Pre-Game Coverage

Well gang, another new sports season is almost upon us.  Can you smell it in the air?  It's the smell of blood, that special ingredient missing from baseball that keeps it a sport only worth watching on a hot, lazy summer afternoon as you doze off on the couch.  Blood is definitely not missing from this fall sport.  No it's ruthlessly splashed by the fried chicken bucket loads - along with vulgar insults, dirty tricks, below-the-belt attacks, broken bones, and fingers to the eyes and other exposed orifices.   

That's right, the 2010 midterm elections are almost here.  

The political season brings out individuals more bloodthirsty than a vegan vampire.  Speaking of vampires, this one-day event is preceded by 90 days of non-stop coverage by the media (Slogan: "We can make a turnip seem like breaking news."), where one can gain invaluable insight into ongoing debates on important issues such as immigration reform, renewable energy sources, and what Sarah Palin will be wearing.  

More importantly, through reasoned and civil discussion, but mostly anonymous TV ads, we'll learn who to blame for our problems.  From the oil spill in the gulf, to the state of the economy, to Justin Bieber's fame.  Nothing will be kept secret. 

So dear readers, we have a civic duty to tune into the cable news networks and stare at our television screens and monitors until we are fully informed on the issues and/or our IQ has dropped to that of a cast member of the Jersey Shore.  One unnamed political party is actually rooting for the latter - you know, new voters.    

Listen up folks, this is our big chance to vote out those old, corrupt, morally bankrupt, elitist blowhards and replace them with young, more energetic corrupt, morally bankrupt, elitist blowhards.  If our country is going to be run by people who exercise the common sense of an olive (I would have compared them to my dog Gunner, but that'd be unfair - even he knows when his food bowl is empty), then it's going to be MY picks taking office.    

The conclusion of the midterm elections in November also kicks-off the highly anticipated "700 days of even more grotesque coverage", i.e. the 2012 Presidential race, where you and I will play an integral part in who becomes the next "Most Hated American!"  It's like So You Think You Can Dance, but with an age minimum of 50, an Ivy League prerequisite, and contestants are dancing around issues, not the floor.  No word yet from Simon Cowell's people on whether he'll moderate televised debates.   

"That was a terrible idea, I mean just awful.  My advice would be if you want to pursue a career in politics, don't."  

Speaking of debates, one of topics that will undoubtedly dominate the midterms will be the high unemployment rate, or as a politician will never put it, "a deficit in jobs."  However, there's some good news out there according to a news story by Ellen Wulfhorst (loose translation:  Horse Dog) titled North Dakota, Alaska Lead U.S. Job Creation, Study Says. 

A study I'm sure any incumbent with the common sense of an olive will be quick to point out and try to take credit for - possibly even the politicians from these two states.  The article details that North Dakota and Alaska have added the most jobs in the last five years at a combined 31,400, which is oddly close to their combined populations.  

So, if you're looking for work, why not pack up your family and give one of these two foreign lands a try?  Here's a brief profile of each state to further entice you:

North Dakota

State Motto:  "If you want to kill yourself out of boredom on the drive out here, you're halfway there!" and "No, we're not the one with Mount Rushmore."

Home of the:  "Fleischkuekle" - a deep fried entree of fleisch covered in dough.

State Mascot:  "Pavey" the desolate highway.

Alaska

State Motto:  "Making Canadians look tan since 1867!" and "[sound of chattering teeth]"

Home of the:  Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race and the universally renowned Alaska Hummingbird Festival

State Mascot:  "Steven Seagal" for reminding the "lower states" that Alaska still existed in his 1994 film On Deadly Ground, which took place and was filmed within the state (rumors abound that Mr. Seagal's ponytail died of frostbite during filming and has been replaced by hair extensions ever since).

As you can see, the stakes are high.  We hold our very destinies with our votes and it's crucial we make the right decisions.  Lest we be forced to move to North Dakota and drown our country's sorrows with martinis - hold the olives.

