An Almost-HUGE Mistake

I'll admit it right up front: I have an unbelievable case of hemorrhoids.

I got some ointment from Wegmans, and that helps some. It's in a tube marked "Hemorrhoidal Ointment" in big black letters, and the tube is about the same size and shape as a tube of toothpaste. (And yes, this is going where you think it is.)

I stumbled out of bed late for work this morning. I took a quick shower, and afterwards I got the ointment out of my medicine cabinet and put some on my.....um, my...yeah. Still half-asleep, I put the tube on the bathroom sink.

Right next to the tube of toothpaste.

After choking down a bagel I hobbled still half-asleep into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I noticed as I was squeezing the paste onto my toothbrush that the paste was a weird, gray translucent color instead of green, but I figured my sleepy mind was just playing tricks.

Thank GOD, as I was bringing the brush to my mouth to start brushing, I looked in my other hand, which was still holding the tube of hemorrhoid cream.

I made SURE I bought a new toothbrush on the way home from work this afternoon.

Why I Should Probably Move

So I met my new neighbors last night -- they moved into the apt. in the back of the building, which is right around the corner from my door. They brought with them an approximately 10-yr-old rusty red moped, with no engine cover, no fenders and a flat rear tire. It's on blocks in my parking lot, and it has bright yellow "I LOVE PICK N' PULL" bumper stickers on each gas tank. I'm serious.

But the REAL reason I should move: I got to talking to one of them on his porch last night -- the guy was in his late 20s, mega-mullet, no shirt, etc, etc. Our talk turned philosophical, and we began discussing (sort of) science. At one point he busted out this gem:

"Ya know, I didn't do so well in science in school......so I don't really believe in that shit."

Um.....OK. You don't...don't believe in.....science. Um...... I had to leave. I mean, what do you say to a guy who doesn't believe in fucking science???

SHORTnin Bread

So a friend of mine told me about an experience he had last night that might be one of the funniest things I've ever heard.

Apparently, there's a bartender at a restaurant my friend goes to a lot with his wife and kids who's a complete ass, making snide comments about the wife, and just generally being a complete loser.

Thing is, this asshole is 5'2", and my friend is 6'7". My buddy said that last night he and his wife went there for drinks, and Short Stuff was tending bar, and started in again on his wife.

My friend said he's given the kid plenty of passes, but last night was too much. So he called the guy outside, and when he got out there my friend let him know how things worked.

First he dragged the kid around by the hair, making him tell everyone how good a dancer he was. Then, in between random boots in the ass, my friend sang both verses of "Mammy's Lil Baby Loves Shortnin' Bread" while the kid screamed.

It's a mental image I'll never forget.

If the Shoe Fits, Eat It

So I'm at the bus stop today, having a smoke while I'm waiting for the next bus, when a cute girl who looks to be about five months pregnant comes down the sidewalk.

She stopped when she got to me. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have an extra cigarette, would you?" she asked.

The tiny shred of morals I had left answered, "You know, I don't feel comfortable giving a cigarette to a pregnant lady."

She looked confused for a second, then an expression of both humiliation and irritation crossed her face. "But....but I'm not pregnant."

My eyes ran down her body, and a second look told me that no, she just loved her some ravioli. Or beer. (Or both.)

I felt so bad I gave her two.

A Little Cane Pain

So yesterday I'm walking on the sidewalk in Skaneateles from the bus stop to my office, when snap!! My cane literally split in two. I tumbled ass-first onto the walk -- I wasn't hurt, but I looked like one of the idiots I make fun of every chance I get. (Karma, maybe?)

I was right next to the Skan. Bakery, across the street from my office and a place I go to on a daily basis, so I hobbled in and they duct-taped my shit right up.

Thing is my former cane was metal, a nice metallic blue deal that an old girlfriend bought for me for like $100. Apparently some pin holding it all together broke. But now I'm back to my cheap chrome model.

I think it's Obama's fault for not completely overhauling our health-care system. Caaaaaaanes!!!!

My Scent of Choice

Every day I slather on a.....load of some scented body cream. What's it called, you ask? I'll tell you. It's called Nut Butter.

Now before you think I've gone all NAMBLA and whatnot, lemme explain: I worked at Walmart for a couple years, and I used to joke around with the other employees so we wouldn't end up cutting off our bosses' heads with a butter knife.

