Flipside Sports

We're Out

2008-09-08T09:49:00.009-04:00

~~We went back home. http://www.flipsidesports.net/. Update your bookmarks accordingly.~~

T'was a good run. Onward & upward, Flipsidiots. We'll always have Cadillac Anderson, the Bedford All-Nighter, and the shared misery of The Mike Davis Years.

El fin.

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Thursday Night Rocktitude

2008-07-31T09:25:00.010-04:00

In case you've been considering having your corneas torched into a fine, chalky powder ... well, tonight's your lucky night. It's "Live Band Karaoke" at the Vogue. Which technically begins at 8:00 — unless, of course, you're generally terrified of singing in public but just can't resist the splendor that is Eddy Grant's "Electric Avenue" because that song fucking changed my life at an early age. In which case, pre-karaoke ether shots begin promptly at 11:30 AM. In my office.

Don't go because I'm telling you to. Go because you'll get to hurl damaging insults and projectiles at the drunken anesthesiologist who gets up there and butchers "Beast of Burden." Go because that's what Americans do. Go because you haven't genuinely hit it hard on a Thursday night since college. But mainly, go because it's for a good cause. The Julian Center, where all the proceeds are going.

And make sure to introduce yourself to Speedway Williams. He'll be the 6'7" Doug Decenzo look-alike wearing mirror-lensed Ray Bans and a smoking jacket.
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Friday Afternoon Randomness (Hall & Oates Edition)

2008-07-25T12:50:00.004-04:00

[On the set of the "She's Gone" video -- February 4, 1973]

John Oates: Let's make us a video! What do you got in store for us here?? African lions and shit-stomping fireworks and bullet trains and the like???

Producer: Two barcaloungers, some Monopoly money, a broken fishing rod, and a devil costume. I'm sorry, John. But the label only gave us a $17 budget. And we've only got this set for the next eight minutes. So we have to hurry. Let's start shooting.

John Oates: Shoot WHAT?!? We haven't rehearsed shit. Plus, I'm smack-fucking-dab in the middle of a six-day ether binge. I woke up in a Sacramento deli this morning. No fucking clue how I got there. And Daryl just ate three pounds of low-grade Canadian acid! He thinks he's a goddamn wheelbarrow right now! LOOK AT HIM!!! He can't even blink! How the fuck can we make a video?! This is bullshit! I thought we were just rehearsing today!!

Producer: I know. It sucks. But we're just going to have make do ... we have to wing it. Just sit in the chair and sing the song. Maybe throw the Monopoly money around at different intervals -- people like that kind of reckless shit. Just do your thing. I'll take care of the rest. We've got seven minutes left. I think we can pull this off. In fact, I think we can make magic here today, gentlemen.

John Oates: Goddamn right we can!! We're Hall and fucking Oates! Get up, Daryl!!! GET UP!!! And put your fucking robe on!!! Let's make some magic!

I Love You Earl Weaver

2008-07-02T20:08:00.004-04:00

Say what you will about the fiery little fucker, but don't say he wasn't one for the ages. Yeah, this has been around for awhile, but it never really gets old.

Meet the New Pacers (Vol. I)

2008-06-27T10:24:00.008-04:00

Greetings and salutations, Indianapolis. Or as they say in the Balkans, Bunã dzua. I am humbled and beholden to learn that I will soon join your fair bastion of Midwestern virtue.

I suppose you're here to ascertain a dollop about me, no? My blushes. Very well then.

[sips from snifter of Chivas Regal Royal Salute]

I am a high-seas sailor first, a scholar second, and a gentleman always ... I spend much of my summers engaged in archaeological digs in northern Ecuador ... I idolize Ayn Rand, Copernicus and Trey Anastasio ... I'm on the International Board for the Advancement of Solar Power ... my mother was a professional bullfighting protester from the south of Portugal, my father a molecular biologist at CERN ... I support a universal flat tax, but only conditionally ... I am skilled in the low post, but also in the diagnosis and treatment of left ventricular hypertrophy ... my secret, irresistible vice is Bavarian veal cutlets in a creamy cherry sauce (preferably with a stout, hickory-scented port) ... I disdain tomfoolery and dullards ... and finally, I compare my basketball prowess to an arthritic Robert Parrish.

