Tuesday, March 31

The pot calls the kettle mentally unstable.

Hey, remember when San Francisco 49ers coach Mike Singletary said he wasn't going to draft Matt Stafford because he didn't like Stafford's attitude? (You should, I told you about it just a couple days ago.) Anyhoo, With Leather mentioned the quasi-controversy today, and in doing so linked to this little nugget from last year:

At halftime of that game, Singletary called for the attention of his players. He then dropped his pants, turned around and pointed to his backside. He used this occasion and that visual to describe what happened to his team in the first half.

A NFL source inside the room confirmed the story…and added that Singletary then addressed the team for 3-4 minutes with his pants around his ankles.

The 49ers trailed 20-3 at halftime. They would lose the game, 34-13.

But Stafford's the one who's fucked in the head? Come again?

Better know a Georgia head basketball coaching candidate.

The dominoes set up by the firings of Dennis Felton at Georgia and Mike Gottfried at Alabama are a-fallin', and today comes news from Mark Schlabach that Missouri coach Mike Anderson, fresh off a 31-7 season, a Big 12 tournament title, and a trip to the Elite Eight, now has an offer on his desk from UGA. Supposedly we're offering to dump $2 million a year in his lap, a major jump up from the $1.3 million Missouri is offering in the five-year contract extension the Tigers plan to offer.

Is that a lot of money? You bet, particularly for Georgia, given that the total $14-million deal (over seven years) would be, according to Paul Westerdawg, equivalent to all the money we've paid our basketball coaches total over the last three decades or so. But is it worth it? As someone who's had numerous opportunities to view Anderson's teams in action over the past few years, I say yes, with an option to bump that up to a hell yes sometime in the future.

Anderson got to UAB about the same time I did in 2002, and over four seasons with the Blazers, he took us to the postseason every time -- the NIT in his first season, where we advanced to the quarterfinals, and the Big Dance his three other seasons, including a run to the Sweet 16 in 2003-04 (in which we knocked off Washington and #1-seeded Kentucky to get there). He implemented a fast-paced style that became known well beyond the Birmingham city limits as "40 minutes of hell," assembling an 89-41 record before heading to Missouri after the end of the 2005-06 season.

And most of this was accomplished before the Big East raided Conference USA for most of its top basketball programs, meaning Anderson was winning despite having to compete against Rick Pitino, Tom Crean, Bob Huggins, and, of course, John Calipari. After starting off his UAB career 0-4 against those guys, he went 7-6 the rest of the way. The Blazers didn't dominate C-USA, but they were consistently competitive.

And now he's emphatically turned around a Mizzou program that Quin Snyder had turned into a disaster area both on and off the court. So yes, Bulldog Nation, he is worth it. The challenge now is to see whether we can outhustle Memphis for him; Memphis may play in a lesser conference, but the basketball program is their athletic department's main energy source and they'll certainly be prepared to bring in their usual truckloads of corporate cash from FedEx and whoever else to try and lure him in. But the fact that Damon Evans has already put such a big offer on the table is an encouraging sign that we're taking our men's basketball program seriously for the first time in a long, long while.

I'll be following this with interest, and I hope like hell we get him -- and if you're even a casual fan of Georgia basketball, you should, too.

I think there's a metaphor here, I just can't figure out what it is . . .

Since the subject has already been broached, more or less: It goes without saying that this is incredibly tacky, but at the same time, I have to admire their nerve.

Awfully hilarious? Hilariously awful? I leave it to you to decide.

(Hat tip: the always-wonderful Geekologie.)

UPDATED: Oh, gawd, there's apparently a British version that's even worse. SO MUCH INNUENDO CAN'T BREATHE:

Saturday, March 28

Oh look! I have a new least favorite NFL team this morning.

