Let me introduce you to one Olof Carmody...a singular force to be reckoned with on Urban Dictionary.
Click above to see his full body of work...even though I'm posting every little bit of it (in order of society's predicted embracement):
Silentology folks...Silentology.
Sources close to Olof say his likeness may resemble any of the below...
...via Google Images: Creepy Norwegian
Geoff Young, mastermind behind San Diego Padres blog Ducksnorts, sent me this pic yesterday. It's from when he brought his loyal brood of readers to a Padres game. Blogger Ballpark love. Love it.
You know you're in trouble when you stumble upon this headline: CBS gives thumbs up for more reality shows...and there is a picture of Jamie Kennedy sitting right there. Anxiety level, skyrocketing.
"Once upon a time, in the 1960's, the TV landscape was rife with westerns...."
It. Gets. Better.
"Today, CBS reported two new reality programs in development. Splitsville, which was previously announced, is now going into production. The marital-based series, which comic Jamie Kennedy is executive producing, is not about happy unions."
god help me.
I'm very much looking forward to hating this band intensely. Right now, I gotta say, it's not bad. (They're already in GQ. Christ).
Saturday afternoon debauchery might derail seeing Tennessee/Memphis tomorrow night. Stiles Points breaks down what people are saying about this game nicely.
Historically, I've given Memphis almost no credit for anything they've done. A sort of Ted Kennedy of college basketball perhaps. However, Chris Douglas-Roberts and Derrick Rose, those guys are something else. I'm taking Memphis, which is a hell of a town by the way.
Courtesy of Complete Sports (great call by the way!), today is the 28th Anniversary of the Second Miracle On Ice.
Not to be confused with the first Miracle on Ice...Jameson Whiskey on the Rocks. Invented by Jesus, on his 9th birthday, a long-ass time ago.
Inspired thoughts:
"It's amateur hour," my old colleague Lisa on St. Pattys Day in Hoboken...one week away!
As much as I love hearing about Terrelle Pryor, it's kind of lost its luster.
Pick a school, and go back to your not hard life.
Stuff like this keeps me coming back to SI.com's High School sports page though...
Brad Henefer, a New Jersey teenager who has down syndrome, spent four years as a legit member of his high school basketball team.
And obviously, he's also a golfer.
Check out his highlight reel from TAKKLE.com. Inspiring is that word you're looking for.
sh*t, cell phone is already about to die. Fine women be blowing me up in droves .
So much wetness in my lap tonight. Who would've thought that blast emailing this someecard would actually work?*
As I told my buddy Bley, when he was wise enough to schedule National Bley Day on Bulletproof Saturday, thank you MLB for putting Pitchers & Catchers Day on Valentine's Day. You've curtailed some of the lame of the latter. Way to be.
What's Bulletproof Saturday? Glad you asked. Turns out I invented it about two weeks ago. Effective this year, the day before the Super Bowl will be known as Bulletproof Saturday. This references how much alcohol I believe you can drink the night before the Super Bowl. The answer is all of it.
Try waking up next year on the day of the greatest sporting event of the year with a hangover, I dare you.
As for pitchers & catchers, I'm pumped. How could you not be? I've been drinking green tea and listening to Dragonforce all morning to get myself in the mood. You ever heard Dragonforce? Oh, it's good stuff. Good Stuff.
Speaking of metal, this should be the name of metal band, and not a problem that actually exists in this country: Toxic Trailers. I may have to be at work today, but at least I didn't wake up knowing I'd have to give a speech about this.
Further concerning heavy metal, I'm real close to having the lyrics to Run to the Hills by Maiden memorized, at which point I'll be ready throw down with the vocal part in Rock Band. It's really difficult to sing the lyrics without breaking out in hysterical laughter.
In otherworldly blog news, Big Daddy Drew has suspended the Jamboroo and is taking the week off. Bogey, man, bogey. Rest is for the dead.
On the plus side, this photo on Brahsome is burning a hole in my brain!
Hopefully my cell battery will withstand so that Pergo can regale me with tales from the road.
*Actually, someecards server is being pounded, and I can't even get on the site. Plus, that plan would never work. My real Valentine's Day plan is to watch my alma mater Fordham get throttled by UMASS and drink many (many) Vladamir Brew-tins.
99% of the sports news/commentary I digest on daily basis lives online. And 90% of this comes from blogs - all 78 of them that comb religiously - whose voices range from tongue and cheek to truly depraved (for the record, I couldn't be happier about this). However, everyday I consciously make the effort to pick up a printed copy of the New York Times sports section. Some media pundits look at this sort of media consumption and cite it as an example of why traditional print media will never die. They'll say that people desire that tactile experience of having something in their hand, and will never get tired of getting their fingers in there and getting dirty with their news. This argument is nothing if not sexually repressed.
Here's an example of why I actually read the New York Times everyday. Times reporter Katie Thomas featured a story today on cockfighting in the Dominican Republic (A Question of Culture, Dominicans Say Cockfighting Is in Their Blood); she got top billing on D1 over the Clemens/McNamee debacle/fiasco.