I do not wish to speak of myself any further, lest I present myself as vainglorious and off-putting. We shall to grow to become familiar with each other in the weeks to come, of that I am sure.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must adjourn. As the Burmese theologians might say, Twáme naw. And may Peace be with you.

— Augustus Irwin ("Roy") Hibbert, IV

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See the Problem ... Fix the Problem

2008-06-20T10:47:00.006-04:00

A simple, common sense approach to problems, it seems, has gone the way of Goody's Headache Powder. And public hangings. There's too much over-thinking these days. Too much sensitivity. The goal isn't to necessarily fix the problem, per se. It's to fix the problem in a way that doesn't step on any toes. That doesn't offend anyone. And it's usually based in faggy physics and science and other complicated, world-of-academia shit.

That's why we're giving a big standing ovation to the hometown of Purdue University. They're fixing problems the old fashioned way: like a 6-year-old latchkey kid would.

'West Lafayette buys large anti-stench fan'

Kudos, West Lafayette City Council. Kudos. Really. Because most towns would have beat around the proverbial bush on such a matter. They'd waste entire public hearings jabbering on about fancy-pants solutions that may take years to implement. Not you.

Q: Our town continously smells like afterbirth and molded Funyuns. Been like that for decades. We're fed up. What should we do?

A: Fuck it. Let's buy a big-ass fan. Blow that stank westward. Next. .

You acknowledged the problem. You thought about it for a couple billionths of a second. And you acted. Decisively.

Take note, America.

Meet the New Sheriff of Crazyville

2008-06-18T00:06:00.017-04:00

Mayor: Do you solemnly swear to protect the whaleshit insane values, principles, and tenets of our beloved city, so help you God?

Garnett: [uprooting a nearby birch tree, a live possum sits atop his shoulder ... they're both eating cotton candy] FFFFFFUUUUUCCCCCKKK YEAHHHHHHHHHHH!!! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah! Certified, motherfuckers! Like Quincy motherfucking M.E.!!!! Oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink!!!!!

Mayor: I hereby pronounce you Sheriff. Be well, friend.

Garnett: [says nothing ... gleefully leaps into a waiting hot air balloon ... once airborne, gives the double thumbs-up move while seductively licking the white-hot burner]

Mayor: God bless that man.
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Welcome Back Big Smooth

2008-06-10T12:19:00.005-04:00

You hired Perkins? Right on.

How could this possibly go bad?

My First Indy 500

2008-05-28T14:56:00.008-04:00

[Reprinted from "The Silent Pagoda" on IndyCar.com]

I moved to Indianapolis from New York City last July, when my wife started a job at the art museum here. It must be said that I wasn't terribly keen on Indianapolis. I grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, but my dad is from Indianapolis, and he invariably described it as "the Birmingham of the North." It was never my ambition to live in Birmingham, and I certainly did not wish to live in a colder version of it. So I made the move with some trepidation — sure, my living space quintupled and my expenses halved, but even so. Indianapolis. The Birmingham of the North.

Well, it turns out that I quite like Indianapolis. But in the year I've lived here, I've never felt entirely apart of the place. I bought a lawnmower. I watched some IU basketball games. I became employed by a highly reputable IndyCar.com blog. I even joined an IndyCar fantasy league this season in the hopes that I might connect to Indianapolis, but even so, it never felt quite like home.

Until, that is, I was standing in Turn 2, baseball cap in hand, oversize radio earphones around my neck, listening to Gomer Pyle sing "Back Home Again in Indiana." What was this odd feeling bursting forth from my breast? Was this ... pride? My God! A moonbeam o'er the water is casting a spell on me! Maybe it was the seven Bud Selects that had whet my whistle on the one-hour, four-mile bus trip to the parking lot, but there I was singing along, in love with the river Wabash and the smell of fresh-mown hay.

And it only got better from there. Because I grew up in Alabama, I'm a NASCAR fan, much to my Hoosier dad's chagrin. But when 11 perfectly formed rows of three roared past on that first lap, I realized what IndyCars have that NASCAR never can: gittyup. I couldn't catch my breath. And for the first laps, even after we sat down, I would half-jump out of my seat and point excitedly. Thank God everyone had their ear plugs in and radios turned up so no one heard me as I kept shouting, "They're passing! Passing!" It didn't matter if it was Kanaan winding his way toward the lead or the anchor-of-my-fantasy-team AJ Foyt IV passing Milka. The mere act of passing on this race track, in those cars, at that speed, struck me as miraculous — I had never imagined the complexity and courage required for passing while watching on television.