Well, no, not really, the Dallas Cowboys will always be my number-one hate target with extreme prejudice, but that coveted #2 spot now belongs to (drum roll, please) the San Francisco 49ers, who supposedly will not be drafting Matt Stafford next month because he . . . doesn't like to talk about his parents' divorce:

Niners head coach Mike Singletary told KNBR (680 AM) in San Francisco this week that “if you’re going to look at drafting a guy in the first round, and you’re going to pay him millions of dollars, and asking him about a divorce about his parents, if that’s going to be an issue, uhhh, then you know what, maybe he doesn’t belong here.”

Not that I'm some player-evaluation expert or anything, I think I'd put that just below "Says 'to-mah-to' instead of 'to-may-to'" and right above "Hangs his toilet paper over the back of the roll instead of the front" on the Master List of Dumb Reasons Not to Draft Someone. I mean, does Singletary think that, say, Darnell Dockett is going to be standing across from Stafford on the field growling, "Your parents must not have loved you very much if they weren't willing to stay together, rook"? (I mean, I might do that, but for me trash-talking isn't about actual intimidation, it's about the art, man.)

Your parents split up because you CRIED TOO MUCH, rook!

Furthermore, if the story linked at The Sporting Blog is any indication, the whole thing wasn't even "an issue" with Stafford in the first place:

The 49ers interview, conducted by a team psychologist, struck Stafford as odd. His account: When the psychologist asked about his parents, he explained that they were divorced when he was in high school and that he'd adjusted well; told he sounded as if he might have unfinished business concerning the divorce, Stafford said there certainly was not. "I felt like, I wonder how much I'm being charged per hour for this?" he says. "But I understand. They're going to pay a lot of money in the first round."

So that's that, I guess. Wherever Stafford ends up going, it won't be San Fran. Fine with me; your loss, Singletary. Have fun picking between Shaun Hill and Alex Smith, jackbag.

Friday, March 27

The Friday Random Ten+5 reaches across the aisle.

In the course of discussing political topics on this blog of late, some people have implied that I never say anything bad about liberals and only say bad things about conservatives. Well, I don't want to come off as vulgar or needlessly confrontational here, but that is just a dirty motherfucking lie, and shame on you for saying something like that. I work with conservatives, I'm friends with conservatives, I've even dated some conservatives -- and took one or two of them on a voyage to ecstasy the likes of which they'd never before experienced, if I do say so myself. But anyway, the point is that I have great admiration for more than a few conservative-identified individuals even though I disagree with them on a whole host of things politically, and just to prove it, I thought I might take this opportunity to tell you about some of them. Step to the side, haters -- the left side or the right side, whatever your personal preference happens to be -- 'cause this week's +5 is Five Conservatives I Don't Have A Problem With And Actually Like:

Sen. Olympia Snowe (R-Maine)
Endorsed John McCain and voted in favor of the Iraq war, but also voted against the 2003 Bush tax cuts and supports gay rights. So if you think about it, she's kind of the maverick that McCain used to be. Either way, she gives the impression of being someone who bothers to think things through before she makes up her mind about something, which is the kind of attitude Washington has been sorely lacking for a while now.

Andrew Sullivan
All you conservatives who claimed you spoke out about your supposed displeasure with the Bush administration way back when? Sullivan actually did, and not as a wild-eyed commie pinko like yours truly but as an intelligent conservative who cares about fiscal sanity and civil liberties. Also a pretty good blogger, not to mention a Pet Shop Boys fan, which is an excellent way to weasel yourself into my good graces no matter what your political beliefs are.

Kent Williams
Kent Williams owns an Italian restaurant in Elizabethton, Tennessee, where I probably ate at least once when I was living down the road in Johnson City as a youngster. A couple of years ago, he ran for state legislature as a Republican -- which pretty much everyone in that part of the state is -- but voted to re-elect the Democratic speaker of the house, who was a shoo-in anyway, trying to build consensus and put himself in a position to get things done for his county. The House minority leader, Jason Mumpower, was cheesed off enough by this that he tried to get someone to run against Williams in the primary last year, but Williams was re-nominated, and re-elected, with ease. When the dust cleared on election night, Republicans had pieced together a 50-49 majority in the state House, their first since Reconstruction. Mumpower, who is thus in line to become the new speaker, has every House Republican swear an oath to only vote for a Republican for speaker.

