Bush says faith enabled him to beat drinking, wife

In Baltimore earlier this week, President Bush made a pointed reference to his “addiction,” saying his turn to Christianity gave him the strength and wisdom to beat the bottle – and, somewhat shockingly – his wife.

“Used to be whenever I felt frustrated or depressed and life was getting me down, I’d turn to the bottle for comfort,” Bush said during a visit to the Jericho Program, a project that helps former prisoners deal with addiction problems. “Nowadays I turn to the Bible. And Good Lord, what a difference it’s made! They don’t call it the Good Book for nothing, heh-heh.”

Bush then took his audience by surprise when he said, in addition to providing him solace, his exploration of the scriptures changed his relationship with his wife, now First Lady Laura Bush.

“My faith gave me the inner strength to end my love affair with the lovely brown lady they call whiskey,” Bush said. “On top of that, the Bible told me it was OK to give Laura a good whack every now and then when she gets out of line. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great lady, and I love the heck out of her. But sometimes she needs a little of that old-time discipline.”

Bush has acknowledged a 1976 arrest for drunken driving and claims he quit drinking for good the day after he turned 40. And it was the Bible, he confessed, that gave him the courage to stay on the wagon back in his early days of sobriety.

“I remember one boiling hot August day when we were reading this book, I think it’s called Evasions or something, don’t quote me. And I wanted to quit for the day and go to the ballgame and get me a hot dog and a lemonade. But dang if that red-ass pastor didn’t make me stay, and am I ever glad he did. Check it out:

“Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their husbands in every thing.”

“You can imagine the lightning bolt that went off in my head when I discovered that passage,” Bush said. “It was like a whole new world opened up to me, big and beautiful as the sky over West Texas. You know, you grow up in the modern age and they say that giving your best gal a backhand in the chops when she speaks out of turn, they say that is “domestic abuse.” Back in the old days, they called it getting right with God.”

Bush then cited a passage from I Timothy 2: 11-14, which he says reinforced his newfound belief that “a good woman will shut her trap unless her man tells her otherwise.”

“Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression”

“Dang, I wish I knew that back when I was throwin’ down my old buddy Jack Daniel’s like them Russkies was gonna nuke us before I could get to the bottom of the bottle,” the president said. “When Laura said I had to choose between her and the bottle, one good uppercut woulda ended that dispute right there. Heh-heh.”

Accepting a higher power, Bush said, has been the key to his presidency. And, he added, a day with the Bible beats a “100-degree day with a bourbon hangover.”

“The Bible’s the best book ever, even better than “The Pet Goat,” he said. “It’s simple and straightforward. Pretty much paints it clear as day. A woman should be silent and still and let her man do the talkin’ for her.

“And I’m done with the drinking, for real. But if I ever do fall off the old wagon and renew acquaintances with old Jack, Laura ain’t gonna give me no sass about it. I guarantee you that. There can be only one president in the family, and one decider.

“Thank God for the Bible!”

Move over, Whitey!

Clockwise from upper left, Frederick Douglass, W.E.B. DuBois, Marcus Garvey, Michael David Smith, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King have all taken up the cause of racial equality in America.

Frederick Douglass? Malcolm X? Martin Luther King?

Shit, them bitches got nothing on my man Michael!

Meet Michael David Smith, the latest in a proud and courageous lineage of Americans who have risked everything to fight for racial equality and diversity.

Henceforth let us refer to him simply as Michael X. He’s earned it.

Michael X writes for AOL’s Fanhouse. Don’t let the external whiteness and the nerdy countenance fool you. That’s just a mask to get over on Whitey. Michael’s one badass dude. In his penetrating deconstruction of the social milieu of that establishment shindig they call the Super Bowl, Michael X had the rare courage to tell it like it is:

When it comes to the troubled realm of sportswriting, one problem threatens the entire craft: Too much Whitey.

Michael X did a little census taking at a Super Bowl press conference and discovered, much to his shock, that about 140 of the 162 media types assembled were white men. Lame! And than he risked the opprobrium of his colleagues by reporting this horrifying news.

That, my friends, is the definition of courage.

Long live Michael X. Keep the faith, brother, and don’t let the man get you down.

Joe Paterno to top recruit Terrelle Pryor: You might think Penn State’s not for you, but what the heck do you know?

Joe Paterno, the college football coaching Methuselah from Penn State, dusted off his traveling sales routine and took a quixotic run at the nation’s No. 1 recruit today.

Paterno, 81, traveled to Jeannette, Pa., just outside of Pittsburgh, in an 11th-hour bid to recruit quarterback Terrelle Pryor, who has shown great ambivalence about the Nittany Lions and seems headed to Big 10 rival Ohio State.