One day a fellow employee came running up laughing and holding a jar of Nut Butter, which had just been put on a shelf in Personal Hygiene. It's really a Brazilian shea butter that smells friggin great -- kind of like coconut suntan oil.

But like three hours later it was gone from the store shelf. Apparently a manager saw it and said, "C'mon. We can't sell a product called 'Nut Butter!'"

But I order a jar online about every six months. And I friggin cover my neck and arms with it every day, just HOPING someone asks,"Hey, you smell great! What's that called??"

Evil Garbage Men

Almost every town of any size in the country has curbside garbage pickup. It's some unlucky dudes' jobs to throw away bags of trash, furniture, even small appliances and mattresses that are put by the street. Right?

My girlfriend Danielle, who lives in Ithaca, said she has to load her car up with trash and haul it to the dump this weekend. She said the sanitation workers have refused to take it, as they recently put a note on her trash can saying her bags were "too heavy."

Um....too... It's TRASH, guy! Grab your driver and get him to help you throw that shit in the back of the truck. What, do you have a bad back???

Here's a question. What if Danielle wanted to throw away a set of weights? These guys can lift a filthy, rotting sleeper sofa, but they're having trouble with a trash bag? I'm confused.

(But you know, I'm starting to wonder. What could be in the bags that would make them too heavy for even garbage men? Oh, the possibilities....)

Holy Shit -- Literally!

OK, this one gives "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow" an entirely new meaning.

I recently covered a Christmas play at one of the churches in Skaneateles for the paper. The last scene was a living Nativity scene, complete with live animals -- one of which was a donkey whose real name was listed in the program as Burrito.

And if you're unaware, the formula for animals onstage is, "Live animals + human audience = massive amounts of feces."

The formula played true on this December night. But it almost didn't happen...here's how it went down: A cast member led Burrito onstage in the last scene. From Burrito's position in the tableau, his ass (!) was pointed right where I was sitting.

After a couple minutes, the donkey's handler slowly placed her hand on his butt, where it stayed for a good twenty seconds. Why...why is that lady fondling a donkey's...well, ass?? I thought.

Then she took her hand away, and I understood. Burrito let loose with a veritable chocolate waterfall. Not to steal focus from the show, the handler fetched a broom and dustpan and loudly swept up the, ummm....yeah.

The smell was ridiculous. The old lady sitting next to me just couldn't handle it, so after a few seconds of covering her nose, she got up and left. (To puke, I hope. Oh please let her have puked.)

The kicker is, the handler lady was literally trying to hold the shit in. But Burrito was gonna have his time in the limelight, by God.

Literally. BY God.

(And I know you're probably thinking I got waaaay more perverse satisfaction out of this than a mature human being should. But...I don't care.) :-)

It's All Auburn's Fault!!

I recently came up with a fantabulous idea: To make Auburn, the town I live in, the scapegoat for everything that goes wrong in my life. While I love my fair city, and I don't plan on leaving the area anytime soon, it makes for a good excuse.....and it works really well in conversation too. Take heed:

It's hard for me to find a decent-paying job as a writer. "Only in Auburn.....there are no good jobs of ANY kind! This city..."

I was mugged and assaulted, and I got brain damage. "Fucking Auburn!! You'd expect that from a town with one of the biggest prisons in the state! This shit burg...."

I stubbed my toe. "Auuubuurrnnn!!!! I bet there's some kinda weird gravity pull here or something. Jeez, I can't wait to get outta here and onto level ground!"

You get the idea. And chances are, something about the town YOU live in could be equally blame-worthy. So give it a little thought......the scapegoats are all around you. :-)

Oprah's Academy: The REAL Truth

So Oprah just opened her Academy of Leadership in South Africa. In case you don't know, it's a 52-acre, $40 million complex in Johannesburg that serves about 50 poor, under-educated females per year. She says she did it "for these women who live in unbelievably sad conditions, whose dream is to be educated like other privileged people."

The school has 28 buildings. State-of-the-art facilities. Insanely expensive laboratories, too. For what? A few dozen poor black chicks used to living in tin huts???

I have a theory: It's really a concentration camp for whitey.

Stay with me: it's in South Africa, one of the most racially divided nations in the world. And dare I say it....Hitler started the same way. Through social acceptance.

(And I'll remind you, we're talkin about Oprah Winfrey. Social acceptance? C'mon.)

Then, Hitler/Oprah worked his/her way into the popular subconscious by making us all think like he/she did. The comparison's a stretch, but......not impossible.