When the new House convened for the first time in February, the Republican whip nominated Mumpower -- and his Democratic counterpart, now the minority whip, nominated Kent Williams. Forty-nine Republicans voted for Mumpower, forty-nine Democrats voted for Williams . . . and Williams, keeping his promise, voted for a Republican. Himself.

I don't care which party you're punking, Democratic or Republican, that's awesome. The longtime reader and Tennessee native who sent me that story last month summed it up best: "Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi and Obama combined have never played politics with the skill of a high school diplomaed lasagna cook from the most redneck place on earth."

Lucy Pinder
Sorry, I totally forgot what I was going to write here. Oh, yeah: British Page 3 legend and reality-TV star Pinder says she wants to work with Britain's Conservative Party and that she doesn't want to be lumped in with "bleeding-heart liberals." Aww, we're not all so bad.

T. Kyle King
I'll be honest, when I first started out at UGA and Kyle was a law student regularly writing for The Red & Black's opinion page, he annoyed the crap out of me. But having gotten to know the guy -- both through his blog and in person -- I've become a huge fan. And don't get into a debate with him, be it over football, politics, legal issues, history, or anything else, without actual evidence to back up what you're saying, 'cause that's bringing a knife to a gunfight, kid. Kyle will hit you with a barrage of arguments, statistics, and historical facts and bounce your ass back to grade school. And even when I don't agree with him -- which, unless he's talking about the Bulldogs, is regularly -- it's fun watching him do it to someone else.

Also: Meghan McCain, because I think she's cute, and Rep. Michelle Bachmann (R-Minn.), because dear sweet Lord that woman is entertaining. Palin/Bachmann 2012? I think I'd trade the Lego Taj Mahal for that.

See? Bipartisanship! And now the Ten:

1. Pete Heller, "Big Love" (extended mix)
2. Crowded House, "Walking on the Spot"
3. The Beatmasters, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams"
4. Billy Idol, "White Wedding"
5. Dr. Dre, "Bitches Ain't Shit"
6. Basement Jaxx, "Where's Your Head At"
7. My Bloody Valentine, "Soon"
8. Mo' Horizons, "Hit the Road Jack (Pe Ña Estrada)"
9. KRS-One, "Sound of Da Police"
10. Pet Shop Boys, "KDX 125"

Now it's time for you to show your own open-mindedness by putting your own Random Tens, along with names of people you like in spite of the fact that you can't stand their politics and/or parties, in the comments.

Thursday, March 26

Get back here, dead horse! I'm not done with you yet.

Because I just don't know when to leave well enough alone, found this in the comments thread of the Fark.com post that linked to the Ayn Rand rant: an unauthorized sequel to Atlas Shrugged starring Bob the Angry Flower.

Click to enlarge.

Late to the party.


Andrew Sullivan says it more eloquently and concisely than I'm probably about to, but I'm gonna say it anyway 'cause I'm an asshole.

To all the folks now threatening to "Go John Galt," to all the folks attending the anti-Obama "tea parties" that are supposedly sweeping the nation, to the gloomy conservatives claiming to have been driven to clinical depression by the prospect of this country's supposed impending socialist tilt, to Glenn Beck and all the other folks brought to histrionic tears by how much they fear for their country, I got a question:

Where the hell you guys been the last eight years?

You're that upset about how much money the government is spending, huh? Well, we've spent nearly a trillion dollars on a dishonestly justified, indifferently planned war in Iraq, seems like that might've been something you could've spoken up about. We went from a surplus under Clinton to a 14-figure national debt, and that was even before Obama took office; you had eight whole years to get riled up about that. Creeping totalitarianism, you say? Yeah, we had the government sending folks off to Gitmo without even charging them with anything, we had the NSA rifling through our cell-phone records, but somehow that wasn't enough to gin up your righteous anger. We had a president who fooled around and played guitar at John McCain's birthday party while a city of half a million people got drowned by a hurricane, and instead of wondering why that president had put a career horse-show manager in charge of the relief efforts, you blamed the people of that city for not having gotten out fast enough.