Once there, Paterno wasted little time in getting his point across:

“I’ve heard you say you don’t think Penn State’s the place for you, and I wanted to ask you this: What the heck do you know, young man?”

Paterno’s approach apparently caught the youngster off guard.

“I’m very humbled that you came to see me in person and all, and I respect all that you’ve accomplished at Penn State, but … ” Pryor stammered before he was interrupted by the surly octogenarian.

“I asked you a question, young man, and when an elder asks you a question, you show respect and answer politely: What the heck do you know? You ever heard of Sammy Baugh? Bobby Layne? Sonny Jurgensen? Y.A. Tittle? I didn’t think so. Did you know I played quarterback – and defensive back – when I was at Brown? I know a thing or two about a thing or two, young man. Trouble with you kids today, you’re coddled and spoiled and unwilling to listen to anybody who says something you don’t want to hear.”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t know about the area up there,” said the flummoxed teenager, referring to State College, Pa., a rural hamlet isolated in the center of the state.

“You don’t know about that area? Let me tell you something about that area, young man,” Paterno said. “That area is a place where a young knucklehead such as yourself can grow into a man, learn to be a good citizen and, if you pay your dues and are patient and have a little bit of luck, can develop into a pretty fine college quarterback.”

Pryor, 6-foot-6, 235-pound phenom who has narrowed his list of colleges to Ohio State, Michigan, Oregon and Penn State, couldn’t seem to forestall Paterno’s attack.

“Another thing you might not know, young man, but we got another pretty fine quarterback from around here a few years back,” the coach said. “His name is Anthony Morelli, and he didn’t think Penn State was for him, either. But we changed his mind. And he stayed patient, waited his turn and was our starter for his junior and senior seasons. A lot of people like to talk about Tim Tebow this and Tim Tebow that, but Anthony showed a little bit about what maturity can do. He threw 31 TD passes in his career, only one fewer than Mr. Heisman Trophy had (last season).”

Pryor thanked Paterno, wished him luck and said it it’d been a great honor to get a visit from a football legend.

“An honor? An honor? Give me a break,” Paterno said. “What the heck do you know, young man?”

12 simple rock and roll songs, or 12 keys to the Big Game? Why don’t we let Axl Rose decide?

When settling any dispute, the first and only wisdom one needs is the gentle poetry of that philosopher of the American heartland, William Bruce Rose Jr., aka W. Axl Rose.

This rock icon cut his teeth singing in a Pentecostal choir in Bumfuck, Indiana, and getting molested by a laundry list of father figures. If he doesn’t have anything meaningful to say about America’s Great Day of Indulgence and Media Overkill, who the fuck does?

Therefore we will mine his insightful and timeless explorations of into the dark abyss of the American Dream to divine the winner of Super Bowl XLII. Hey, it’s more sophisticated than interpreting the entrails of pigs, and it’s more sporting than taking a tire iron to Tom Brady’s right knee.

As it turns out, Guns N’ Roses’ seminal album “Appetite for Destruction” has stood as an accurate Rosetta Stone for picking Super Bowl winners since its 1987 debut.

To date, it’s an astounding 19-1. (Like all self-respecting handicappers, “Appetite for Destruction” erroneously forecast the Seahawks to beat the Steelers in ‘06, only to see Jerramy Stevens turn into an even bigger bitch and the referees get flag-happy.) But the point remains, there’s no need to consult your Las Vegas bookie: Thanks to G n’ fuckin’ R, we got the results right now.

The Songs:

1. “Welcome to the Jungle,” 4:31 (Rose, Slash)
2. “It’s So Easy,” 3:21 (McKagan, Arkeen)
3. “Nightrain,” 4:26 (Rose, Slash, Stradlin, McKagan)
4. “Out ta Get Me,” 4:20 (Rose, Slash, Stradlin)
5. “Mr. Brownstone,” 3:46 (Slash, Stradlin)
6. “Paradise City,” 6:46 (Rose, Slash, Stradlin, McKagan)
7. “My Michelle,” 3:39 (Rose, Stradlin)
8. “Think About You,” 3:50 (Stradlin)
9. “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” 5:56 (Rose, Slash, Stradlin, McKagan)
10. “You’re Crazy,” 3:15 (Rose, Slash, Stradlin)
11. “Anything Goes,” 3:25 (Rose, Stradlin, Weber)
12. “Rocket Queen,” 6:13 (Rose, Slash, Stradlin)

Their meaning for the Giants and Patriots:

1. “Welcome to the Jungle”

AKA: The Super Bowl. Where legends are born and fools become household jokes (remember Eugene Robinson?).

