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."

Dogs: A Comparative Study in Intelligence

I have two dogs and I love them both the same, but as far as intelligence goes, they're on opposite ends of the standardized test percentiles.

Here's Piper:

Notice she's alert, focused, creeping, and has a look that seems to say: "I know your every move before you do, who's the bitch now?"


Here's Gunner:

Gunner has Ball.


Now let's take a quick peak at each animal's profile before we move on to analysis.

Piper 
Breed:  Purebred Beagle - known for their craftiness and problem solving.
Height:  13"
Weight:  26 lbs.
Favorite Food:  sharp cheddar cheese (shredded), grilled chicken, and a spot of Earl Grey on an overcast morning.
Favorite Activities:  stalking and hunting enemy animals, sudoku
Recognized Vocabulary:  fluent in English, some Portuguese and Russian
Favorite Phrase:  "Piper, stare at me while I yell at you to come inside."
Specialty:  Telepathic
Highest Level of Training:  B+ in Advanced Algebra  
Least Proud Moment:  Got caught breaking into Petco at 3 in the morning.

Gunner

Breed:  Mutt

Height:  30"

Weight:  90 lbs.

Favorite Food:  grass, toilet paper, and broccoli 

Favorite Activities:  Ball, humping large men

Recognized Vocabulary:  Ball, Bug (we're not sure he actually knows the difference between these two)

Favorite Phrase:  "Get Ball."

Specialty:  Ball

Highest Level of Training:   NA

Least Proud Moment:  Licked the inside of a fully heated oven.

Alright, now that we have a good overview of each animal, let's dive into some of the intellectual differences shall we?  

1.  Vet Visits:  

Gunner loves the Vet - it's like a new adventure every time.  Piper is still plotting revenge for the time four years ago when the Vet took away her capacity to make babies.  I caught her just a week ago outside building a mock-up of the Vet Hospital out of twigs and bark mulch.  I think she's planning an assault.

2.  Mind Reading:  

Gunner - not even a little.  Piper is telepathic.  How do I know this?  Because every morning when the first conscious thought enters my brain (still haven't as much as moved in bed, mind you) Piper cries out, "I know you're awake jerk-off, now come get me out of this crate."  Every morning.  First thought.  

For this reason it's entirely impossible to trick Piper into doing something - she resents the fact that we think we can pull one over on her.  Medicine wrapped in cheese?  Oh yeah, that really ticks her off.  

3.  Guilt:

Piper could drop a deuce in Gunner's food bowl with me watching on and deny any culpability with a wag of her tail as I scream "Bad Dog!"  Meanwhile, Gunner tucks his tail between his legs and drops to the floor in submission, because he's really sorry someone took a dump in his dish.  

4.  Hunting:

Piper takes a very reasoned and methodical approach to hunting: track, stalk, attack.  Gunner had no idea there was a squirrel 3 feet behind him - he was busy playing Ball - until Piper sprints past him.  By the time he catches on, the squirrel is a few houses down enjoying a nice peanut brunch, but Gunner insists on continuing to jump up on and bark at the nearest tree.  Piper's already stalking a bird on the other side of the yard.    

5.  Bugs:

This is actually were Gunner has the advantage in pragmatism.  He responds to the distress call - "Gunner!  Bug!" - locates, identifies, and kills.  One strike, one kill, one snack.  Efficient.  

Piper's into torture I'm afraid.  Oh sure, she responds, locates, and identifies, but the kill part is a larger production for her.  She likes to take a snip at a wing here, a little nibble at a leg there.  A swat of the paw is often employed.  You see, the thing you have to understand with Piper is that she takes a bug in the house personally.  It's her house and a strict code of etiquette has been breached.  She wants the intruder to have time to think about what they've done as they clumsily slink off on their two remaining legs to their drawn-out and excruciating deaths. 

Conclusion:  Going through this little exercise has helped me understand the differences between my two beloved dogs and how this has no bearing on preference - I like them both a lot.  I think I understand now how people can love their stupid children as much as their smart ones, because dumb kids can “catch bugs” too.  Very eye opening indeed.  

Black Holes Are Racist Whores, Says NAACP

by Cynicus Sarcasmos - Staff Reporter


(CynicusNewsWire) June 12 - The day started off tranquil, pleasant, and "a little boring" according to Leon Jenkins of the Los Angeles chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP).