Also miraculous: They let you bring in coolers? Really? Full of beer? And sandwiches? And you can just sit there and watch Jaime Camera hit the wall three separate times in a single turn while peanut butter and/or jelly drips down your chin? Frankly, dear Pagoda dweller, the cooler was too much for me to handle. I stuffed mine full of beer and then felt compelled to drink all of them. There are men in this world who are capable of drinking right through a fine May afternoon, but I am not among them. During one of the many mid-race cautions, I found myself standing in a very long line so that I might eventually have the privilege of urinating into a trough alongside 30 other guys. So I called my wife.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"Amazing," I said. "They're passing! Every lap, someone passes someone else! It's amazing!"

"Are you drunk?" she asked.

"Yes, definitely," I answered. "I mean, this isn't the drunkest I've ever been. But it's the drunkest I've ever been at 2 PM."

And so it went. My fantasy team certainly did not perform well — Foyt caught fire; Briscoe made Danica stomp; and Wheldon faded at the end. I would have loved to see an Andretti win (an Andretti dressed like Indiana Jones, no less), or to see the scrappy Vitor Meira pull out a victory. It would have been great to see Sheckter there at the end, or one of the Champ Car guys. I like an underdog story, and neither Dixon nor his car was ever an underdog at this year's 500. But none of that mattered. As far as I'm concerned, it was the best 500 in history.

[John Green]

Soon to be THE MAN

2008-05-22T23:16:00.005-04:00

Only Jamal Crawford stands in his way now, and Flav is as good as gone. It's only a matter of time.
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My Perfect Indy 500

2008-05-22T14:32:00.007-04:00

[Reprinted from "The Silent Pagoda" on IndyCar.com]

I've attended my share of 500's. I'm not saying they weren't fun, because they were. I'm just saying they weren't perfect.

Until now.

This time? The wide-ranging power of the Pagoda — and the kick-ass media credential that the League so recklessly gave me — will ensure that this changes. It will ensure perfection.

Or so I dream.

My perfect Indy 500 will proceed as follows:

3:39 AM — Return home from Flipside's legendary pre-race party. Receive no admonishment from the missus regarding my late arrival. All's well.

3:42 — An in-home nurse — who IndyCar wisely hired for me, and who looks remarkably similar to Marisa Miller — hooks me up to six liters of intravenous fluid and various anesthetics. I ~~pass out~~ fall asleep peacefully, mid-transfusion.

6:15— Wake up refreshed and completely non-hungover. Eat left-over Porterhouse from Tony Kanaan's Friday-night cookout. Still delicious.

6:28 — Forgo shower. Opt for nurse-performed sponge bath. Drink the day's first two beers.

7:20 — My ride is here to take me out to the Speedway. My ride is a fully armed Harrier Jet.

7:21 — Arrive at the track. Demand to hover above lowly peasants stuck in gridlock traffic. Laugh menacingly at them and their archaic forms of transportation.

7:27 — Unleash several air-to-air Sidewinder missiles at the WTHR News Chopper. Not death strikes, obviously. But mere warning shots. ("Warning shots" with a ferocious jet trail, that is.) The helicopter pilot and Rich Van Wyk look genuinely paralyzed with fear. I can't stop laughing.

7:29 — Locate Lot 2, where I'm supposed to rendezvous with friends. Use all 38,000 pounds of thrust to vertically descend into the "Silent Pagoda/Maxim/Cheetah's Tailgate Party Presented by Stella Artois." Everything within a quarter-mile radius is either blown over or out-and-out disintegrated. Nervous, awestruck silence from the party goers ... followed quickly by cheering and general regrouping.

7:30 — The party resumes.

7:30 - 10:38 — Unimaginable debauchery. The real kind. The Maxim girls are simply out of control ... many farm creatures are ceremoniously slaughtered ... a three-story bong designed by I.M. Pei draws widespread critical acclaim ... and so forth and so on. Truthfully, 94% of the ongoings are probably not fit for print. Not here, at least. Moving on.