The Granny Panty Bandit

I'm sure you've all grown tired of the coverage of the "Barefoot Bandit."  You know, that teenager from Washington with freakishly oversized feet.  Judging by the chalk outlines he left behind in many of his Bahamian robberies, I'd guesstimate those ground-pounders to be about 30 inches long, or roughly what you'd expect from the love child of King-Kong and Big Foot, which is totally plausible considering we all know that Big Foot resides in the mountains of Washington and that the Washington coastline is closest to Skull Island - birthplace of King-Kong.  It was really only a matter of time before those two monkeys engaged in an elaborate mating ritual involving the climbing of tall buildings and scaring intoxicated, toothless hunters.

Where was I?  Oh yes, of course - the Barefoot Bandit.  Clearly this was a case of a child drowning in the Lake Huron sized shadow of his follicly-saturated parents.  Cast in this light, it's no wonder he both hid from and egged-on the authorities, doing his best to garner a larger following of Facebook friends than the P-units.

This story is over and we are definitely moving on, but what we may have not seen coming is the inspirational effect this lad's toe jam has had on other criminals in the underground bandit world.

In the spirit of Jesse James (not the tattoo gunslinging one), I present you the first awesome copy cat of the Barefoot Bandit - and I'm not making this up - the "Granny Panty Bandit."

At 3 AM last Tuesday morning, a 51 year-old woman robbed a McDonalds in Oklahoma wearing a "white stretch girdle" around her face as a mask.  Don't believe me?  Here's a link to the story and a picture (disclaimer: any damage to property or bodily harm caused by violent convulsions and/or spitting of liquids brought on by this image is purely on purpose and you can thank me later).          

Now, anyone who's ever seen an episode of Cops - or lives in certain parts of Florida - knows that white stretch girdles are actually granny panties (not that there's anything wrong with that), hence the name.

It's been rumored (by me) that this robber stated, "stick'em up, or I'll put these things on" during the attempt.  Money was exchanged faster than an octogenarian can say, "Bingo!"

The list of unorthodox bandits doesn't end here.  The next on the list - and again, I am NOT making this up - is the "Bouquet Bandit."  From the article at Reuters:

Dubbed the "bouquet bandit" by local news media, Pemberton is accused of pulling out a note demanding money -- first from under a potted plant and then from inside a bouquet of flowers -- and handing it to the bank tellers.

This bandit tried gold jewelry on his first attempts, but quickly found out the banks were getting the better deal.   He then tried boxes of chocolate, but had a hard time making the exchange with female tellers who were on diets, which naturally led him to employ flowers.

Ladies and gentlemen of the internet jury, I give you Evidence C:

The Force was with a man when he robbed a bank wearing a Darth Vader mask and a cape.

Armed with a gun instead of a light saber, the man entered a Chase bank branch in Setauket, New York, about 50 miles east of New York City, on Thursday and demanded cash from a teller, police said.

This particular bandit has been branded - you guessed it - the "This Is No Halloween Costume It's A Lifestyle 40 Year-old Virgin Living With Mom Bandit."  There's no proof, but this writer would bet a dozen still-in-their-original-packages Princess Leia figurines that this guy's only friend Skip was waiting in an '83 Honda hatchback in full Storm Trooper gear.

Next up for public adoration?  The "Trout Shin Guard Bandit." I may or may not have court recognized proof of the actual existence of this criminal (I'm sure it's only a matter of time).  Inspired by the recent conclusion of the World Cup and for his love of fishing, this bandit affixed fresh rainbow trout to his shins in the hopes of thwarting any attempts at slide-tackling him during his getaway.  Estimated Facebook fans: 1,438,330.

Gee, this horrible economy is getting terribly entertaining.  It's a good thing we have so many heroes to cheer on.

Maniac Drivers

If you’re like me and have an attention span greater than a standard keyboard, you also have probably noticed that there are a lot of bad drivers out there.  Luckily for us, I’m a trained journalist and have done some research.  By trained I mean I’ve become proficient with Google search. 

There are three kinds of drivers in this world: 1.) Drivers who go too fast, 2.) drivers who go too slow, and 3.) drivers who are completely insane, devoid of any rationality, and probably on the juice (anabolic and/or apple).  

You and I both know that we are always going the perfect speed for any given situation and we’re never the “jerk” out there.  So, this leaves us with only two possibilities for those who cut us off without using a turn signal, swerve across four lanes of highway to make an exit, or tailgate us doing 80 only to violently peel out from behind our car, drive beside us and flip us a spiny, calcium carbonate covered arm.