This is the big time. Both teams come in flying high after winning their conference titles, and neither wants to become a footnote to history and end its season on the ultimate down note. Life however, is cruel, and one will suffer just that fate.

Axl says: “When you’re high you never, ever want to come down. So down. So down. So down.”

2. “It’s So Easy”

Bill Belichick agrees. His life, the Patriots, and everyone associated with a Boston franchise must feel the same way. Beyond their arrogant self-esteem lies a genuine distaste for anyone who opposes them. Sort of George Bush, Karl Rove and Dick Cheney rolled into one Machiavellian, misanthropic football coach.

Axl says: “I see you standin’ there. You think you’re so cool. Why don’t you just … Fuck off!”

3. “Nightrain”

I don’t know how much MD 20/20 he’s been drinking lately, but little Tommy Brady seems to fill all the right expectations.

Axl says: “Well I’m a West Coast struttin’, one bad mother, got a rattlesnake suitcase under my arm. Said I’m a mean machine, been drinking gasoline, and honey you can make my motor hum.”

4. “Out ta Get Me”

If ever Randy Moss had a theme song, this would be it. After running over a reporter in the Twin Cities and pantomiming a mooning of the Lambeau faitfhul, he’s battled accusations of laziness, double-teams, and now domestic violence. But nothing seems to slow him down.

Axl says: “Their out ta get me. They wont catch me. I’m fuckin’ innocent. So you can suck me.”

5. “Mr. Brownstone”

I’d never accuse this washed-up has been of a once-promising quarterback of heroin abuse, but Drew Bledsoe has to feel a little like he’s been dancin’ with this title-track drug.

The former No. 1 overall pick has now watched two nobodies replace him and become NFL superstars. For his sanity, at least, Tony Romo and the Cowboys will be at home watching the big game as well.

Axl says: “Now I get up around whenever. I used to get up on time. But that old man, he’s a real motherfucker gonna kick him on down the line.”

6. “Paradise City”

I can assure you, it ain’t Detroit with its Nike’s buffed and its collars starched or New Orleans apres le déluge. But for one of these two franchises, Glendale, Arizona, is gonna feel like a special place.

Axl says: “Take me down to the Paradise City where the grass is green and the girls are pretty. Oh won’t you please take me home.”

But he also said …

“The surgeon general says it’s hazardous to breathe. I’d have another cigarette but I can’t see … tell me who you’re gonna believe?”

And you know what that means? ‘Cause if you do, let us know, too.

7. “My Michelle”

With no Jessica Simpson around, it’s hard to single someone out to play the role of Michelle. And just for the record, our boy Axl’s not talking about Michelle of sont-les-mots-qui-vont-tres-bien-ensemble fame. But if you take a close look at the lyrics, you might come to the same conclusion we did: only one person can fit the bill.

Though he wont be suiting up for either side, Hall of Famer Lawrence Taylor was coached by Belichick and is of course a Giants legend, so we’ll assume he’ll be at the game somewhere.

Axl says: “Your daddy works in porno now that mommy’s not around. She used to love her heroin, but now she’s underground. So you stay out late at night, and you do your coke for free. Drivin’ your friends crazy with your life’s insanity.”

8. “Think About You”

He might be in the stands as well, but Tiki Barber has got to feel just a little absurd after giving up on this Giants team and publicly denouncing Eli’s leadership. Trash-talkin’ Tiki’s probably more responsible than anyone for the media’s universal evisceration and condemnation of little brother. Somehow, the world got tipped on its head, the axis creaked, the continents shuddered and Eli fucking Manning is in the Super Bowl. Sometimes, anything is possible.

Axl says: “Say baby you been lookin’ real good, I remember when we met. Funny how it never felt so good, it’s a feelin’ that I know, I know I’ll never forget.”

9. “Sweet Child o’ Mine”

Unfortunately for the Big Brother Manning, Eli might be hoping for a little motherly love after the Patriots have had two weeks to dissect his weaknesses and deconstruct his reportedly fragile psyche.

Axl says: “Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place where as a child I’d hide and pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by.”

10. “You’re Crazy”

This seems to apply to any and all Giants fans who actually think their team has a chance. You can’t blame them, really. First of all they’re New Yorkers, and foolish arrogance is their birthright. And second, is the admittedly nutty idea of the Giants beating the Invincibles in the Super Bowl any more insane than the notion that they’d win three playoff games on the road was a month ago?

Axl says: “‘Cause you’re crazy. You’re fuckin’ crazy. Ya know you’re crazy. I said you’re crazy. Ooh you’re crazy. You know you’re crazy. Well you’re crazy. You know you’re crazy. You know you are – bring it down – you’re fuckin’ crazy!”