10:39 — Give a quick "Thanks for coming" to the tailgate's two Guests of Honor: Willy T. Ribbs and J.D. Salinger. I discretely tell Willy that "there's only ONE guest of honor in my book ... and I'm speaking to him." Willy nods his approval and calls us "like kin." I feel like I've been knighted.

10:46 — Take the Pagoda's official Delphi Safey Team Honda Ridgeline over to the garage area. I'm not driving, though. Gordon Johncock is. He's our designated driver for the day. He's good people.

10:49 — Immediately bump into Jack Arute. Quickly hammer-throw Arute out of the vicinity (much like Will Smith hammer-throws that beached whale in the "Hancock" movie trailer). Raucous applause ensues.

10:51 — Check in with Roger Penske. He mentions that he's been looking for me. I immediately assume he's here to ram an ice pick into my frontal lobe, "Goodfellas"-style. He's not. He says he's been following my legal career with great interest, and that he's impressed with my body of work. He offers me the job of Team Penske's in-house counsel. I accept, obviously. And then immediately bill him $2,600 for our little chat. He pays. In cash.

10:58 — Wander over to EJ Viso's garage. He's simultaneously snorting 8-balls and launching bottle rockets at his crewmen. I like the cut of his jib. He's going places.

11:02 — Danica worriedly asks why I didn't text her after I got home last night. Jesus. So clingy. Must. Get. Out.

11:03 — Bump into Tony Kanaan. Thank him for the cookout Friday night, as well as the custom-made fire suit and Tag Heuer watch he gave me. He responds that it was "no problem ... just a small gesture to the most hard-ass human I've ever known." He quickly resumes eating his pre-race meal: an adolescent coyote he tracked and killed earlier this morning.

11:09 — See Brian Barnhart. Order him to take me over to the red carpet in his golf cart. He says something about a "drivers' meeting" and how he's "already running behind schedule." I am not amused. I raise the back of my hand ominously, the universal sign for "I'm about to slap the disobedience out of you." He understands, tells me to get in.

11:11 — Drops me off at the red carpet, where the celebrities have been awaiting my arrival. I shove Bill Belichick face-first into an adjacent evergreen bush. Judith Light and I erupt into laughter, continue walking.

11:16 — Hit the V.I.P. buffet. Hard. Beef Wellington and gourmet breakfast taquitos and an endless bowl of Chili Cheese flavored Fritos. Alessandra Ambrosio keeps mentioning that she's a big fan of my writing, failing to realize that I'm trying to eat. She eventually becomes a bother with her shameless flirting. I show her my wedding ring and tell her that I'm happily married. She dejectedly responds — to nobody in particular — that "the brilliant and dashing ones always are."

11:59 — Adjourn to the "Press Room." High-five Joe Don Baker on the way out. The f--king Whammer. Spectacularly random and awesome.

12:02 PM — Enter the Press Room. Rick Reilly is quick to greet me:

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Reilly: I saw that you totally ripped off my "perfect day" bit from 10 years ago.
Me: So?
Reilly: So I just want you to know that whereas I invented the format, you refined it. Took it to new heights. It was a majestic piece. And damn you ... it made me realize that I'm forever the Antonio Salieri to your Amadaus Mozart.
Me: Yeah I know. Is there any beer in here?
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12:03 - 12:38 — Lots of schmoozing and beer drinking amongst the titans of journalism. Not for me, though. I'm drinking unhealthy quantities of Pacifico's and playing an arcade-sized "Galaga" off in the corner.

12:39 — Conquer "Galaga." Grow bored. Radio up to Race Control to "get this show on the road ... give me Jim Nabors and the green flag, post haste." Barnhart again reluctantly obliges.

12:41 — All pageantry comes to a stop. Nabors is hurriedly rushed out to the podium. He sings "Back Home Again in Indiana" marvelously, with aplomb and nobility. I shed a single proud tear.
12:44 — GREEN FLAG! GREEN FLAG! GREEN FLAG! A 24,000-horsepower stampede of unified badass blows down the front straightaway. Windows rattle. Goosebumps abound.