This culprit could possibly be someone from Green Peace, but they drive solar-powered vehicles made from hollowed-out trees incapable of going faster than a slug, so that leaves us with only one conceivable option – a Starfish.

You see, these oceanic creatures are not like you and me.  When we drive we generally recognize the existence of traffic law.  Oh sure, we don’t always adhere to the less significant laws such as stopping for red lights, but overall we’re courteous to one another.  Not the starfish.  The starfish’s sole purpose in life is to lie on the ocean floor and wait to be eaten and/or bullied by much stronger species – like the sea cucumber. 

So, it comes as no surprise that when washed up on the beach, these five-armed bandits jump at the opportunity for some action.  With a pocket full of sand dollars, they hot-wire the nearest car and set out in search of the closest casino to be reunited with their distant, four-times removed, cousin – the one-armed bandit.  It’s not all fun and games.  If the starfish fails to find a casino that comps drinks, they dry-out and die – hence the urgency and suicidal speed on the road.  The starfish’s favorite drink is a gin and tonic.           

Oh sure they look cute nestled in a tide pool, but get them behind the wheel of an F-350 and it's a totally different story.  Take it from me, twisted metal and dismembered crustaceans is not a pretty sight.  So when you see one of these drivers out there, lock up your lobsters and get to a safe place - such as your local aquarium - immediately.  

Why an aquarium?  I feel silly explaining this, because it seems so obvious.  Aquariums are correctional facilities for all sea-faring criminals and the last place any self-respecting Echinoderm would want to be.   

"But Cynicus, what if my town doesn't have an aquarium?"  

A town without an aquarium is a lawless outpost where a lemon shark named Sparky calls all the shots.  In this place, the Sushi holds the knives and the chef’s special is Turf and Turf.  In other words, not a place you want to call home. 

Be safe out there friends.  You never know when you’ll get in between a starfish and his favorite gaming destination.

Some of you may be wondering about other dangerous distractions with drivers.  A recent Pew research study found that nine in ten 34-45 year-olds drive and talk on their cell phones at the same time – very unnerving indeed.

My response to the survey is two-fold.  First, wow, I didn’t know starfish lived that long and, secondly, how do they get their appendages to dial such tiny keys?

Ho Ho Ho, Green Giant

While strolling about the backyard for an early morning walkabout (sometimes I wake up in the same place I went to sleep and it disturbs me, so I just need to get out of the house to clear my head), something caught my eye in the corner of the yard.  Actually, "caught my eye" is probably the wrong phrase.  "Blocked the rising sun" is more accurate.

"Holy Mother of Papa Smurf! What in Heidi Montag's name is that?"

"That wasn't here last night," I thought.

Here's what I saw:

Notice the one gallon gasoline container I put beside the growth, so that you too could fully appreciate the sheer enormity of this beast.  I pragmatically chose the gas just in case I need to quickly douse and burn this bad boy if it ever threatens to overtake my house.  I could have used a plastic toy soldier to exaggerate its height, but I'm not one to employ the deceitful trick of exaggeration.

Now, I'm no botanist, but I know a stalk of sweet corn when I see one.  It's either that or a Redwood.  It can't be anything else, because I Googled both "massively tall sequoia" and "tall skinny vegetable stalk grown in the Midwest" and only could connect this life-form growing in my backyard with these two species and an SUV the size of Pittsburgh.  I do remember hearing something about Redwoods only growing on the West Coast, but then again we have had a lot rain this season.  I mean, if a large animal like the Ostrich can fly, anything is possible.

Some other possibilities were found, but drawing any correlations would be stretching it.  A true scientist never stretches, with exception to picking up a dropped beaker.  A true scientist also never eats a large meal prior to swimming.

While taking this majestic sight in, my dog Gunner trotted over and peed on it, so it must be a good thing.  He only pees on objects valuable to my family, like our raspberry bushes, the sofa, or his sister Piper.  Rest assured, if this was some kind of Amazonian Yard Weed he would have steered clear.  God knows if it were broccoli he would've eaten it.

To determine the real value of my Sweet Redwood Corn Tree I looked up the records for height on both corn and Redwoods.  The record for corn is 16 ft. according to Guinness.  The tallest Redwood on record is 379 ft.