11. “Anything Goes”

But then again, don’t get too far ahead of yourselves, Patriot fans. “Any given Sunday” is much more than a shitty football movie. It also describes how you lucky bastards started this whole dynasty thing against the “Greatest Show on Turf” seven years ago. Could your comeuppance be lurking in the Arizona desert?

Axl says: “Tied up, tied down, up against the wall, be my Rubbermade baby and we can do it all. My way-your way, anything goes tonight.”

12. “Rocket Queen”

Axl says: “I’ve seen everything imaginable pass before these eyes. I’ve had everything that’s tangible, honey you’d be surprised. I’m a sexual innuendo in this burned out paradise. If you turn me on to anything you better turn me on tonight.”

Once again, we’re not quite sure what the hell our boy’s talking about, but we think it adds up to this: Pats 42, G-Men 20.

But then again, Mötley Crüe’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” picked the Sonics to make the playoffs this year.

With apologies to Michael Vick, Roger Clemens, Pacman Jones, Tim Donaghy, Tom Brady, Brett Favre and Jessica Simpson: Aubrey McClendon is our Sportsman of the Year

Yes it’s nearly February, and we apologize for our gross delinquency. Alas, the competition for the inaugural Unsportsmanlike Comment Sportsman of the Year award turned out far nastier than any of us had the vision to imagine.

There was disagreement. There was anger. Then came the feuding over artistic direction. Name-calling. Finger-pointing. Chest-pushing. Drunken threats. Poorly delivered punches. Homoerotic wrestling. And regret. Good Lord, regret.

We didn’t talk to each other for a full week, and then only in halting, distrusting, I-don’t-even-know-what-I’m-doing-here tones. Eye-contact was strenuously avoided. The absence of comaraderie sucked the air out of the room. Words were clipped and sullen. The future seemed very much in doubt.

Finally, hostilities eased. A torturous, pothole-riven road map to peace appeared. There was a little horse-trading, a bit of log-rolling. Future promises were exacted for current concessions. And at last a grudging deal stumbled out of the Boss Tweed backroom that was landscaped with frightening mounds of shitty domestic beer cans crowned with spent bottles of respectable Irish whiskey.

And that agreement was this: We are proud to announce that Aubrey McClendon, the billionaire co-owner of the NBA’s Seattle SuperSonics and ubiquitous CEO about town, reigns as our very first Sportsman of the Year.

The hell, you say? What did this vacant suit from Oklahoma City by way of Duke University, this graduate of the Rockefeller Institute for Latter-Day Robber Barons (located in a posh high-rise overlooking the Sixth Circle of Hell), ever do? He didn’t score a single touchdown. Didn’t sink a 3-pointer, win a PGA major or bounce back from cancer to win the final game of the World Series.

Furthermore, he isn’t up to his elbows in electrocuted dogs. He didn’t get caught with a steroid-infused syringe poking out of his fleshy buttocks. He even failed to fix a solitary NBA game, and God knows he’s got connections there.

Those were the arguments against his candidacy and why the process took such a virulent turn. Democracy, as they say, is messy business. Probably why we Americans don’t care much for it anymore. It hurts. It wounds. It scars.

But democracy it was, and thus did Aubrey prevail over a laundry list of worthy finalists: Tom Brady, Brett Favre. Michael Vick, Pacman Jones. Roger Clemens, Tim Donaghy. Everybody’s favorite brainless succubus, Jessica Simpson, got serious consideration for her role in seducing Tony Romo and taking down the hated Cowboys.

This list was endless, the conflict ugly.

But Aubrey McClendon need apologize to no man. His qualifications are impeccable. And it’s not like he just fell of the sporting turnip truck. He’s been out in the fields sewing his enviable legacy for years. In just one instance, he donated a quarter million dollars to the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth, Justice, the American Way and the Vivisection of John Kerry back in 2004. This man got chops.

But for the sporting year 2007, the following summation explains why Aubrey emerged victorious from this internecine squabble:

• Working behind the scenes, Aubrey developed a game plan to save 412 acres of pristine, rare Lake Michigan dune property from the rapacious clutches of conservationists and government socialists. He sacrificed $39.5 million of his hard-earned money to preserve this national treasure for multimillion-dollar homes and perhaps a world-class golf course or two. Of course, misguided, dune-hugging environmentalists are fighting him tree-and-branch, but we wish Aubrey all the best in this noble endeavor.