12:45 - 3:39 — 128 different lead changes. 90% of the turns involve cars going four-wide. Robin Miller and Curt Cavin meticulously explain every racing nuance to me, in real time. My dangerously high B.A.C. doesn't preclude me from obtaining a total comprehension of the sport. I become the racing f--king master.

3:41 — Final lap, lead pack roaring out of Turn 4. Tony Kanaan goes airborne over six cars as he crosses the finish line. He wins his first Indy 500 ... immediately unloads celebratory machine gun fire out of the cockpit. According to David McCullough — who's standing next to me — it's the single most fiercely awesome thirty-second stretch in American history. I concur.

3:42 — Begin post-race Pagoda recap.

3:47 — Submit finished post-race Pagoda recap.

3:49 — The Nobel Prize in Literature committee chairman calls. He's already heard "good things" regarding the recap. Would like to talk. Boooooring. I've got a party to attend.

4:03 — Gordon Johncock picks me up on Pit Road. We head to the "Silent Pagoda/Maxim/'Earth Wind & Fire' Tailgate After-Party Presented by Guiness." That policeman who rides his motorcycle while standing up escorts us to the affair. He's even more regal in person.

4:06 - 9:25 — Arrival. More debauchery. Gross, negligent, ancient Rome-type debauchery. The wildly, indisputably unprintable kind.

9:26 — My Harrier Jet arrives. Bid farewell to my friends and the ladies and Bob Sanders (who happened to stop by). While climbing into cockpit, I take Penske's cash and "make it rain" amongst the party goers. I immediately regret the decision. Financially unwise. Whatever. More where that came from. Commence vertical ascent.

9:27 — Land in my driveway. Thank the pilot and remorsefully explain why I have no cash to tip him. He says he doesn't accept tips anyway. Fantastic. It's been that type of day.

9:28 — Tuck in the kids. Kiss the wife. And bask in the glory of my perfect Indy 500.

[Roy Hobbson]

Talk to Chuck: Josef Fritzl Edition

2008-05-08T00:31:00.014-04:00

So I was talking with my broker the other day — just the usual small talk, you know ... how's the kids, how's the family, all that. And I'm all like, "life's good, bro ... just playing some golf, raping my daughter I keep chained up in the dungeon, living the dream." And he's all like, "What?" And then it dawns on me: this prick thinks I'm like, a monster or something.

[motioning off camera] Hold on, sweetie. I'll be there in a sec. Don't move or I swear to fucking God I will choke you out and stuff you back in your crate.

So, you know — I'm just wondering: who's side is he on here? I mean, he's MY broker. And yet, he doesn't give me any credit. Because c'mon, let's face it: I could've just killed my daughter and our seven little incestuous rape children and nobody would've been the wiser. But you know what? I didn't. I took the high road. And yet, from my broker — no love. Nothing. Zip. Nada. And I'M the monster??? Pfffft.

I don't know. It's just frustrating.

Welcome Back, Dominic Rhodes. Stay Away From Marvin.

2008-05-07T12:25:00.011-04:00

It's with mixed emotions that Naptown welcomes back Mr.-Should've-Been-Super Bowl-XLI-MVP Dominic Rhodes.

Will he bring back the glory of the Addai/Rhodes tandem that dominated the 2006 season? Or will he revert to his old ways of girlfriend-beating, drunk-driving, weed-smoking and pants-pissing that broke the hearts of Colts faithful? Let's hope it's the former, and let's pray that Marvin doesn't introduce him to the finer points of armor piercing Belgian Fabrique handguns.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the best part of this news for Colts fans: no more Kenton Keith.

31 Gun Salute

2008-05-06T19:14:00.001-04:00

An American visionary has passed. Irvine Robbins -- who put the "Robbins" in "Baskin-Robbins" -- was 90 years old.

"Frankly, I never met a flavor I didn't like," Robbins told The New York Times in 1973.

Nor they you, Mr. Robbins.

Friend or Foe: Catch Up Edition

2008-05-05T11:05:00.011-04:00

Becoming a father ... again: My wife delivered our second child on Tuesday. Which actually feels like eight weeks ago. I've lost all sense of time and what it feels like to rest. I'm unshaven and delirious. I'm living off congratulatory cupcakes and ventricle-shattering amounts of caffeine. I've accepted the fact that I will never again golf, even on the nicest of days. And our Seven Pounds of Fury continuously speaks in fluent tornado siren. But whatever. Friend. Oddly enough.