I'm going for it.  Here's my logic.  The corn record is going to be cake.  In a mere twelve hours my prized crop grew 3 and a half feet.  That's 42 green inches total, or 7 feet per day for you math aficionados out there (What's that on your shirt? Ah ha! Made you look Urkel!).  According to Texas Instruments this little big guy will surpass the Redwood record in approximately 54 days.  

So in a couple months, I'm having the neighborhood over and I'm lighting this sucker up for a celebration that will make Burning Man look like a bunch of kids hovered around an Easy-Bake Oven.  You bring the movie and I'll provide the popcorn.

Adios Futbol, Hello Starbucks

Hola amigos.  You feel a little different today don't you?  Perhaps a little less care free and no longer in harmony with your brethren around the planet.

As you should, Americans across the country are feeling hung-over (four shots of whiskey, six beers, and a baker's dozen Yagermeister night caps, hung-over).  The effects from our month-long binge into universal culture have caught up to us.  With Spain's victory over the Netherlands, our European inspired global holiday has come to an end.

Do you hear that?  I don't either.  It's silence.  We may never hear the soothing sounds of the vuvuzela ever again.  Thanks to their Gulfstream IV jet engine equivalent sound pressure, we might not hear anything else either.  But, that would be a blessing.  What earthly sound could ever replace those heavenly horns, the screams of intoxicated, Harry Potter scarf wearing fans, or grown men's cries of Shakespearian agony as they plummet 27 inches down to the unforgiving, grassy surface below?  Anything else would leave us feeling empty and longing for the good old days when soccer was futbol and a 32 year-old heterosexual American male need not feel shame in ordering a pint of Birra Moretti.

So, my dear friends, the sun has set on our utopian paradise.  Our freakish tans from shotgun-like sun block application juxtaposed with our "jealous of Caucasian" skin are fading.  Please turn in your Universal Citizenship cards at your departure gates.  It's time to put that Adidas track suit back in the closet until Halloween, stop using that fake British accent to impress the girls at the pub, start using that fake Australian accent to pick up the ladies at the bar, and do what the Greeks won't do - go to work.  And if you want to make good on your promise to perm your hair like Carles Puyol, that's your call, but don't expect me to be your wingman.  I already have plans that year.

Until 2014, we must don the cloak of Americanism and press on, pretending not to pine for the world's acceptance and resigning ourselves to watch other "sports" with much less drama.  I’m referring games that brutishly score much more than once within a 190 minute period.  As unsophisticated as baseball and American futbol may seem, we must break open a case of Coors and fool one another into thinking we are having a better time than the rest of the world, one inflammable hot wing-flavored belch at a time.   

What's that?  Yeah, I know we have a professional league here, but let's face it; Dick’s Sporting Goods Park in Commerce City, Colorado lacks the international zest of a Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium in Port Elizabeth, South Africa.  It also lacks the vuvuzelas. 

The World Cup is like the Olympics - a competition between sovereign nations every four years.  When national pride - and potentially nuclear war - is at stake, anything can be interesting, like Ping Pong.  

The MLS is the equivalent of a U.S. Gymnastics League, if such a league existed.  Would you really want to watch the Topeka Springers take on the Chattanooga Chalks in a regular season Pommel Horse match?  I didn't think so, but throw in Kim Jong-Il and a sponsorship from South Korean based Samsung, and hot-shit we got ourselves a battle.  I'll go grab the red, white, and blue tights and you get the hand wraps - we wouldn't want to sprain our wrists slamming down the pints.        

  

In A League Of Their Own

Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring you your headline of the week:
Tired Gay succumbs to Dix in 200 meters

Poor old chap just couldn't go the distance.  

The money shot, er, I mean quote:

"It wasn't bad, but I was a little fatigued toward the end," Gay said. "I tried to stay relaxed and bring it home, but it wasn't enough.

 This "race" is part of the Prefontaine Classic Diamond League - an annual track-and-field styled competition started in the late 80's to foster camaraderie and recognition within the Gay/Lesbian/Bi-Sexual/Transgendered/Transexual/TransAm community.

Other events  include the 100 Meter Redneck Hurdles, 50 Store Shopping Sprint, Women's Log Saw, Faux-China Discus, and everyone's favorite team competition, the One Square Block Residential Renovation Relay where the fastest team not only wins the gold, but sees their property values skyrocket.