So now we've got someone in office who's trying to steer those two wars in Afghanistan and Iraq to a conclusion and fix the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression without nationalizing banks or major industries, and now you're outraged? Now you decide you're upset enough to take to the streets? Now you're worried about the loss of your rights and civil liberties and all that other stuff? Bush spent like a drunken sailor during what was supposedly a boom economy -- something even an idiot like me knows you're not supposed to do -- and now that somebody's spending in a shitty economy, trying to prop things back up again, now you're mad about how much money the government is burning through?

(And don't even get me started on how Republicans have all of a sudden determined it's OK to start criticizing sitting presidents again. So, Glenn Beck, I should "Believe in something, even if it's wrong," huh? Well, back in 2003 I believed that the Iraq war was unnecessary and would turn out to be a stain on our national conscience we'd need decades to live down -- and you called folks like me "liberal hippie communists" and "terrorist sympathizers." But I'm glad to know "believing in something" is cool with you now. I'll be sure to keep that in mind.)

Things have been going to hell for a while now -- the seeds of the crisis we're in now have been planted and cultivated over a period of years -- and you've only just now figured that out? Now that someone's actually sticking his neck out and trying to fix it? It's like you're parents who have come home from vacation to find that your children had a series of wild parties while you were gone, and instead of punishing your kids for having trashed the place, you're bitching at the cleaning crew.

Look, if you can find me a link or a letter to the editor or a blog post or a even a blog comment where you expressed outrage or concern over all this stuff while it was building under Bush, then I'll accept that you've got your head mounted squarely on your shoulders and I'll leave you alone. Otherwise, I'm calling this for what it is: You only decided to unleash your mad-as-hell inner Howard Beale once a Democrat got elected. Convenient, that.

Not that I'm telling you what to do, of course. You want to go on being outraged, crapping your pants with fear of creeping socialism, weeping about how much you love your country and how worried you are for its future, it's a free country. I'm just saying, maybe if you'd discovered your outrage button a few years ago, we could've started fixing this stuff sooner. Maybe we could work on our timing a little bit over the next decade or two? Think about it and get back to me.

Tuesday, March 24

For your consideration:
When Brazilians are outlawed, only outlaws . . .

Saw this story this morning:
NJ considers ban on bare-it-all 'Brazilian' wax

TRENTON, N.J. (AP) — New Jersey is drawing the line when it comes to bikini waxing.

The state Board of Cosmetology and Hairstyling is moving toward a ban on genital waxing altogether after two women reported being injured in their quest for a smooth bikini line. . . .

The state Board of Cosmetology meets next on April 14 and will decide whether to move forward with banning the procedure, made popular in Brazil to accommodate skimpy thong bikinis.

The earliest the ban could take effect would be sometime in May, Lamm said, and salons that continue to perform it could be fined.

And you know what that means . . . it's time to take a premise way too far.


A lazy summer day in New Jersey's capital. Approach on two boys sprawled on a dusty curb, guzzling Gatorade as their bicycles languish on their sides nearby: FRANK, the taller and leaner of the two, and the fireplug-like JACKIE, both about thirteen years old. Eyes closed, soaking up the sun, the two boys don't even notice as the shadow of a man is cast over them.

Hey, kid.

The boys look up: ANGLE on the source of the voice, a handsome, dark-haired young man who is a RUNNER for Trenton's criminal underworld.

You think you can do a favor for me?

The RUNNER produces a large canister with a thick, gooey substance inside.

You run this down to Margarita's Salon on Vermont,
there's a twenty in it for you.
But don't let nobody know you have it.

FRANK's and JACKIE's eyes get big.