• In another stroke of behind-the-scenes humanitarianism, Aubrey used his considerable resources to fund an environmental group called the Clean Sky Coalition. The chairman of the Chesapeake Energy Corp., the natural gas giant from Oklahoma City, McClendon worked selflessly in an effort to scour the filthy plague of coal-based poison from our troubled skies.
• He continued his quiet but dignified fight to champion the wholesome tradition of marriage.
• He maintained his generous giving to candidates of all stripes for political office. Showing a no-nonsense, bipartisan spirit, Aubrey donated to the compaigns of no fewer than four candidates for President of the United States, including Hillary Clinton!
• While the above are all wonderful attributes for Sportsman of the Year, there was one gesture that towered above the rest and earned Aubrey the not-yet-coveted award. In a moment of rare candor in these times of cant and duplicity, McClendon had the courage to tell it as it was when he told a newspaper reporter that Clay Bennett’s ownership group never had intended to keep the Sonics in Seattle, where they are woefully underappreciated, and that the plan from the start was to rescue the team from their shameful digs and give them a loving home in the basketball hotbed of Oklahoma City.

Congratulations, Aubrey Kerr McClendon, you are a most-deserving Sportsman of the Year! Future winners can only hope to match the daunting standard you have set.

Ella Speed knows Rube’s not fooling around when he says, “Pipe down, woman, the boys are trying to get some drinking done”

Mr. Bongo Fury wants a piece of the Rube?

I’ve been busy, man. Why just last night I had to break up a bar fight and knock a bit of the old common sense into a belligerent 300-pounder at Charlie’s End of the World Pub in Bradford, Pa. Got the old rocket launcher twisted up a bit, mind you, but I came out OK. In any case I bet Two-ton Tony will listen up next time when the old Rube tells him to pipe down or else. As they say, you shoulda seen the other fellow.

Last week I saved a young woman in Wheeling, W.Va., name of Ella Speed, from the horror of future virginity. Before that I played in a rugby tournament sponsored by a tavern in Hamtramck, Michigan. We won the whole shootin’ match, and in all modesty I have to say yours truly played some pretty fair country rugby. So I had to stick around a while to collect my pay, which was all the Old Style the old Rube could swill. Suckers! Those fellas thought they were getting over on me. In between I stopped in Hoboken to audition for the role of the general in Mourning Becomes Electra. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

But I am back now and rarin’ to go, Mr. Fury. So you be sure to mind your P’s and Q’s and keep your eyes sharp, for you know a 100-mph fastball ain’t easy to spot in the failing twilight down in the Texas Hill Country.

Hillary, Edwards or Obama? Huckabee, Romney or McCain? Who gives a shit? Give me Brady, Favre and Clemens. Garnett, Pierce and Allen. Give me peace of mind. Now!

As Super Tuesday approaches, and another Democratic debate is set to take place tonight in Las Vegas, we are steadily becoming closer to discovering which two douchebags will compete in the final race for the White House. In the midst of all the presidential hoopla, I find myself enjoying more and more the sanctuary that is sports.
Give me a ballgame and a beer, I say. I want fastbreaks and grand slams. Hail Marys and highlight reels. This is what keeps me sane. This is the antidote to the morose mentality of awareness.
Not because it’s free of controversy, or because it’s some sort of welcome distraction to the political issues of the day. No, I welcome sports as an absolute and ongoing alternative to the harsh reality of our world.
Why would I want to overwhelm my senses with the latest he said/she said spat between Hillary and Barack? Why would I spend time trying to discern the differences in rhetoric from one candidate to the next? Perhaps most importantly, why would I want to inundate my brain with the intricacies of any pertinent issue?
Seriously, we know already – give it a rest. Millions of Americans don’t have health care, there’s a war in Iraq, the planet will self-destruct sometime within the next 50 years – what the hell do you want me to do about it? Hopefully nothing that requires me to miss a first pitch, a tip-off or a coin toss. If that’s the case, we’re all in trouble.

What can I say? Do I care about the needs of others? Yes. Do I want the world to be a better place? Of course. Do I have the time and energy to worry about anything outside the lines of an athletic playing field? Absolutely not.
It’s hard enough to deal with the Seahawks defensive line turning into a training sled at Lambeau Field. Or Richie Sexon striking out looking with the bases loaded. Why would I want to compound my misery by adding the desperate fortunes of an entire nation to my concerns? Let alone the fate of our planet? Who needs the aggravation?
I got enough to worry about between the Super Bowl, spring training and the upcoming NFL draft. How am I supposed to fit in starving babies, illiterate Americans, easily accessible firearms or for God’s sake distinguish the moment a fertilized egg becomes a human being? I got too much on my mind, man.