This story comes on the heels of the reports that former and current MLB players Juan Marichal and Pedro Martinez are prominently involved in the cockfighting institution of D.R. In fact, Marichal oversaw the sport when he served as the Minister of Sports in the Dominican during the 1990s. And the owner of the club in Pedro's native neighborhood said that Martinez was a regular at his establishment. Another current Dominican ballplayer, Aramis Ramirez, is featured in an issue of En La Traba, a Dominican cockfighting magazine.
According to Thomas' story, cockfighting dates back to 1492 when Christopher Columbus, and the fighting roosters he had with him, landed on what would become the Dominican Republic. Currently, there are 1500 cockfighting arenas (or galleras) recognized by the National Commission of Cockfighting. The fighters are bred from mothers with a history of breeding strong competitors, and their diet regimens include vitamins and antibiotics. During the matches, the bets are thrown out verbally like a Wall Street trading floor (never recorded, but honored meticulously). And police man the entrances to the arenas, checking guns (not checking for guns, like coat-checking, except its weapons).
The Dominican people defend cockfighting saying its part of the culture. Or they say that they have better things to worry about, like that 40% of the pop. lives below the poverty line (sure, fair enough). These arguments would have had Vick's lawyers sans testiclees singing Soprano.
I have two words for Dominican cockfighting: Jet. Blue. Seriously, where do I need to go? I read the story, and I can't get Little Jerry Seinfeld out of my mind. I'm visualizing BloodSport, BloodSport II: The Next Kumite, BloodSport IV: The Dark Kumite. I'm enthralled.
Well done, Katie Thomas. Vacation. Destination.
Now back to real world of reading and sport. Rumors and Rants has a post about a run-in with Julie "the Cat" Gaffney, and Randball has a Q&A with The Human Highlight Reel.
Marisa Miller. HERRRREAHAARARAH (is that how you spell that sound?). She's 29; strangely (obviously) I'm still into it.
Moderately Cerebral Bias plays paparazzi on the J. William Leitch esq. book tour. According to MC Bias, the goober riding shotgun in most of the photos is a Deadspin commenteur named Rascalnikov (sp.) or something like that.
Working on my six-word memoir (via Dan Shanoff)
100% Injury Rate, blogger in residence at FanIQ, gives you Horsesurfing. Absurb. Absurb. Absurb.
More aquatic equestrian shenanigans:
After this I'm not mentioning Super Bowl 42 another iota, but I had to share my friend Steve's reaction to the Giants' victory:
Like sex, best when unexpected.
Not better than ’86-87, though, because it had been so freakin’ long and the demons had to be exorcised. You know about that a little bit (read: jab at red sox fan)
Thanks for the sentiment.
Still, the greatest post-season sight was the look on Jerry Jones’ face at the end of that game.
Steve
Steve is one of the all-time great characters. He gave me my first job in sports PR and looks like back in the 70s he was probably an excellent bowler.
The Deuce of Davenport gives us the tread desk. Work and run, simultaneously, gee thanks guys. You could tell me that Kramerica Industries invented this during Seinfeld Season Four, and I'd believe you.
Do you think that Roger Goodell stabs himself in the arm with his pen in between writing out those $40,000 checks for each Pro Bowler just to make sure this isn't hell.
While I was goofing off in Vermont last week, The Blog Show uncovered this gem on YouTube:
Inspired Thoughts:
"I'm at this milf's house in Baltimore. She is throwing us a party tonight. It's super weird," my buddy Pergo, driving this band around on tour for a month...collecting unemployment the whole time.
Thank you. And thank you.
It was only a matter of time before this sort of thing surfaced. To be honest, I thought it would be way sooner. Make no mistake, Pats fans may be brazenly arrogant (says you), but Giants fans are still from New Jersey and still ski in their jeans, and are still capable of the wildly unfortunate...
I like to think that one of these kid's dad saw this video, reflected back on how he celebrated the Giants' 1986-87 Super Bowl victory - the night his kid was conceived - and took care of business.
Check out the YouTube link too. The comments are worth the price of admission.
Picture #14 also made me feel a little bit better.
Here he is. Your Super Bowl MVP. May god have mercy on your soul.
Seriously, I felt like I was rooting for the Spanish to overthrow the Mayan civilization all year, and part of me is glad it's over.
Actually, that's not true. Football is best. The fourth of July is essentially the half way point between now and next year's Super Bowl. Do you realize how long it is until the fourth of July!?!?Inspired thoughts Word Vomit:
"It's gonna hurt worse tomorrow," some Eagles fan last night (oh sure, they've got a lot to be happy about today).
$44.6 Billion Folks...this blog is officially up for sale for a yet to be determined fraction of that amount.
Something a man with my less than stellar track record of dayaftermajorsportingevent punctuality can appreciate...
Inspired thoughts:
"I'm so sickeningly good at my job that I have frequent downtime," Goose, on reading blogs at work.