Back in oh-nine, all the good waxers
hadda go underground.
That's just the way it was.


It's twenty or so years later, and FRANK and JACKIE are now grown men, manning the front counter at an illegal underground waxing salon. In the chair nearest to them, a big-haired, botoxed SUBURBAN WOMAN is steeling herself for the rip of the wax-strip removal when a cell phone rings; the waxer, MAMA CARMELA, pulls it out and looks at the number.

Ahh, for the love of Christ, it's my kids. Hang on.

MAMA CARMELA rushes out with the phone at her ear; FRANK and JACKIE are left to just sit awkwardly next to the half-naked SUBURBAN WOMAN.

What, you never seen one of these before?
Rip it out and let's get this over with!

Gingerly, FRANK grasps one of the strips, shuts his eyes, and pulls. Both he and the SUBURBAN WOMAN scream in unison, but when the screams die down and the WOMAN looks at FRANK's handiwork, she's transfixed.

Oh my God, it's . . . beautiful.

At that moment, MAMA CONSUELA rushes back in.

You did this?

Terrified, FRANK and JACKIE nod.

It's . . . like it was never there.

His talent discovered, FRANK sits next to JACKIE before the desk of CARLOS "THE BRAZILIAN" DA SILVA, head of Trenton's organized-crime underworld. In contrast to the two nervous young men, the cigar-smoking CARLOS looks pleased.

Mama Carmela told me what you did
at Margarita's the other day.
. . . I want the two of you to work for me.

FRANK and JACKIE pour shots from a bottle ocachaça given to them by CARLOS and down them quickly.

Jackie boy, you and me,
we're gonna make Jersey smooth.

MUSIC: Led Zeppelin, "Black Dog"

In the same secret basement salon we saw before, FRANK walks briskly past a row of unseen FEMALE CUSTOMERS in chairs, ripping out a wax strip and eliciting a yelp of pain as he passes each one. The CUSTOMER at the end of the row looks up at him and smiles.

Frankie Ceratore, I wanna have your baby.

I don't think my old lady'd be
too happy about that.

FRANK is home from work, and his young wife, LUISA, is stirring a pot of minestrone on the stove. FRANK comes up behind her and clasps a diamond necklace around her neck.

Frankie! How could you afford this?

Don't you worry about me.

FRANK and JACKIE are getting ready to go out for a night on the town, both wearing expensive, shiny suits. But JACKIE has to do one last thing to prepare: He sits down on the couch, taps out a line of coke on the mirror, and snorts it all up in one go.

I ain't seen you at the salon in a week.
Where the hell you get the money to do that shit?

Doin' a little work on my own, Frankie.
Did the whole Rutgers cheerleadin' squad
on Tuesday.

You're freelancin'?

Just a little bit on the side! They had the
friggin' West Virginia game Thursday night!

Aw, jeez, Jackie, Rutgers?
That's Carlos's business! You have any idea
what he's gonna say when he finds out one a
his own guys been skimmin' business off him?

What we didn't know was that, even in Jersey,
there was only so much pubic hair to go around.

MUSIC: Rolling Stones, "Gimme Shelter"


A troubled-looking FRANK motors down the New Jersey Turnpike in his Jaguar XJ with CARMINE "CURLY" COSCIENZA, The Brazilian's consigliere, in the passenger's seat.

Carlos isn't too pleased with that buddy
of yours, Frankie. He took the Rutgers job,
he took the Nets dancers, the Flight Crew
. . . you don't rein him in, Carlos will.



Somewhere in the vicinity of Long Branch, an aggrieved-looking FRANK stands with JACKIE out on the sand, the waves washing over their feet.

Jackie, you're not seriously talkin' about
goin' to war with the Brazilians, are you?

You get this through that thick Sicilian head
of yours, you fuckin' mook -- I've ripped out
more pubes than you and that fat fuckin' spic
combined, so if he wants a war,
he's gonna get one!