Marvin Harrison: A custom made, .50-caliber Belgium handgun? Seriously? What the hell, Marvin? Who are you ... Erwin Rommel? Danny Vermin? Maybe we should just tone down the exotic heavy weaponry. You're guarding a bar and a carwash. Not the Lost Ark. Jesus. Foe. As much as it pains me.

Learning to change a girl's diaper: Having changed thousands of diapers already, it shouldn't be a problem. What's the big deal? you say. How different could it be? Well fuck you. That's how different it could be. Because I'm used to the boy's diapers ... where what you see is what you get. See the problem, clean the problem, move on. But the girl's? Sweet fucking Desitin. Comparatively speaking, it's like cleaning out the vast Catacombs of St. Callixtus down there. More nooks and crannies and folds than Scottie Pippen's scalp. Foe. Damn you, complicated female anatomy.

NBA Playoffs: Mesmerizing. Just mesmerizing. And an unprecedented turnaround, really. Because the NBA -- as far as watchability -- has pulled off a real life Rod Tidwell. From unconscious and possibly paralyzed to instantly doing hand springs and hard-core break-dancing moves. Between the NBA's reemergence and Costco once again selling 8-pound boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats ... all's right with the world. Friend.

The remote key entry on our new car: I like the old one better. Much better. Click it once -- doors lock, alarm gets set, all in one quick (and discrete) move. So after I'd park at the seedy Village Pantry in Broad Ripple, the fierce looking hobos and winos meandering around the bus stop out front wouldn't care that the alarm was being activated. They'd know that I was simply locking my doors ... not necessarily judging them. They understood. They may be potentially violent homeless people ... but they're not morons. Which brings me to my new car. The one where I need a SECOND -- far less discrete -- maneuver to activate the alarm. Damn it all! Because it's painfully clear what I'm saying with this extraneous, albeit very needed move:

Yeah ... the doors ARE locked. You heard right. That's what the first, somewhat quiet beep indicated. But you know what? That's probably not gonna cut it. Not with you dressed in old paper mache and twine. I think I'll to take the extra precautions here. **BEEEEP BEEEEP** Uh-huh. That would be the alarm right there. It's on. Bask in my condescending whiteness, peasants.

Fuck you, Chevy. Thanks for making me look like an asshole and probably getting me stabbed. Foe.

My 38 trips to Target in the last three days: Do you know where the Cottonelle feminine wipes are? I do. In fact, I could go all Steve Williams and give you their exact yardage from the store entrance. And I could do it from memory. Same goes for nursing bras, nursing pads, Maxi pads, the Playstation 3 console (sweet, sweet respite!), Preparation H, and Pampers Newborn Swaddlers. Foe. A pox upon you, Target. You and your wide array of post-delivery products.

Kentucky Derby: Blah blah blah quarter post blah blah evil gay jockey blah blah blah dead horse on the track blah blah blah. Yawn. There's about zero things to like about horse racing. It's all so predictable. Nothing changes. Foe.

Post-delivery nonchalance: I get it. These people deliver lots and lots and lots of babies. They've seen it all, and it's old hat to them. Well guess what, Doc. IT'S NOT OLD HAT TO ME!!! I'm not really down with just leaving the placenta on the table as if it were a Kroger vegetable tray. Move the fucking thing!! Throw it away. Take it out for testing. I don't care. Do something. I mean, it's a sizable part of a human body. And it looks like a blood-soaked Goodyear radial. Holy Christ. The room is spinning again. Foe.

Tom Crean laying down the law at IU:

Here here, Coach. Well played. Friend. Damn near best friends. Holy shit this guy's fantastic.

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Bob Sanders Approves.

2008-04-27T16:22:00.005-04:00

Watch closlely as Marcus Howard -- the Colts' 5th round pick from the Georgia -- disables Colt Brennan in the Sugar Bowl. My God. Well done, Polian.

Oh, That's Rich!

2008-04-17T11:23:00.012-04:00

Yesterday, the United States Supreme Court upheld lethal injection as an accepted means of carrying out the death penalty. The Court rejected the argument that the "three-drug cocktail can cause excruciating pain in violation of the Constitution’s ban on cruel and unusual punishment."

