I was watching the Florida/Kentucky game in a bar with a bunch of Florida fans the other night. Never in my life have I felt the air suck out of a room like I did that night when Tim Tebow went down. With that said, behold this bit of evil genius from the man they call LSUFreek.
I've got on my Sunday best and am headed to my church to watch Breesus Christ perform the on-going miracle of leading the Saints to the Super Bowl. 
For further proof that Bressus is indeed the King capable of leading our meek franchise to the promised land, watch this amazing video of Breesus being Breesus...
And oh yeah, fuck da Eagles!
I am so looking forward to seeing this, though I fear that it'll only stoke my overwhleming desire to live in Paris all the more...
You fucking people… you had to paint the broadcast from top to bottom with your annoying Jay Leno promos. Fuck you. No, I mean it. FUCK YOU. I'm really sorry that an entire football game had to interrupt your Jay Leno infomercial. Perhaps you could air the game on another network somewhere, one that isn't as cheaply run as your average fucking airline.
All goddamn night, I had to sit there and be bombarded with your fucking promos for a fucking show that no American under the age of 55 will ever deign to fucking watch. ZOMG! COMEDY AT 10PM?! UNHEARD OF! I've never watched comedy at that hour, ever! Unless I'm watching a movie that night. Or I'm watching South Park. Or I've recorded a comedy program that airs at another hour and decided to watch it at 10PM. Just to be a REBEL.
I've never done that, NBC. I've never known what it is like to laugh at that hour. I am not sure I'm biologically equipped to handle it. I'm so used to setting that hour aside to watch doctors fuck each other and then perform open-heart surgery at that hour. That hour is not meant for laughter. It is a dark, intense 60 minutes of each day. All I want to do at that hour is brood, and look over corpses for forensic traces of the Miniature Killer's calling card. Comedy? At 10PM? I DON'T KNOW IF I'M PREPARED FOR THE REVOLUTION.
- This morning I woke up to an email from Drew Magary telling me to fuck off for tweeting something about Mad Men before he’d had a chance to watch it. Thnakfully for me and the rest of the world, he’s now channeling his anger at NBC.
My future wife when I'm going through my Edwin Edwards dirty old man phase...
Thanks for the tip Simko!
(via KSK/LSUFreek)
And how bout ULL's own Brandon Stokley?! This was unbelievable...I think Gus Johnson actually crapped his pants AND blew a load calling this one...
So I posted this on Deadspin yesterday, but of course I just have to post it here as well so I can continue to flaunt the fleur-de-lis tattoo I got on Friday, my first tattoo ever (And probably my only one as well.)! Anyway, it's no coincidence that this came just in time for week one of the NFL season, which kicks off a couple of hours from now. I feel so complete right now.
It almost doesn't seem real, does it? I mean, how long have all we football fans waited for this? Doesn't it seem like forever ago when the last seconds ran off the clock at the Super Bowl and we all headed home from our friend's party overflowing with satisfaction over the fact that the game was stellar in a way that Super Bowls rarely seem to be, yet it was a satisfaction marred by our also feeling overcome with an underlying sadness that came with the knowledge that it'd be months before we'd experience the passion of NFL football once again. And now, here we are, on the cusp so to speak, and really, if you're not on the verge of pissing all over yourself right now, well, you're not really a football fan.
According to the U.S. census bureau, the average life expectancy for an American alive today is somewhere between 74 and 75 years. With that said, it seems as though most true football fans fall in love with the sport at around 13 or 14 years of age, which means that over the course of our lifetimes -- presuming that we're lucky enough to live at least as long as the average American -- we get roughly 60 football seasons to enjoy as fans throughout the course of our lives. Now, many people will claim to have fallen in love with football at the age of 7 or 8, which they'll claim gives them a few extra years immersed in football fandom, but human beings aren't capable of true irrational passion until the onset of puberty, so let's stick with the 60 year/season estimate. With that said, today, opening day of an NFL season (Yeah, yeah there was a game on Thursday but everyone knows that this is really opening day!), is likely to be one of only 60 such days out of the 27,000 or so days we'll live on Earth. So savor this day my friends. Let that processed cheese dip swirl around in your mouth a little so you can appreciate the full spectrum of its flavors. Allow yourself to feel your entire body cooled off by the ice cold domestic light beer you wash it down with. But most of all, when your team does some spectacular or spectacularly awful, don't be afraid to let the tears flow, because that's what real fans do when they watch football, they cry. Or something.