So white folks....I say stay away from Oprah Academy. You might just end up with a sad, gaseous legacy.

Knowwhudimean??

CART RAGE

Okay, since I'm disabled, I use those electric carts when I grocery-shop. And I wanna tell you about cart rage.

It happens every time I go. Some people, old ladies usually, shop like they're the only fucking people in the store. While I sit impatiently waiting for them to move out of the way of the milk, they just take their own sweet time.... They examine each carton like it's some outer-space artifact.

Hmmmmmm......I wonder when this one expires? Let me look at all the other ones. Maybe there's a fresher jug. Hmmmmmm......

Christ. They're ALL THE SAME, you walking stroke victim!! Fucking MOOOVE!!!

What's worse, they're often hard of hearing too. So when I say "Excuse me...." over and over with my impaired speech, they usually look at me after a few seconds and just nod, like "Howya doin?" They haven't heard a word I've said. FUCK.

So when you hear about some crippled guy crushing an old lady's pelvis with his Power Chair.....you'll know I couldn't fucking take it anymore.

SCOTT NORWOOD Alert!!

Yo, the FBI needs to watch out for Scott Norwood. Remember him? He was the kicker in charge of losing the Super Bowl for the Buffalo Bills in '91.

A buddy and I think that he might be a threat to national security. I mean, since that happened.....what else has he had to do but stew over that awful loss??? And it was the first of FOUR IN A ROW--4 Super Bowls in a row that the Bills lost.

All I'm sayin......somebody needs to watch out for this guy.

Racist Holidays

A buddy and I were talking the other day about holidays. Almost every ethnicity has one, like St. Patrick's Day, etc. Probably out of tremendous guilt, we gave black people a whole friggin month, for chrissakes.

And that got me thinkin: Surely some groups hate certain holidays. Like I'm sure the Brits aren't very fired up to celebrate Independence Day.

And for that matter.....how bout the Indians? I'm sure July 4th sucks for them too. Matter of fact, can you recall going to--or even hearing about--the Native American Independence Day Celebration? Me neither.

Oh well. Can't please everybody.

Things That Make Ya Go HMMMMM.....

(Okay, I'm getting list-happy--sue me. But here's another running list I'll update from time to time. Call it.....a non-sucky Points to Ponder.)

1. How important does a person have to be before they are considered assassinated instead of just murdered?

2. Once you're in heaven, do you get stuck wearing the clothes you were buried in for eternity?

3. Why does a round pizza come in a square box?

4. What disease did cured ham actually have?

4. How is it that we put man on the moon before we figured out it would be a good idea to put wheels on luggage?

5. Why is it that people say they "slept like a baby" when babies wake up like every two hours?

6. If a deaf person has to go to court, is it still called a hearing?

7. Why do people pay to go up tall buildings and then put money in binoculars to look at things on the ground?

8. Why is "bra" singular and "panties" plural?

9. If Jimmy cracks corn and no one cares, why is there a stupid song about him?

10. If the professor on Gilligan's Island can make a radio out of a coconut, why can't he fix a hole in a boat?

11.If Wile E. Coyote had enough money to buy all that ACME crap, why didn't he just buy dinner?

12. Do the Alphabet Song and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star have the same tune?

13. Why did you just try to sing the two songs above?

14. Did you ever notice that when you blow in a dog's face, he gets mad at you, but when you take him for a car ride he sticks his head out the window?

15. If they have angel food cake on earth, do they have people food cake in heaven?

16. When the French swear do they say pardon my English?

17. When Jewish people testify in court, do they swear on the Torah?

18. How would you treat someone who's addicted to counseling?

19. Is there such a thing as a closet claustrophobic?

20. When asked what three things they'd bring with them if stranded on a desert island, how come no one says 'a boat'?

21. Did you know that it's impossible to lick your elbow? Go ahead, try it.

JOKES and JOKES and JOKES and JOKES......spa-GHETTI, spa-GHETTI....

(Hey, sick bastards! This is gonna be a running list of funny stuff I read/hear. And I'll update it regularly so you won't get bored. If you have a good one, gimme a shout and I'll add it....if it doesn't suck.)




Whattya call a can of tuna in a lesbian's back pocket?

Chew.
----------
What do a refrigerator and a life support machine have in common?

If you unplug em, they waste vegetables.
----------
What does a gay horse eat?

HAAAAAA-aaaayyy....
----------
What does a pirate say when he wins the lottery?

