where we’re all just effin soldiers!
Peace out WordPress.com bitches!
WordPress.com has been fun, but it’s time to move on. Pay your last respects, because this hot high school hottie at your 10 year reunion has STD written all over it.
AntonAzucar.com here we come!
Everyone who subscribes, all six or seven of you, please update now.
This is old news, and I only caught it after reading the ultimate Canes writer Bruce Feldman link to it, but it’s too great a story to pass up.
Jamaal Green, who led the 2001 National Title team in sacks, has re-emerged as a Border Patrol agent in El Paso, TX. Talk about a career change. I think this story is fantastic. He got his degree in Criminology, and spoke openly about his health being more important than a long term NFL career.
“They (co-workers) said, “That’s crazy that you would do that, leave your dream to come to the Border Patrol,’ ” Green said. “I tell them that was never my dream….In my position (as defensive end), it’s so brutal that by the age of 45 you might not be able to walk straight. My health is more important than the extra money.”
This is also a great excuse to pimp a great underrated movie, one forgotten too soon, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. Barry Pepper is one of my favorites actors, fantastic in The 25th Hour, and also pretty good in this. Gotta love the Southwest Texas landscapes.
Now, if Jamaal somehow manages to catch my namesake, trying to cross over into Juarez, he deserves a fucking Congressional Medal of Honor.
This one's for you, Six.
A reminder to all you hip, cool, progressive thinkers out there with DirecTV: tonight is the season 3 finale for Friday Night Lights. Last chance ladies to get a glimpse at hottie Riggins. Last chance to see the greatest booster known to high school football, Buddy Garrity.
And to all you conservative, backward thinking, comcast only Jesus lovers out there, take note: You better start watching come Friday when the season starts up again on NBC. Otherwise none of us will benefit from the joy of another Coach Taylor pep talk.
Imma tell ya what you’re gonna do….
Friday Night Lights has been the best show on TV for two of the past three years. Season Two was a complete mess. The producers had to reverse the Season One ending once finding out they were granted another season. Conversely, Season Three has been a complete masterpiece. Every single character’s arc has been handled perfectly. Secondary characters have been shown the door quietly and without fanfare, as it should be. And seeing as I am a badass, and have DirecTV (seperate qualitites), I have been able to watch this season already on T101. Fantastic. I’ll probably watch the entire run again on NBC. But, not having commercial interruptions (Thanks Vasoline!) was a real plus. Oh, and all the extra scenes NBC will no doubt cut. In fact, you’re just a little bitch if you watch it on NBC.
I will not go into any spoilers, but this should be the final season. The producers have crafted one of the best hour long seasons to date, and should put it to rest. We don’t want to see a new class, or to go Saved by the Bell and see some of these characters in college. Just doesn’t work. The producers finally got a write a full season knowing the show wouldn’t be cancelled, and it shows. One could even not have seen an episode of Season Two and pick right up.
Get ready to be rocked, and buy from Buddy!
I made the short trek to the debauchery known as South Beach last night, after my customary 500m, “I’m gonna smoke yo ass in my fake triathlon” nightly swims, to seek out the best CFB blogger, bar none….one Orson Swindle, of Every Day Should Be Saturday fame. He has been giving updates on his Sporting News daily writings, and I knew he should be in the SoBe area the last night before the big game.
First stop was Mango’s, on Ocean Drive. Uh, nevermind. Walked up, saw they were charging an outrageous 100% markup on their already ridiculous$5 cover, looked inside, saw the most over 40 OU clad males I’ve ever seen under one roof, and kept walking.
Next stop, Wet Willies. Although a few mere blocks from my previous searching point, the trek took me at least ten solid minutes, due to me having to walk through the “Boomer!…..Sooner!” category 2 sound waves that were being created at every single bar, restaurant, and intersection. I felt like Billy Mays in his wind tunnel. And my pores probably have OKCverbal stank abuse in them today.
Made it to Wet Willy’s in tact. Still no sight of Orson. Are you not wearing your glasses so I can’t find you?! I need to talk intelligent footbaw! Give you my incredible, fantastic, better than any other hundredth douche bag version of a playoff system!