The Patriots are marching their way to perfection. Brett Favre is playing football like he’s 25 all over again. The Celtics are chasing Michael and the Bulls’ 72-win season. Rocket Roger Clemens is defending his dominant place in history as well as the substances he instructed a trainer to shoot into his ass. Speaking of asses, Bud Selig is holding court before Congress. Pitchers and catchers are a month away from reporting to spring training. The PGA Tour is back in full swing. Tennis’ first grand slam of the season has begun Down Under. The NHL is in midseason. BCS commissioners are discussing the possibility of a playoff. Conference play has arrived in NCAA basketball, with March Madness barely two months away. … And I’m supposed to carve out time to worry about the trivial concerns of society? Give me a break. Who has the time for such eccentricities?
In the multiple-choice world of presidential politics, I choose none of the above. Sure, it’s apathy cloaked in ignorance (or perhaps the other way around), but thankfully I find both of them to be bliss.

Seven things Seven hates this week: Dr. Phil, Britney Spears, Romo and the media, Hillary Clinton crying, etc…

This may be turning into a bi-weekly feature since I need to have at least two therapy sessions and a rage-aholics anonymous class after I harness all this bitterness and hate.

Dr. Phil McGraw
A first-time unanimous vote into the douchebag hall of fame we’re building here at Unsportsmanlike. I would love to push this fucker into moving traffic with backpack full of TNT. According to Dr. Fuckface’s website, he “has a B.A. from Midwestern State University and an M.A. and Ph.D. in clinical psychology from North Texas State University with a dual area of emphasis in clinical and behavioral medicine.” A fucking head shrinker.

Really, though he’s nothing more than a fucking prostitute. He’s a bigger whore than any woman on his “cheating housewife” episode. But it’s not dick that he craves (or at least not that we know of), it’s fucking the buck. The guy will do anything for money.

How do we know? Well besides the gratuitous amount of advertising on his Web site and show, the corporate shilling and the ridiculous amount of public appearances — It’s his role in the Britney Spears mess.

Dr. Phil and Britney Spears. You could hear the mutual masturbation of the paparazzi and the tabloid editors. Did anyone think for a second, that that annoying disgusting fatbody gave a fuck about the other annoying disgusting fatbody? Well, I guess the Spears clan, who are a just shade dumber than the Clampetts. Come on, it’s common sense. Britney’s a fucking train wreck, who I wouldn’t fuck with a stolen dick (thank you George Carlin). But like most train wrecks people can’t help but be interested and people can’t help but watch. Dr. Fatbody knows this and knows that jumping into Britneyland (where Red Bull and vodka is served in cocaine-rimmed glasses with a sprig of Adderall and a touch of Prozac and underwear is optional) would have meant headlines + ratings + advertising = money fir another house for his wife. When the Clampetts, er, the Spears finally figured it out that Dr. Prostitute was only doing this for his benefit, they weren’t too pleased.

Of course Dr. Head of a Penis, stood up for himself.
“Somebody needs to step up and get this young woman into some quality care — and I do not apologize one whit, not one second, for trying to make that happen,” he told newspapers.

Whit? Whit? Who says fucking whit? I can’t take it anymore. I need to move on before I have a Britney breakdown myself. Please pass the vodka and Red Bull, I’m gonna need it to keep going.

2. The video of Hilary Clinton crying
First of all that’s not crying. That’s not even close to crying. This is crying. And this is crying. But Hillary, that’s three fuckings tears, a couple of whimpers and a shudder. I’ve cried harder at the end of Old Yeller. I’ve cried harder when I lost a $100 3-team parlay by one fucking point and I’ve cried harder when I found out that Tim McCarver was going to be announcing the baseball game I wanted to watch.

Second of all, I’m not going to accuse Hillary of faking all three tears she generated. I think they were genuine, but not about the state of this country. They were tears of “I’m getting my ass kicked by a guy with a thimble’s worth of political experience and the only reason I even have a chance is because voters liked my husband.”

Lastly, I’m actually surprised the three tears didn’t turn to ice cubes. She’s a fucking ice queen, and quite possibly the future president of the United States. Now, I might really start crying.

3. Our national obsession with celebrity
Look we’re all guilty, well, except for that condescending prick of a MENSA member who brags about not owning a TV, reads Proust in his spare time and openly hates sports. You’ve all met one of these people. They should be drowned in a cement pool.

Still, it’s tough to condone all of this. It’s why Britney and Paris makes news, and why I have to listen to Sean Salisbury debate whether the impact of Tony Romo’s vacation with Jessica Simpson will affect the Cowboys’ victory hopes. Look, I’ll be the first to admit, I milked the whole situation for all it’s worth. But you know something is past the point of interesting when your local news anchors make mock jokes about it. It’s like hearing your parents use the word “dude” or “dope.”

This is how bad it’s gotten, in breaking down the Cowboys-Giants game, people make a point to note if Simpson is going to be there with no sarcasm behind it. Armageddon is upon us and it has blonde hair, nice tits and no IQ – (kind of like my junior prom date).