Back in the office of "The Brazilian," CARMINE sits across the desk from CARLOS, who can barely be seen through a haze of cigar smoke.

What are we gonna do now, boss?

The same thing we always do
when we've got something we don't want:

JACKIE and his blond, surgically enhanced GIRLFRIEND are heading out to JACKIE's Escalade, their arms laden with shopping bags.

We rip it out.

CLOSE-UP on JACKIE's alligator-clad feet as he sets his bags down to open his car door: A soccer ball rolls across the pavement and hits his foot. JACKIE leans into the frame to pick up the ball, and the camera follows as he stands upright again and sees where the ball came from.

ANGLE on a van, sliding door thrown open, three men of South American descent leaning out with machine guns at the ready.

A hail of gunfire, and . . .


FRANK leans over a sink somewhere in his house, looking down in horror at his hands, which are coated in a dark, sticky-looking substance.

Oh my God, Frank, what have you done?
What have you done? . . .

It's not blood. It's not blood . . .

It wasn't blood. It was worse.






Sunday, March 22

A belated anniversary celebration, and an even more belated thank-you.

So I was coming home from a weekend trip up to Huntsville -- which was lovely, by the way -- this afternoon, when I realized something: This blog turned four years old on March 7 and it totally went right by me. Didn't mark the occasion with so much as a commemorative post or even a commemorative toaster thrown from the balcony. So here I am, 15 days later, finally marking the occasion. Some parent I'm gonna turn out to be.

But instead of doing my usual self-aggrandizement job or reveling in the aroma of my own metaphorical farts for a while, I'm going to take some time out to extend some thanks -- to you, the readers. Yes, I write this blog, but you, the people who read it regularly and hang on my every word and help build up those nice checks that Google sends me every few months -- you guys are the real heroes. So thank you for taking time out of your day to read this spew, and there are a few groups of you to whom I'd like to give special thanks:

· The folks who wished me well and checked in on me when I was recovering from the back surgery I had at the beginning of this month. I hope nobody worried too much, because it wasn't that serious -- certainly not life or death -- but it was still nice to know that y'all are thinking of me. Just so everyone knows, the cyst on my back was removed, the scar has been healing nicely, and now I can get on to whatever embarrassing health problem awaits me next.

· The people who were kind enough to donate at my behest to Magic Moments' "Magic Mile" fundraising campaign over the last few weeks. That campaign started out as something where we were going to send direct e-mails to friends, co-workers, and family to solicit donations, but I went ahead and threw a note about it up on the blog just on the off chance that a reader or two might be able to throw us a couple bucks -- and you know what happened? I ended up getting way more donations from the blog solicitation than I did from those direct e-mails. (If you're a friend or family member who got one of those e-mails but hasn't donated yet, you may feel free to interpret that as an AHEM aimed very pointedly in your direction.) Seriously, that touched my heart in a big way, guys, and I can't tell you how much your generosity is appreciated not only by me but by the entire organization, not to mention all the sick kids whose wishes we're going to be able to grant this year. Just so you know, if you're still interested in making a donation, you can do so at this link, and the campaign "officially" runs through this Friday. So thanks to everyone who's already donated, and a pre-emptive thanks to those who are about to.

· The blog aficionados who followed me over to Dr. Saturday as I guest-blogged there while the good Doctor was out of town on vacation. Y'all are great, even the commenter who told me I should "just kill [my]self and stop using up resources useful people could be using." Hell, especially that guy. The knowledge that I can still annoy people that much with only a minimum of effort is almost as big an ego stroke as the actual comments I got that week.

· The folks who linked the increasingly infamous Ayn Rand flaying on Fark.com's political section. Even if you hated it, guess what, thimbledicks, you still read it, and that still put some extra change in my pocket. Which I think I will use to go out and buy a copy of The Militant this week. 'Preesh!

But in all seriousness, thanks, everyone, for making the past couple weeks even more rewarding for me than usual. And when this anniversary rolls around next year, we're blowin' this bitch up for big Number Five, promise.