New events slated for the 2011 competition being held in South Beach are the Triple-Ribboned Triple Jump, Interpretative Pole Vault,  and in the All Competitors class, the highly-anticipated Best Mustache.

Dirty Laundry

I'm sure most of you with any penchant for watching the news, reading the paper, surfing the net, or breathing have heard the big news story this week.  You know the one about the big name celebrity whining in and out of court, making a big fuss, getting a prison sentence related to their past drug problems, and just being an all around diva queen.

Of course, I'm speaking of Manuel Noriega.

Some of you may be asking, "Who?" and you'd be right.  Manny, as his homies call him, hasn't been walking the streets of Panama City since around the time Reagan was handing George "The City Slicker" Bush Sr. the keys to the oval office.

Some of you may be asking, "Reagan who?" and I'd say, yes he did say that once.

Seriously, if you don't know who our 14th President was, do what I did and "Wiki" him.  Or just learn about U.S. Presidents like everyone else and wait for Reagan's face to appear on currency.  The Million Dollar bill is slated to release sometime in late 2011, for which - thanks to Washington's budgetary policies - you could use to purchase a Ford Fiesta.  Or, after accounting for the upcoming Sugar Tax, a 32 Oz. Slurpee®.  And your 8th grade math teacher said you'd never be a millionaire.  The joke's on you Mr. Abernathy!  You can take that Quadratic Equation and stick it where the Pythagorean Theorem doesn't equal C squared!  

Back to our pal Manny.

Noriega had served twenty years in a Florida Prison for drug trafficking before being extradited to France earlier this year, where he was sentenced this week for using French wineries to launder money - more on that in a minute.  Apparently, back in the day Manny was doing business with the infamous Medellin (pronounced May - Day - YEEEN!) cocaine cartel.  For the Entourage fans out there, you know how menacing Pablo Escobar is thanks to Vincent Chase's portrayal of him in the fictionally fictional film, Medellin.  Those dimples could wet the britches of even the bravest diaper-wearing Colombian orphans.

As for the money laundering, I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking "Don" Noriega paid off some winemakers to filter the cash through their businesses to legitimize the revenues as coming from wine sales.

Unfortunately, you're embarrassingly wrong.  No, it's a long protected secret that French Chardonnay has certain properties that kill bacteria and remove stains from natural surfaces.  Believe me, I read it on Wikipedia.  The discovery of these acidic qualities lend credibility to the rumor that Chardonnay is the magic ingredient in OxiClean®.  You see, Manual Antonio Noriega is afflicted with OCD, which manifests itself in his obsession with germs.  Manny literally needed his money to be clean.  

You, the discerning reader, is probably by now screaming, "But what was Billy Mays' involvement with the May-Day-YEEEN cartel?"

Sadly, we'll probably never know.  However, what we have discovered is the answer to the age old question of why the French have such a bad attitude.  Answer:  their wine smells like sweat and tastes like hand grease from all those laundered bills.  To get that bad taste out of my mouth I'd smoke effeminate looking cigarettes and eat 7 year-old cheese too.

It's clear that Manual Noriega is the fall guy here and his 7 year sentence is to keep France's seedy secret from getting out.  Well, thanks to my superior search engine investigation skills, the secret is now out to approximately 12 more people.        

Goregasm - The Tale of the Adductored Masseuse

Well no wonder the world is warming.  Al Gore (Al is short for Almost, as in Almost President, Almost cool, and Almost sane) is getting hotter than a Penthouse Forum letter.

Here's an excerpt from the Washington Examiner setting the mood on his latest publicized escapade:

The police report of the masseuse's complaint is 73 pages long and extremely detailed. According to the document, she got a call from the front desk of the trendy Hotel Lucia on the night of Oct. 24, 2006. The hotel had a special guest. Could she come at 10:30 p.m.?

She went to Gore's room carrying a folding massage table and other equipment.

Nothing preheats my oven better than a good police report.  Other equipment?  My interest is officially piqued if you know what I mean.  Wink, wink.

Gore, whom she had never met, greeted her with a warm embrace. 