You know what? A rusty bread knife wedged into your victim's trachea is pretty fucking painful too. And probably unconstitutional. But you don't hear her bitching about it.

Let's not kid ourselves here: this was a savvy, Unfrozen-Caveman-Lawer-ish argument in its subtle brilliance and humor. But it had little shot of winning. And it didn't win. They didn't buy it. Let's wrap this up, Foot Shackles. Give us the honorable wink-wink-I-tried move and keep a modicum of your self respect. Come now ... you can't really complain about a painful, unconstitutional death, can you? Now's no time for hypocrisy. Right? RIGHT?!

Hey, Stabby?! What say you, man? Can I have my wink-wink?

'Just terrible,' killer says of execution ruling

Holy fuck! It IS time for hypocrisy!!! Hot damn.

The hypocritical flood gates are hereby open:

'Just gutless,' Jermaine O'Neal says of Alfonso Soriano's mildly strained calf that will require 12 weeks of rehab.

'Just hideous,' Sheldon Williams says of that fucked up mutant Spartan from "300."

'Just not entertaining,' hockey says of ischemic bowel syndrome.

'Just not a good reflection on the city,' says the proposed legislative maneuver (to make "Truck Nuts" mandatory within Indianapolis) about the Indy Star.

'Just annoying,' Stacy Paetz says of Tanya Roberts' 17-hour "Tahiti Village" time share presentation.

'Just a weird look ... bollocks to that,' Gary Player says of the standard issue Lollipop Guild uniform.

'Just so needless and sad,' palsy says of WNBA.

'Just pandering to stupid people,' Laura Ingraham says of the Lotto system.

'Just too womanly,' bottle of lilac-scented Dove soap says of males who use that device -- when playing fetch with their dog -- that prevents them from touching a "slimy ball."

'Just overexposed," Darius Rucker says of the Red Sox playing on ESPN every 18 hours.

'Just not pleasing to listen to,' 1070 The Fan's Eddie White says of the screeching sounds of a bobcat being slowly electrocuted.

'Just dumb ... bad for the back,' mulching says of trying to dead-lift an Audi A6 on a bet.

'Just too contrived,' Jeremy Brilliant says of Dick Wolfsie's proposed stage name ("Cocksure J. Magnificence").

'Just go away ... nobody wants you here,' Lou Gehrig's Disease says of fake-professional bike riders on the Monon Trail who weave through throngs of people at 62 mph.

'Just way too fucking white,' Orin Hatch says of Brandt Snedeker, supernovas.

'Just let it go already ... it's not funny,' Tank McNamara says of this post.

And So Begins a New Era

2008-04-17T11:09:00.006-04:00

Tom Crean's first recruit at IU: Bobby Capobianco.

http://indiana.rivals.com/content.asp?CID=798464

Fast forward to 2:10 for the only highlights I could find on YouTube.

Unconfirmed sources report that Bruce Weber was too busy approving transfer requests and scholarship releases to comment on the signing.

Yep...Still Assholes

2008-04-16T05:27:00.010-04:00

Are you boys in the Bronx really this stupid? Apparently so.

"The Yankees had only one request, and that is that we not touch their grass," said Mark Ackermann, who is running the Office of the Papal Visit for the New York archdiocese. "The All-Star game will be there this year and of course we're all confident that the World Series will be there as well. So the Yankees need to keep it in good shape and we've been most respectful of that."

Are you really so fucking arrogant and concerned that the Popemobile is going to tear up your precious turf? As of right now the Yankees are 8-7 B.P. (Before Pope) I hope this piece of shit organization gets napalmed the rest of the year.

I'm talking plagues of locusts and whatnot. I hope a rash of injuries descends on the Bronx this summer like no season before it. And not because I really care about organized religion, mind you. Just that when people basically extend their middle finger to persons of the stature of the Pope, you deserve swift retribution.

Stay off the lawn? Holy fuck, Yankees. This is precisely why everyone hates you and will continue to hate you. You're complaining about a glorified golf cart? You sad sacks of monkey spittle used this piece of shit Datsun for years to shuttle one shitty, 1970s reliever after another in from the pen and never batted an eye:

I'm going back to not giving a shit about baseball until the 4th of July. Good day.