Had some friends in town from NYC, OU grads, albeit part of the 1 percentile not clad in Nike OU gear. Do these people seriously only bring officially licensed team apparel bought at Football Fanatics? Unreal. This is South Beach people! Show some class! Break out those multi-colored golf polos we all know you save for your “special occasions,” or grandma’s birthday, “but only if we go to her place this year.”
Elma! I knew we forgot to pack something!
Wet Willy’s was packed by the time I arrived, no entrada, line around the corner. This is like spring break at the Grove back at UM. We live here people! We deserve to get inside, pronto! I don’t care if this is your spring break, or your title game! I don’t want to pay a cover or wait for a place that is mine! So, anyways, off to Automatic Slims, away from the tourist strip. I was starting to think my hope of locating one Orson Swindle was losing steam, and fast.
On the relatively short walk over, I was trying to locate someone in a Jason White jersey, to validate a claim I was wearing one to another non-present friend. Realized it would be even better to be seen in a Rhett Bomar jersey, and adjusted my search accordingly. Negative on both fronts. Seems OU fans just don’t have a sense of humor.
Automatic Slims was as expected….no mob of OU/UF fans talking shit at each other. In other words…walked right in, no ID check, no cover, walked up to the bar, Long Island (I know, I’m loco!!!), hit the bathroom while drink was dispensed, no wait, drink waiting when I returned. If I was rich I would’ve paid PTA to film the entire sequence in one of his incredible long takes, it was so fucking awesome.
Orson where are you?? We're filming here!
Decided all hope was lost. Wasn’t going to keep bar hopping in hopes of finding one man, who probably was staked out near the Gator’s up in Hollywood. My searching for the night was over. Stayed until 4:30am, didn’t feel too hot this morning, had a cleansing reminiscent of my Snickers Ice Cream Bar fiasco, and then was good.
One might think I am an OU hater with all this bashing, but far from it. Not an OU fan per se, more a Stoops fan, ever since his days as UF’s DC. So, I will most definitely be rooting for OUfor that reason, but more so for Miami’s benefit. We need this Urban Meyer guy stopped. He can’t be let aground any longer. He will pillage the country soon enough if we let him, per Sherman’s orders, and by that point no one can stop him. It’s close to that point already. It’s all up to you Bobby. Unfortunately, it won’t happen.
UF 38, OU 27
Would you eat a two by two inch piece of shit, taken from a previous day’s bowel movement, in order to receive $1,000 cash on the spot? You can garner it yourself if you like, meaning you would probably want to collect it and refridgerate it the night before. Or, maybe you want to leave it room temp, so it goes down easier? Or just get it from another place altogether. I don’t know, that’s why it’s your hypothetical. However, the one rule is this: you cannot stop. It is an all or nothing deal. Example. You eat shit for two months, collect $60K. You’re about to pay off your college loans, however much that amount will take you. So you say, Hey, I’m done with this shit. Literally. Bam. You lose all the money you earned. You cannot take a day off. This must continue forever. Each morning, eating a piece of shit.
Also, poop regurgitated still counts. Once it’s swallowed, it counts. Shit coming back up is the poop and the cleaner’s problem. Not the money maker. Please discuss.
You know what movie I want to see? Two prepubescent boys walking around town with wicked pee boners. You tell me that wouldn’t be hilarious AND educational. I know I would’ve benefited greatly at my younger stages knowing the rules and regulations of incurring a killer pee boner. Only recently, in the past couple years, have I figured the perfect mix of “push, no wait it hurts stop, push, ok a little harder, ow, ok I think I have a steady stream going here, holy shit I can’t believe I am peeing with a Rock Hudson cock right now!”
Going to the first Canes game tonight. Season tickets. Canes going to tear through the ACC like I tore through my toilet at 3:54am last night after eating 3 Snicker’s ice cream bars and being lactose intolerant.
When this hits you, you're fucked.
But damn they’re tasty. Every bite I know will result in that one extra constipation push, waking me up with poop cramps, yet I still persist. They are that good. And luckily I didn’t get any splatter in the dry spot between my cock and balls. You know it’s a mess down there when you get some shrapnel in the Geneva of your package.
Ah. My favorite white player. Hated by so many people.
Even looks great posing.