Ooh la la, things are starting to steam up and fast, just the way I like it.  Nothing's worse than these forum letters that try to pretend they're a real story with plot, character dynamics, and all that other horse shit.

Gore.  What a sexy, powerful name - like Cher.  He should seriously drop Almost and go with it.

"The hug went on a bit long, and I was taken just a bit aback by it," the masseuse told police. 

You coy little kitten you.  Trying to play hard to get, eh?  Cynicus likey.

But she went along because Gore "was a VIP and a powerful individual and the Hotel Lucia had made it clear to me by inference that they were giving him 'the royal treatment.'"

Nothing less for the man who guides the galaxy's celestial bodies.  You know, if it weren't for our Sun God sacrificing his wealth to preach the noble tenets of climate change, we'd be lopping off frost bitten digits in the Keys and feebly attempting to reattach melting faces in Minnesota.   All hail the mighty Goracle!

Gore said he was tired from travel and described in detail the massage he wanted. It included work on the adductor muscles, which are on the inside of the thighs. "I mentally noted that a request for adductor work is a bit unusual," the masseuse told police, because it can be "a precursor to inappropriate behavior by a male client."

Awww yeah, the temperature's rising higher than a million unused carbon credits burning in the desert!  Bring on the inappropriate, you naughty little oil vixen.

Gore also requested work on his abdomen. When that began, "He became somewhat vocal with muffled moans, etc.," the masseuse recounted. Gore then "demand[ed] that I go lower." When she remained focused on a "safe, nonsexual" area, Gore grew "angry, becoming verbally sharp and loud."

Tension?  Hmmm. I'm not sure where they're going with this, but I'll go along.  I mean the "muffled moans" from an AARP member in good standing is enough to send any hot blooded American woman into a sexual tizzy.  Am I right ladies?

The masseuse asked Gore what he wanted. "He grabbed my right hand, shoved it down under the sheet to his pubic hair area, my fingers brushing against his penis," she recalled, "and said to me, 'There!' in a very sharp, loud, angry-sounding tone." When she pulled back, Gore "angrily raged" and "bellowed" at her.

What?  Is she serious?  Now she's gone and made "The Gore" angry.  Talk about a mood killer.  Nice one lady.

Then, abruptly, the former vice president changed tone. It was "as though he had very suddenly switched personalities," she recalled, "and began in a pleading tone, pleading for release of his second chakra there."

No woman can resist the legendary Second Chakra (second only to the First Chakra, which is reserved for official Presidents).  It's a good thing this woman is dealing with a spiritual shaman.  Any common man would have given up on the encounter right then.

She wanted to end the session, but Gore "wrapped me in an inescapable embrace" and "caressed my back and buttocks and breasts." She tried to get away -- in the process calling Gore a "crazed sex poodle" -- but the former vice president was too strong for her.

Get away?  I'm starting to think this woman may be a lesbian.  But even then, it IS Algore and sexual identity shouldn't come into play.

"Crazed sex poodle?"  No ma'am, that's no poodle.  That's Man Bear Pig himself.

The accuser said Gore maneuvered her into the bedroom. His iPod docking station was there, he told her, and he wanted her to listen to "Dear Mr. President," a lachrymose attack on George W. Bush by the singer Pink.

Nice play Mr. Almost President.  Only a true Master of Foreplay would know that bringing your most intimate fixations into the bedroom is more entrancing than a thousand candles.

"As soon as he had it playing, he . . . pleaded, grabbed me, engulfed me in embrace, tongue kissed me, massaged me, groped by breasts and painfully squeezed my nipples through my clothing, pressed his pelvis against mine, rubbed my buttocks with his hands and fingers and rubbed himself against my crotch, saying, 'You know you want to do it.'"

I know this is a fantasy and I'm supposed to be turned on by all of this, but not once have I read erotica or watched porn where the lead said, "you know you want to do it."  It seems like the woman should be a willing participant.  Also, this description is a bit violent, kind of like a rape scene.  I'm going to give this story two thumbs down for not including enough romance.

Byron York really missed the mark on this piece.  He should go back to just covering politics.

And Citizen Gore should just go back to his mansion, where he'll continue concocting mad schemes of bilking the world of its wealth, like a morally bankrupt old man, incapable of love and desperate for the days when he thought he mattered.    

"Rosebud."