So Long, Friends

2008-04-14T09:28:00.002-04:00

Three reasons for this majestic photo:

Trevor Immelman is a steely little assassin (not unlike the indigenous South African jackal);
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The tee shot at 18 is like trying to thread your drive down a typical office hallway; and
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Sulu's been headlining the site for far too long now, frankly.

Well done, Trevor. You too, ~~Scut Farkus~~ Brandt Snedeker. Up yours, Tiger ... thanks for making it completely uninteresting. Selfish bastard.

The Standoff

2008-04-11T12:20:00.003-04:00

The music started and I got with the beat. The rousing rhythm of Willie Nelson's great hit, "On the Road Again," felt so right. The song joyfully flowed out of my body. I sang my heart out. The cheering, stomping and hollerin' when I finished was tremendous.

- George Takei, from his indescribable 58,000-word blog entry describing his night on CBS's "Secret Talents of the Stars" (which was cancelled roughly 5 hours after it finally aired)

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In this galactic battle of the stupids, there are no winners. None. It's uncanny how miraculously well-armed they all are. CBS ... Sulu ... whoever the fuck advised Sulu to go all Herman Melville in a massive blog post about his time spent on the single dumbest show ever created. Who loses there? Who wins? Who's able to look the other stupid in the eye and say, "Fuck you! I'm way stupider than you!!!"

It's impossible to tell.

Man's Man

2008-04-10T09:34:00.000-04:00

The sound of his balls clacking herald his every approach. 2,000 sit ups and push ups a day, and one Heisman Trophy have made Herschel Walker the last of a dying breed ... a man's man.

Free Tibet advocates threatened to derail the carrying of the Olympic torch through San Francisco yesterday. Violent protests were taking place all over the globe. The USOC was aware of these dangerous developments and knew who to call. They asked Herschel to carry the torch through the madness. Before his jog yesterday, he appeared on ESPN's First Take to talk about the situation.

He was asked if he was worried about protesters attacking him and getting through security. Herschel's response?

"I have been training in mixed martial arts. I am bad news for them protesters. I hope they do break through. I need some practice."

This response made me spit up my Cheerios. The French athlete was forced to carry the torch inside of a bus. Herschel wanted to beat the crap out of some Buddhists. Gotta love that Olympic spirit.

What made him so tough? Growing up in a black neighborhood with the name of a 91 year old rabbi? Having a "box" haircut 15 years after the cancellation of "A Different World?" I don't know, but the next time you're getting mowed down by your girlfriend, ask yourself one simple question.

What would Herschel do?

Amen!

2008-04-10T09:04:00.004-04:00

Hello, friends. Finally, it's here. Golf the way Jesus intended.

We have nothing new to add this year, though. We'll just throw out all the old stuff we did in years past. It's much easier -- and less time-consuming -- this way.

A Walking Diary (the Sistine Chapel of Flipside Masters coverage)

Masters vs. The Bedford All-Nighter (which somehow manages to remain similar to Lincoln vs. Douglas)

First Time at Augusta (the only Masters article in the universe with an "Emmanuel from Space" shout out)

The Dr. Gonzo Awards (which really has nothing to do with the Masters ... but everything to do with that which the Masters holds dear: hallucinogenic drugs -- and the athletes who swear by them)

Welcome to the most beautiful time of the year.

Needless Social Commentary

2008-04-08T09:04:00.001-04:00

Yippppppppppeeeeeeeeee!!!! A tremendous national disaster is averted. The old-timey luster of clean-cut, un-corn-rowed, fundamental basketball is hereby restored.

Thank you, Kansas. Thank you.

/s/ Bigotted White America

BIOD: NBA Badasses Edition

2008-04-04T11:01:00.006-04:00

... we had REAL badass motherfuckers in the NBA. Not the fake ones you kids have today. And that's a shame. Because it's probably why your generation is as pussified as it is. (Well ... that and your little bicycle-helmet laws. And the fact that there's no Cold War anymore.)

The point is, back in our day, we had Charles Barkley. Simply put, the man was a fucking Clydesdale. A majestically badass Clydesdale who enjoyed ripping shit up on the court and throwing uppity fans through plate-glass windows.

Behold the wonder of yesteryear ... and bow down:

Fucking. Awesome.