Arrrrrgghhh, Booty Call......
----------
SOME LIMERICKS:

There was a gal from New Zealand,
Who had a peculiar feelin'....
She lay on her back
And tickled her crack
And peed all over the ceiling.

There once was a man from St. Rockaway
Who could fuck any chick from a block away.
Once while having a fuck
Along came a truck
And knocked both balls and his cock away.
----------
What did the bathtub say to the toilet bowl?

I may not get as much ass as you do, but at least I don't take no shit.
-----------
Confucius say.....If you want pretty nurse, you got to be patient.
-----------
Did you hear about the dyslexic devil worshipper?

He sold his soul to Santa.
----------

Or how bout the insomniac, dyslexic atheist?

He stayed up all night wondering if there was a dog.

----------

THE HERNIA CHECK THEORIES

Here's something I've always wondered: You know when you're getting a physical, and the doc checks you for a hernia? Before he grabs your sack he says, "Turn to the left and cough."

Why? Does this serve some practical purpose? Does it, ummmm......make the hernia "move into place" by turning your head? I mean, what the HELL!!??

Well, here are some pretty damn good theories: An RN friend recently told me that it is simply a placebo. In other words, the doc asks you to do it only to take your mind off the fact that he (or she) has your testicles in his (or her) hand.

I think it's simpler than that: Doc asks you to turn to the left so you don't cough in his face.

JAMES HETFIELD RULES THE PLANET

Okay, here’s something that’s been rolling around my mind lately. Stay with me on this one.

Metallica should cover every song ever written.

The next time you’re in the car, sing every tune like James Hetfield would. Tons of tunes take on a whole new life. “Morning Train” by Sheena Easton? Instant classic. “Medieval Woman” by ELO? Equally as good, especially if you echo the chorus. And the entire Elton John catalog instantly becomes genius.

My all-time favorite, though, has to be “Hotel California” by the Eagles. The phrasing, the rhyme scheme....the lyrics are just perfect. Next time you hear it, give it a try and go for some Metallica flavor–you’ll see what I mean. Here’s a sample:

“There she stood in the doorwaaay-ah
I heard the mission bell-ah
I was thinkin to myself this could be heaven or this could be heeelll-ah.....
Then she lit up a can-duuu-uuuhlll
ans she showed me the waa-aaay-ah
There were voices down the corridoooor-ah
I thought I heard them saaaa-aaaaay-AH!

Brilliance. Pure brilliance. There are exceptions, of course: No AC/DC of any kind. And no Foreigner, either, except for “Waiting for a Girl Like You.” Otherwise, it’s open season. Some favorites: Billy Joel, Kelly Clarkson, Phil Collins, Linkin Park, and any 80s or disco tune.

THE UNITED FAT-ASSES OF AMERICA

Greetings and salutations, sick bastards!! The T-Man's been gone for a little while. In a nutshell, I'll say this: I'm never, ever ever moving again....

But to the topic at hand: we're becoming a nation of fatties. I know, I know, some people can't help it. They say it's in their genes. (Or should I say, "jeans"?) But to all you blimps that blame your fat-assed-ness on your thyroid, I say this: QUIT YOUR FUCKING CRYING!! You're not fat and proud, you're sick and in denial.

But don't worry. T-Man's here to help. First, calmly put down the Meatnormous Sandwich, and step away from the buffet table.....
Good. Now that I've got your attention, here are some rules to follow. (And you must stick to these!! Stick to em like.....well, shit, like peanut butter to wheat bread, okay!?):


1. NO CREDIT CARDS AT FAST-FOOD JOINTS. Yeah, it's great that our society's advanced this far, but jeez. For you, CASH ONLY for your two dozen White Castle-burgers.
2. NO MORE CIRCLING THE PARKING LOT TO FIND THE CLOSEST SPOT. And it seems that, more than anywhere else, this happens most often at the gym.
3. BOOK TWO SEATS ON AN AIRPLANE!!!! For obvious fucking reasons!!! Just because you're too cheap/embarrassed to do so doesn't mean the rest of us have to suffer permanent numbness in our extremities.
4. THREE SQUARE A DAY. Not four, or six, or even ten or twelve "little" meals. Three means THREE!! You can start by cutting out your favorite--the one between breakfast and lunch.

There has been recent legislation that, if passed, would allow obesity to be considered a legal medical condition. It would then be covered by most health insurance plans, and Medicaid. MEDICAID!! So if you start wondering just where your tax dollars go...they go into Uncle Freddie's ginormous ASS!