Whatever, let's kickoff this mofo already! Geaux Saints!
You know, it took me about a year to start hating the 9/11 victims’ families. It took me about a year. Um, and I had such compassion for them and I really, you know, I wanted to help them, and I was behind — let’s give them money, let’s get them started, and all of this stuff. And I really didn’t — all the 3,000 victims’ families, I don’t hate all of them, I hate about, probably about ten of them. But when I see 9/11 victim family, you know, on television, or whatever, I’m just like, ‘Oh, shut up.’ I’m so sick of them. Because they’re always complaining. And we did our best for them.
-Glenn Beck, great American, on his lack of sympathy for the 9/11 victim's families. Never forget.
So come over and watch me get my soul raped by the angry Deadspin commenting mob! I'll probably run all sorts of LSU and Saints smack talk, and may even unveil something new and exciting (I think!). So yeah, I'll be there all day tomorrow, well, up until about 6 actually, and then I'll be off to watch LSU and Vandy. So feel free to send me your sports tips (cajunboyinthecity at gmail dot com), preferably stories about athletes and sports personalities engaging in cheesedicky behavior! Geaux Tigers/Saints!
www.deadspin.com
Hey did you know that summer is now officially OVER?! Well it is! Maybe people will stop dying all over the place now? Anyway, my friend Rachelle over at Guest of a Guest compiled the favorite memories from summer '09 of a few prominent people, so naturally she asked me for a contribution. Here's what I wrote:
Cajun Boy: About a block from my apartment there’s a fruit stand run by this guy, he’s Indian or Pakistani or something, I don’t know, I never asked, but anyway there’s this dark guy with a fruit stand near my apartment, and he calls me “boss” each and every time he sees me, even from across the street. He’ll often yell out things like:
“Hello there boss.”
“Isn’t today a beautiful day boss?”
“How was the gym today boss?”
“I saved some great strawberries for you boss.”
“You smell pretty today boss.” (Yes, he really told me this once, I swear.)
Now, some people might find such things unsettling, but personally I find his greetings, even the somewhat awkward commentary about him finding my man-scent pleasing to his olfactory senses, to be very soothing.
However, there’s one thing the dark, fruit stand-running foreigner does with regularity that never ceases to piss me the f@*% off: he’s a relentless upseller. For example, over a large portion of the summer, I’ve been on a blueberries and strawberries kick. Almost daily, I’d stop by the fruit stand to pick up a plastic container of both, but each time I’d stop by, the guy attempted to sell me something additional that I didn’t want.
Bananas. Grapes. Plums. Etc.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against any of these fruits, it’s just that I was on a hardcore blueberry/strawberry kick and didn’t want them at the time, but like a true jerkoff, I’d always cave and wind up buying the additional fruits out of guilt/cowardice. However, I really thought I’d draw a line in the sand and hold firm the day he tried to sell me peaches.
“I’ve got some great peaches today boss.”
“Oh…no, I really don’t care much for the peach.”
“But you will like these peaches boss.”
“No, really, you don’t understand, I. DON’T. EAT. PEACHES. Except when they’re cooked in a cobbler and smothered in vanilla bean ice cream. I’ll eat the shit out of that, but something about the fuzzy skin on a raw peach just freaks me out.”
“Well I’m going to give you a free sample and you will love them boss.”
“No, really, I just…”
“Boss, please take these as a gift. You will love them, I promise.”
And so it was that I trudged home that day with black plastic bag filled with blueberries, strawberries and peaches. Later that night, at roughly 3am-ish, after I’d exhausted my supply of other fruits and was still hungry for a tasty snack, I opened the fridge, eyed the peaches, said “aw what the hell” and decided to give the peach a chance. And guess what?! I LOVED IT! And now I eat peaches all the time. LIfe. Officially. Changed. Yaay summer!
The end.
Now go read them all!
Oh boy. Ricky really didn't like that call by the official...
via Deadspin
Lately, I've been feeling kind of old. I took a "boot camp" class at my gym the other day that just about killed me. Literally. I wound up throwing up in the locker room and my knees, thighs, ass, arms and torso are still sore as all hell from it. Ten years ago, getting through the class and recovering from it physically wouldn't have been any problem at all, a thought that's been floating around inside my head ever since I walked out of the gym that night. Then, earlier tonight, I read Pat Jordan's article titled "You Get Old" in the current issue of Men Journal. It's devastating. He writes:
You get old, people don’t notice you. You sit at a bar, sipping your Jim Beam Black, neat now, no water, no ice, when a pretty woman in her 40s sits next to you. You smile at her, say hi. She looks at you and through you around the bar.