Which only made me love him more. We’re talking the one time USC grad, Jason “I can’t cover for shit” Sehorn. Still, I fucking loved ‘em. Freak of nature, relative to his skin color. Played safety in college. Corner in his prime in NFL. Made the most ridiculous interception return for 6 in the playoffs. Fucking returned an on-side kick for a touchdown. However, still lots of homo to go around. But that’s what happens when you’re from California. Douche comes with the territory.
Let this be the first of many posts of my illustrious variety of action figures. Overall, I am a fucking fiend for McFarlane figures. Extremely realistic, perfect poses, come out with a new line every season for most sports. Sehorn was my first, and my only, for a long time. Look at that man child, all gorgeous, flicking away that imaginary football from some slot receiver (if it was a split end he’d be on the tail end of a deep ball). I even love the military McFarlane figures. Those are the real bad ass ones. Fucking detail to die for. But I won’t order any because 1) they are a bitch to find in stores and 2) they random skin tone selection my ass if ordered online. Are you fucking kidding me!? Why don’t you just write I’m racist in big black bold lettering with a sharpie on my box?
I seriously can’t pick the skin color of my guy? If I want a fucking black mine sweeper, that’s what I want! If I want a white sniper, covered in actual leaf camo, I should get it. I don’t want to be randomly selectioned, affirmative actioned, into getting a god damn mexican paratrooper, just so we can all feel good about ourselves.
And come on, we all know that paratrooper will be lazy, drunk, and good for nothing. Well, other than for the white sniper and black mine sweeper to laugh at his accent.
I’m not a Seinfeld fan, but what is it with women running marathons? Is their self esteem lower than the national average? What I already give them? (2 out of 10, especially for hotties) I’m going to work my ass off for six months, go run for 4 fucking hours, and make sure to tell every single person I know to tell every person they know that I finished. Really? You can’t just do it for yourself? Why do you have to make me give you my support? When I go running, I don’t high five everyone I see in the hallway. I wish I did, but that’s more of a “come see how much I sweat” variety.
Let me know the next time in my life I can be considered a hero for merely finishing something. Hey Tony, you just finished third from last. In five hours. Come get your gold medal!
Side note-I also don’t understand the training. Why do they never run the actual distance again? Just doesn’t make sense to me. Do you study for a test by only learning how to do the first five problems?
I like New Balance because they have width sizes.
Ah, weddings. A bride’s day. A mother of the bride’s day. Probably more so. In fact, I know so. We all know the moms are the fucking crazy ones. Demanding this, demanding that. You paid for it? Suck it. Well, actually, don’t. Those who pay have a say. Which is why, don’t be a cheap ass. But wait! I can’t afford my awesome perfect once in a lifetime wedding on my meager salary? How can I have the day of my life? Well, let me tell you one thing right away little miss cliche of America. Your super special once in a lifetime day? Yeah, I leave your wedding hall and I can walk into 4 fucking more of them. Your’s ain’t special. You’re a number. A statistic at Inn by the Sea or whatever the fuck it’s called, a wedding factory.
You’re getting married this summer? Fantastic. I would like nothing more than to spend $300 on a place ticket. Another $100 on a gift (if I actually bought them), and another on a suit (if I already didn’t own one that sniffs out my sexiness.) But hey, I’m a guy. Girls have to buy the dress that always looks like shit, usually strapless. Hello? None of you are models. Strapless does nothing but accentuate. And where I’m from, that means arm and chest fat. Lots of it. They don’t call ‘em Chicago girls for nothing. We know, we know, the bride cannot let anyone look better than her on her day. How fucking insecure are you? All of these fuckers drove, flew, spent tons of money just to be there, to see you, and yet you fucking still go apeshit when your high school friend shows up trying to get laid. Give a girl a chance! You think some drunk stud in the crowd will notice her dancing like a slut if she wearing a poofy shoulders and knee length dress?
And all you fucks who are in the wedding party? Sitting in the limo an extra hour, drinking all that extra booze, when I have to mingle with the unruly relatives, deliberately eating no appetizers so the alcohol kicks in faster, so their questions pertaining to my future and their lack of understanding don’t drive me mad? I have a personal salad I’d like you to try. Tossed.