So don't worry, America, chow down! And remember--the liposuction, angioplasty, and triple bypass are all covered. Know why? Because Nationwide is On Your Side.

SEPTEMBER'S GENIUS OF THE MONTH: Booty and the Beast

An unidentified man in Washington state recently died from internal injuries he suffered while having sex with a horse.

After the man's body was dumped in front of a hospital emergency room, doctors discovered the cause-of-death, and immediately called police. However, the cops could do nothing about it, because bestiality is legal in the state.

After learning that the incident happened when a group of out-of-staters rented a farm expressly for the purposes of an animal orgy, state Senator Pam Roach announced plans at the next legislative session to pass a law banning the act.

"Washington is one of the few states that doesn't outlaw this activity," Roach said. "This has made Washington a Mecca for bestiality. People know that it's not against the law, so they come here from other states to have sex with animals."

To retort, Seattle Post-Intelligencer columnist Robert L. Jamieson, Jr., wrote: "Practices such as masturbation and oral sex were once considered taboo, too.... Why worry now about human/animal copulation, as long as the animal isn't injured?"

So to all you "Trigger"-happy folks planning to flock to Washington for the party... Remember to use some Horse Sense.

DID I JUST HEAR THAT RIGHT?? Names You Won't Believe

Harry Rump is a real plumber in Freemont, Maine. In Manhattan, an optometrist named Charles Good is listed in the Yellow Pages as Dr. C. Good, M.D. And 43-year-old Hugh Jass of Pittsburgh.... well, he just had cruel parents.

I’ll channel George Carlin here: This is about Names. Names are an interest of mine–not a hobby, those cost money, interests are quite free.... And that’s all this is, it’s about Names.

First and most obvious: NASCAR driver Dick Trickle. Now, when I hear that name, I immediately think two thoughts: 1)The adage about NASCAR fans being stupid rednecks must be true. Who else but a dumbass would name their son Richard, when their last name is Trickle!? (C’mon!! Might as well have named him “My-asshole-has-a-tendency-to.”) And 2)are those fireproof coveralls the drivers wear....are they also, uh, herpes-proof, too? Something to ponder.

How bout the Yankees’ Randy Johnson? It’s gotta be one of the most porn-sounding names I’ve ever heard. And to look at him....good God! He’s got a mullet. He’s got the mustache to hide the stretch-marks. And the best thing, of course, is the nickname: “THE BIG UNIT!!” I can hear it now: (Bow-chicka-bow-noowwww...) “This week, from Vivid Video.... the Big Unit ‘touches em all’ in.... Bush League 37!” Oh Lord.

Here’s a random funny fact: In Topeka, Kansas, there are two high schools, crosstown rivals of course, called Seaman High School and the Topeka High Trojans.

Here’s a couple more: in the T-Man’s home state of Mississippi, there are twins, a boy and girl, whose names are pronounced “molly” and “fe-molly.” And you guessed it...they’re spelled Male and Female. There are also twins whose pronunciations are “sih-PHIL-lis” and “guh-NOR-ah”... yep. Syphilis and Gonorrhea Johnson. (I know these to be facts because my cousin Ginger works in the Records division at St. Dominic Hospital. And Ginger would never, ever lie.)

Now I love Chris Berman. And I love the nicknames he and the writers over at ESPN come up with, too. Here are my Top Ten:

10. Todd “Mercedes” Benzinger
9. Jeff “See-Through” Blauser
8. Bert “Be Home” Blyleven
7. Roy Cerroni “The San Francisco Treat”
6. Todd “Can’t” Froworth “A Damn”
5. Chuck “New Kids on” Knoblauch
4. Steve Lyons “and Tigers, and Bears, Oh My”
3. Kirt “What was That” Manwaring
2. Curtis "My Favorite" Martin
1. Andre “Bad Moon” Rison

And finally....this has bothered the piss out of me ever since my college days. In the early ‘90s. At the University of Southern Mississippi. Where one of my fellow collegians was named Brett Favre. It’s pronounced “farve,” but I think I’ll channel Chris Berman: It should be, Brett “Do Us All a Fucking” Favre “And Pronounce it the Way it Looks!”

S.S.I.L.F.s!! Sports Stars I'd Like to...