You get old, young guys don’t get pissed off anymore that you’re lifting heavier weight than they are on the preacher-curl bench. Now they say, “You sure that weight isn’t too heavy for you, sir?” They used to call you Mack. When you were younger you would have said, “Mind your own goddamned business!” Now you say, “Thanks, guy, I think I can handle it.”
You were handsome once, like a Greek god, with curly black locks and luxuriant chest hair. You still are, in your mind’s eye, even if your hair is so white you look like a ghost in photographs. You look at that photograph of an old man, and say out loud, “Jeez, I look like an old man!” Your friends call back, “You are an old man.” A young friend of your wife’s, maybe 35, picks up a photograph of you when you were 38 off the fireplace mantel. “Wow,” she says. “You were hot once.” You resist the urge to tell her, “I still am.”
You get old, you cry more. Not over your lost dreams, your sins, your old age, your impending death. You cry for others. You cry when Assumpta dies too young, at 30, in Ballykissangel. You cry at the sight of our soldiers in camouflage walking through airports on their way to Iraq. You cry at the sight of abused dogs and cats staring at you from the pages of newspapers. You cry when Betsy tells you she has inoperable cancer and she’ll never see 60.
You cry for everyone but yourself because you have lived a wonderful life, and you wish that every person, every pet, could live such a life too. When you were young, you cried only for yourself.
I've bookmarked this one for future reading whenever I'm feeling sorry for myself and need a good slap across the face.
I’m struggling desperately today to figure out what I find more baffling and appalling: That the same crowd who’ve spent months accusing Barack Obama of being a closet Muslim, a racist, a kid-indoctrinating communist, a secret citizen of Kenya, and a Hitler wannabe who seeks to nationalize health care so that he can murder whoever he believes to be an undesirable, turns around and professes righteous outrage over Obama using a menial administration post to appoint someone they deemed to be an “extremist” because he had the audacity to call Republicans “assholes” in public and sign an online petition 6 years ago that called for an investigation into whether or not the Bush administration had knowledge of Bin Laden’s 9/11 plot prior to 9/11, or the fact that Obama failed to show any semblance of a political spine and actually caved to these moronic assholes by sending the aforementioned “extremist” to the proverbial glue factory.
Sometimes, I just want to pack my bags and move away to an island somewhere to escape the deafening noise that is this country’s Herculean idiocy. This is one of those times.
In the past I've caught some heat, especially when writing Gawker, whenever I've expressed how much I like and respect Joe Scarborough, someone I believe to be the last of a dying breed...a Republican conservative with an open, objective mind who refuses to sit idly by and watch his party get taken over by charlatans, Jesus-freaks, and blood-thirsty neocons. So I kind of wanted to stand up and cheer when I saw that he'd went off on his Twitter page last night over the moronic movement led by dipshit conservatives to hold their children out of school next week when Obama delivers an address to the nations schoolkids, something the aforementioned dipshit conservatives insist is nothing more than an attempt to indoctrinate America's young minds into communism. Anyway, bravo Joe...
In case you haven't yet heard, the Alaskan Cock-Gangsta himself, Levi Johnston, wrote a piece for the new issue of Vanity Fair. Though the full piece isn't available for reading online as of yet, the magazine has released a couple of teaser excerpts on their website. Among them was this:
Sarah told me she had a great idea: we would keep it a secret—nobody would know that Bristol was pregnant. She told me that once Bristol had the baby she and Todd would adopt him. That way, she said, Bristol and I didn’t have to worry about anything. Sarah kept mentioning this plan. She was nagging—she wouldn’t give up. She would say, “So, are you gonna let me adopt him?” We both kept telling her we were definitely not going to let her adopt the baby. I think Sarah wanted to make Bristol look good, and she didn’t want people to know that her 17-year-old daughter was going to have a kid.
Well, just let that one bounce around inside your head a little bit. Ha, this is going to be fun. Scathing Palin Facebook rebuttal coming in 3-2-1...
