Hello, party people. I needs no introduction. You know who I am. You know how I rock it! DJ Nacho here because JB’s having a birthday. So, you people are wondering how a guinea pig learned how to type. Easy, I stay in JB’s office. I do watch him. Someone very generous bought me a new guinea pig sized computer (You know who you are in Texas. Mwah!), and away I go.