M.I.L.F.s? I hate stretch marks. G.I.L.F.s? The smell of anti-wrinkle cream makes me gag. And D.I.L.F.s? Well, depending on what you think the “D” stands for, I’m neither gay nor desperate. So here they are, sports fans. Sports Stars I’d Like to F*ck! I’m sure I’ll leave some out, and I could possibly go to jail...but hey, let’s fantasize a bit:

MARIA SHARAPOVA–Boy, I wish she’d share her pova with me! Just eighteen–thank God!–this 6' statuesque Russian beauty is hot enough to melt the ice in her birthplace of Siberia. After moving to Florida when she was nine, she trained at the famed Nick Bollitieri Tennis Academy, then turned pro in 2001.
Some career highlights: she won the Wimbledon singles title in 2003, and is smokin’ hot in any Asian match she competes in–she’s twice won the Japan Open, and has also won pro tournaments in Seoul and Tokyo. (Hey Maybe she and Michelle Wie could.....I’ll just let you use your imagination.) Sharapova is currently “a-filly-ated” as a model with IMG, a sports management and marketing firm.
I bet she'd, uh, give my approach shot a good ground stroke...

JENNIE FINCH–If I had a fielder’s choice....she’d definitely be my pick! Born in La Mirada, CA, 24-year-old Finch is the ultimate California Girl–luscious, picture-perfect, stunning, etc., etc. Plus she’s one of the best fastpitch softball pitchers in the world, with a 70-mph riseball that most major-league baseball players can’t hit. (And they’ve tried!)
Her game stats are friggin’ unbelievable, and would take waaay too much time to list, but here are some gooduns: She holds the NCAA record for consecutive wins with 60. In 2001, her record for the Phoenix Storm (ASA) was 32-0. And her high school ERA? 0.15. Holy no-hitters, Batman!
When asked about pitching to men, Finch had this to say: “It's funny, because they're not just trying to touch the ball, they're trying to take me deep...”
I now know it’s quite possible to masturbate to a quote.

DANICA PATRICK–I’d love to take a few “laps” with her, if youknowwhudimean. At age 22, Patrick is givin’ the boys a run for their money–literally–in her rookie IRL IndyCar Series campaign. She’s currently leading the points standings for Nook–I mean, Rookie of the Year.
Born in Wisconsin, this 5'2 , 100-lb. pixie trains for races by doing “extreme” yoga. And according to her website, DanicaRacing.com, she believes in “a variety of activities to work out” with. Hmmmmmm.......

THE ENTIRE SQUAD OF DALLAS COWBOYS CHEERLEADERS --Uuuummm...if I need to explain why, you’re, like, Liberace-gay.

VENUS & SERENA WILLIAMS–All I have to say is this: I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Coming straight outta Compton, Venus, 26, and Serena, 24, learned tennis from their dad Richard. And since tennis was so hugely popular in the ghetto, these Bronze Beauties have all but dominated women’s tennis since they turned pro.
Having won–or almost won–every possible tourney there is, the Williams’ power game just destroys their opponents. At Wimbledon in 2001, one of Serena’s serves was clocked at 127 MPH.
So yeah, Venus and Serena are hittin’ hard....in more ways than one.

ANNA KOURNIKOVA–She’s the most downloaded athlete in the world–for obvious reasons! (And by “downloaded,” I mean....use your own creativity.)
Aside from almost single-handedly making women’s tennis popular again, the 5'8" Moscow-born goddess is one of the richest women in sports, thanks to deals with Adidas, Yonex, and Omega watches. Plus she’s an out-n-out supermodel–the SI Swimsuit Issue, the cover of Maxim...and on and on. Kournikova’s taken a lotta heat for her tennis playing, most saying it doesn’t match up with the tremendous publicity she receives otherwise. But you know what? Who cares! (And the very idea of a Nadia Petrova swimsuit calendar frightens me.)
A quick bio: Like Sharapova, Kournikova, 24, is another alumnus of the Bollitieri Tennis Academy. She turned pro with a “bang” at age 15, reaching the fourth round of the '96 U.S. Open, and was a Wimbledon semi-finalist in ‘97. She’s never won a major tourney, but hey, our hormones could care less.
So, in a nutsack.... We dream of her breaking our serve with some unforced errors.