4. The writers strike
Biggest Losers: Couples, The New American Gladiators, Crowned, Wife Swap, SuperNanny, Dance Wars: Carrie vs. Bruno, Big Brother and Hell’s Kitchen. Do I need to keep going? Even worse try watching the previous unwatchable Tonight Show. If you thought it sucked before, it blows goats now. In a three-way contest between Jay Leno, Dane Cook and New England Patriots coach Bill Belichick of who’s funniest, I think I’d have to go with Belichick.

5. Poker
Actually, let me rethink that. I still love poker and gambling on any level. It’s just that it has gone so mainstream that every dipshit with a remote control can watch Rounders and nine hours of the World Series of Poker on ESPN and think they can play. So to the point, I hate poker players. Particularly the amateur who thinks he’s a pro. Look douchebag, if you’re playing at your local casino, leave the fucking sunglasses at home. There’s no reason to wear shades when you’re playing in a $5-10 game with a pot limit max. If you do and I see you, expect a Louisville Slugger between the eyes.

6. Duke basketball
It’s pretty much a given for most of the college basketball world. The bigger question is what not to hate. The trust-fund baby students, the fact that no Blue Devil player has ever had a blocking foul called against him, the verbal fellatio delivered by Dick Vitale, ESPN being their own private network, their overabundance of annoying white players – Mike Gminski, Christian Laettner, Quin Snyder, Greg Koubek, Chris Collins, Bobby Hurley, Cherokee Parks, Shavlik Randolph, Josh McRoberts, Jon Sheyer, Greg Paulus and the most hated of all Steve Wojciechowski. I could go on. In fact, I could write a whole dissertation on it. But I won’t. For now.

7. Crown Royal
I hate you for tasting so sublime but costing so much in a bar. I hate you for never giving me a hangover. I hate you for the sound you make as you cascade over large cubes of ice. I hate you for the cool purple bag you come in. I hate you for making decent-looking women seem hot, and ugly-looking women seem doable. I hate you for never tasting bad when sometimes I wish you would. I hate you for being easily within reach on the shelf of my kitchen. I hate you for making me love you so much.

Runners up: Heidi Montag, Rogers Clemens, Shaun Alexander, Tony Siragusa, text messaging, soccer moms behind the wheel, soccer in general, David Beckham, rain and that guy in the bathroom at work who I overheard (how the fuck could I not hear, I was pissing in the next goddamn urinal over?) talking on his cell phone while hunched over the urinal and lecturing his son/daughter/15-year-old Parisian nanny on the evils of … frivolous cell phone use.

Hollywood’s Top 20 Crimes against Sports

With the Hollywood writers strike entering its third month and no end in sight, we thought we’d relieve the tension and point out that maybe some of those writers should be thanking their lucky stars they’re walking the picket line instead of standing in a bread line.

20. Any Given Sunday (1999): Oliver Stone’s attempt to turn football into warfare might have delivered some of the most realistic action any football movie has captured, but what the hell’s going on with the uniforms? And Cameron Diaz? And her little dog too?

19. Point Break (1991): Keanu Reeves’ attempt to portray ex-collegiate football star Johnny Utah earns him his first spot on the countdown – we promise it won’t be his last. Besides the ridiculous name, Reeves throws like a girl and is less engaging than his surfboard.

18. M*A*S*H (1970): As much as we love the movie, the cast, the crew and the idea that “suicide is painless, it brings on many changes,” we can’t forgive Robert Altman and Co. for the nickname “Spearchucker” Jones, Elliott Gould’s attempt to play quarterback and what must go down as the standard for a ridiculously filmed football game.

17. The Legend of Bagger Vance (2000): OK, we went with the alien invasion on Independence Day, we laughed about the secret alien world of Men in Black, we suspended our disbelief in Wild Wild West if only to see Salma Hayek’s tits pushed together so tightly. But c’mon! Finding the secret of life through the secret of an authentic golf stroke? This time Will Smith took it too far.

16. Mystery, Alaska (1999): Thanks to Slap Shot there is no reason on God’s green earth to make a hockey movie. Especially one featuring Russell Crowe as a sympathetic character who doesn’t know how to romance his beautiful wife. This might have been top ten material if it wasn’t for Mike Myers’ constant search for a “rub and a tug.”

15. Bad News Bears (2005): Billy Bob’s no Walter Matthau, and there’s just no replacement for Tatum O’Neal. If ever there was a movie not to remake, the 1976 original Bears is it.

14. The Longest Yard (2005): Speaking of remakes … just because Burt co-starred doesn’t make it right. Besides Adam Sandler’s inability to play the game of football, he shows off his sports knowledge by calling Appalachian State a “slack Division II team.” Even if nobody saw their upset over Michigan coming, most sports fan knew they were the crème of the crop in the then 1-AA Division.