"It was a morning that began like any other for me.  I ate my breakfast while I read the paper, scanning the stories for any racial injustices towards colored people.  I remember planning to go to the store to pick up a new battery for my hearing aid."

Mr. Jenkins never would make it to the store for that new battery.  What occurred next changed his plans and injected new meaning into his day, perhaps even the entire week.

"My wife came into the room and threw a greeting card down on the kitchen table and said, 'sign it.'  It was for our grandson who just graduated college."

Jenkins continued, "I was shocked.  I didn't think he stood a chance with all those White Devils running academics at that hotbed of racism and inequality called UC Berkeley.  They're not exactly known for tolerance you know."

The real shocker for Jenkins wouldn't come from his grandson's diploma.  The real "heart-stopper" came in the form of a seemingly innocuous greeting card meant to convey the heart-felt congratulations for a well-deserved academic achievement.

"I couldn't believe my ears.  The card seemed to be making light of Black Holes."

So, what's the issue with Black Holes?  The definition as stated in the highly reputable encyclopedia site Wikipedia, states:

A black hole, according to the general theory of relativity, is a region of space from which nothing, including light, can escape. 

 
"Black holes are always sucking on things and destroying stars' lives.  They're the whores of the universe and something every graduate should take seriously.  One back-seat ride through the galaxy could ruin a young man's reputation.  They're racist too.  Why do they have to be black?  Because a white scientist in a white lab coat said so?  How in the hell does he know? Is he the Black Hole's cosmic pimp?" asked Jenkins.

"This card can't be allowed to push it's corrupt message on the black youths of America.  Only God knows how much damage it has already done to young people thinking that Black Holes are good company."
  
Mr. Jenkins took this dire situation to the media, where he knew he'd get the word out.  ABC7.com has full coverage and the remaining story in the following video, including sound bites from the outlandish and wholly inappropriate greeting card.



Cynicus' Take

This type of paranoia and overreach just makes the Los Angeles chapter of the NAACP look less relevant and more racist than ex-White House correspondent Helen Thomas.

Speaking of Helen Thomas - the dried-out windbag - did you know she started out her career covering sports? That's right, she covered the Ullamaliztli Ballgame Championship of 1442 A.D., and incidentally is when she lost her virginity - to the entire losing team as punishment ("a fate worse than death" as referenced by Aztec leader, Itzcoatl) for their shameful performance.

Back to the matter at hand.  The card's audio clearly says "hole" and not whore.  In a rational world this would be a non-story.  The press conference and sound bites from the video make me seriously wonder if the NAACP would have given two shits if there was such thing as a White Hole and they thought the card referenced a white "whore."

Even so, what's wrong with warning young people on the dangers of prostitutes?  Like Black Holes, they really can destroy a star's career, just ask Jesse James.

Perhaps to avoid future confusion we should shorten Black Hole to "Black Ho."  No one will ever confuse "ho" with "whore."

Go Compound Sand

by Cynicus Sarcasmos - Staff Reporter

June 9 (CynicusNewsWire) - Today in economic news, the United States' national debt has been projected to hit $19.6 Trillion by 2015.  The country's debt was at $7.5 Trillion just last year.   

When an anonymous source close to the White House was asked to comment on the compounding figure he said, "Yes, this is all by design.  We're really doing our best to keep setting more records than the rising price of gold."

When informed that the national debt sets a new record every second, our source said, "Yes, well, we're very good at growing money.  Some of us have economic degrees from Harvard you know."

After having the fact pointed out that "debt" is the opposite of "growing money" the anonymous source was quoted as saying, "what, are you sure?" 

Yes, very much so. 

"Oh, [fudge]."

Yes, indeed, oh fudge. 

"Um, uh, don't worry.  We have it all under control.  We'll just print more money and, you know, uh, tax the shit out of business people.  To liberally quote our President, we'll 'kick some ass.'"

When offered that a reduction in government spending could play a major role in the overall solution, the White House source reportedly burst out in laughter which continued for several minutes until he fashioned a cigar out of one hundred dollar bills, lit it with a gold-plated zippo, smoked it, and then used the tip of his A. Testoni Italian leather shoe to crush the ashes out on the pavement.

"Don't be silly," the source said, the last wisp of green smoke drafting out through his stained front teeth.  "The people need us.  They'd starve without our generosity." 

Our confidential source was then picked up by a limo and dropped off at his office 15 feet down the street.

The American Diamondback was unavailable for comment, but his rattle could be heard echoing throughout the country.