13. Jerry Maguire (1996): Tom showed Cuba the money. Hollywood showed Cameron Crowe the money. The Academy showed Cuba an award. And sports fans everywhere were duped into spending their hard-earned money on a full-on chick flick.

12. Chariots of Fire (1981): Running? Really? Besides the fact that they put the most boring sport ever on film, the filmmakers’ attempt to engineer excitement left us all with the most annoying song ever created.

11. Ali (2001): Never has such a great idea for a movie been so horribly killed in the casting process. If it wasn’t a slap in the face enough to have the Fresh Prince of Bel Air play the Greatest of All Time, the Academy actually nominated him for an Oscar – presumably more to honor the G.O.A.T. himself, than Big Willie Style. Perhaps knowing he was unworthy, Smith decided not to show up to the Award show.

 

10. Hardball (2001): Our boy Keanu over, and, under acts his way into the coach of an inner-city little league baseball team. Ignoring every flaw this film has related to sports, we’re still left wondering how Reeves could ever get in or out of Cabrini Green alive?

9. The Replacements (2000): Gene Hackman must have thought that his Oscar winning career could never be complete without teaming up with Keanu and the 7-up-guy. Their ensemble created one of the worst portraits of football on film and cancelled the majority of sports cred he earned for his role in Hoosiers.

8. For the Love of the Game (1999): Kevin Costner can’t throw, can’t act, and any intended drama produced by the prospect of a perfect game is neutralized by Kelly Preston’s continuing annoying presence.

 

7. White Men Can’t Jump (1992): It’s hard to tell which is worse: the plot, the basketball ability of Woody and Wesley, Rosie Perez or the early ‘90s fashion that’s on display at the playground. We’d just as soon call them all equally pathetic.

6. The Program (1993): The quarterback’s a motorcycle riding drunk, the halfback can’t hold on to the ball, the D-lineman’s on steroids and James Caan turns in the biggest stereotype of the film as the hardboiled coach fighting for his job.

5. Basketball Diaries (1995): Leo stars as perhaps the worst ball handling point guard in the history of the sport. Not only are we supposed to believe he’s good at basketball, we have to endure his voice over narration and overacting fall into drug addiction.

4. Necessary Roughness (1991): We don’t know why Scott Bakula’s agent didn’t tell him to leap out of the role as the quarterback of the Texas State Fightin’ Armadillos. But Rob Schneider’s announcing actually makes you wish for Chris Berman’s snappy wit.

 

3. Wildcats (1986): Wesley and Woody’s first tag-team attempt at sports is doomed from the start thanks to Private Benjamin’s play calling. It’s too bad too—cause Bird is the truth at quarterback.

2. Field of Dreams (1989): Ray Liotta’s depiction of Shoeless Joe Jackson is so historically off base, somehow, he actually bats right-handed and throws lefty—even though Jackson did the opposite on both accounts.

1. Johnny Be Good (1988): How does Anthony Michael Hall go from the biggest geek in school (1985’s Weird Science and The Breakfast Club) to the number one recruit in the country in just three years? How does Jim McMahon endorse the ‘Roid Raging UCC? Where’s Uma Thurman’s Samari sword? How does Robert Downey Jr. stay sober long enough to appear on camera? Just another example of the Hollywood honchos leaving us asking far too many questions.

Roger, Roger, Roger …

I don’t know if I feel sorry for Roger Clemens or … hell, that’s the gentlemanly Jack talking.
No way I feel sorry for the bat-throwing, ‘Roid Raging, John Wayne-impersonating, arrogant Texas-sized, Texas heat-throwing, head-hunting sonuvaBarrybonds, B-12 vitamin-poppin, butt-needle injectin, pinstriped, pin-headed, whiny-assed, kiss-my-ass, major major league asshole.
Excuse me while I get another drink.
I’m back.
Whooo-eee! Good stuff, that gentlemanly Jack.
I bet Roger has been throwing a few back himself. He feel so gawd-dang sorry for himself. Mike Wallace looked like he’d had a few himself when he interviewed Clemens on “60 Minutes.” Pity da fool. Pity da gawd-damn fool. Doncha feel sorry for Clemens. The world owes him more for all he’s done for humanity. Jesus H. Biram, now there’s a Texan with some soul. Bet he could lay down a gritty, blues-sounding, Texas story-tellin’ tune about this hideous man.

“You’d think I’d get an inch of respect,” he whined to Wallace.
You’re right Roger. I’ll give you an inch. But that’s it.
Excuse me. I need another drink.