And finally....a pop quiz! Match the SSILF to her corresponding description:

A. Red Rovah, Red Rovah...send _______ on ovah!
B. “Soft” balls? Whatever, guy
C. Gives new meaning to the phrase “blow a head gasket”
D. Our group activity would make a lotta “racket”
E. A foot-fault is something I dream of having

1. Maria Sharapova
2. Danica Patrick
3. Anna Kournikova
4. Jennie Finch
5. Venus/Serena Williams

RANDOM RANTS

I'm glad you came in here, cause I needed somebody to listen to my bitchin'. And if you have anything to get off your chest, whether it's complaints about your a-hole boss, or that cousin Judy won't return your calls, this is the place for it! Better yet, if you have a "Random Rants"-worthy beef, e-mail me at johntactor@yahoo.com--maybe I'll post it for the world. (Plus you'll get credited for it. Woo-hoo!) --TESTOSTERONE MAN

It’s obvious, to this habitual ass-watcher, that low-cut jeans are in style. It’s also obvious that many people have weight issues. But never... ever ever EVER...should the two mix. Every day you see these 250-lb. chicks, with their Marilyn Manson t-shirts and nose hair that’s waving at ya, with jeans that barely cover their pubes. (And thank God they do cover em–I bet if they were naked, they’d look like they have Buckwheat in a leg-lock.) They have a freakin life preserver spilling over the tops of their Wranglers–like some fuckin cellulite waterfall. So ladies...to you I say this: Leave the inner-tubes to Goodyear.

And while we’re on the subject of low-cut jeans...to all males under the age of eighteen, I say this on behalf of the rest of America: PULL YOUR FUCKING PANTS UP!!!! This “fashion” trend perplexes me, I gotta be honest. I mean, what in the fuck are you trying to prove!? We all know you have boxer shorts–doesn’t mean we wanna see 'em. I’m down with being alternative, with thinking outside the box (pun definitely intended), with not following the status quo...... But to me, this proves none of that. All it proves is that you’re too fucking poor to buy a belt. “Hey, look at me! I don’t have the dough to buy a fucking rope to tie around my waist! And these $200 silk Calvin Klein boxers that you can see ALL of? I stole em!” Jesus fucking Christ.

This gives me an idea: Part of the First Amendment limits our ability to "petition the government for a redress of grievances." Well, the T-Man has a HUGE friggin' grievance. And it's that some of these retards need to redress themselves. I think our country should regulate who is allowed to have tattoos, piercings, revealing clothes, etc. So write your congressman! See if he also hates Billy Jo, with her twelve piercings, her spandex, and her too-small tank top that reveals her wrinkled, veiny lower-back tattoo that, if you could read it, would say "DAD", or "I LOVE FRANK." And odds are, Dad and Frank are the same guy.
(P.S. Thanks to Dave D. for that idea.)

THERE'S NO HAIRSPRAY IN BASEBALL! The Metrosexuality of America's Game

Picture this: You’re an outfielder for the division leaders, and you’ve just won in extra innings. You trot in from left field and down the tobacco-spit-covered steps, past the scarred batting helmets and cracked bats. Your spikes echo in the tunnel....then you enter the clubhouse. You strip off your muddy uniform, remove your sweaty jock-strap, and hit the shower.
You start with an oatmeal-and-honey daily moisturizing mask, and while it sets you lather up good with a hydrating after-sun hair treatment. You had your weekly chest/back-wax just yesterday, so you’re smooth in that department; a few laps with your loofah, using the usual nut butter body wash, will do for today.
Afterwards, you dress in the new Kenneth Cole ensemble you picked up and head off to a dinner of sushi and cosmopolitans, finishing off with a decaf frappuccino. Then it’s straight to bed, young man! You curl up in your 700-thread-count Percale sheets to recharge for tomorrow’s doubleheader against the Brewers.
Holy friggin’ hair-gel.
It seems that the days of of spike-slides and cups filled with Skoal spit are gone. The new millenium sees the shortstop of America’s favorite team with a lifetime subscription to Salon.com--Ted Williams’ frozen corpse must be sweating. I’m talking about the tendency of today’s ballplayers towards personal grooming and beauty–“metrosexual,” to use the word of the week. It’s a term first used by journalist Mark Simpson in the late ‘90s, and it can be a little deceiving. It’s not about being light in the loafers...metrosexuals just look, act, and think like gay men, but they prefer sex with women. (Hmmmm...what’s the term for a straight guy's “beard?” “Bikini wax?” I wonder.)
Small wonder, this zoot-suit-esque phenomenon, with the constant media coverage surrounding present-day sports. Most popular players have a bevy of agents and PR people, and classes that teach interview techniques are practically an MLB prerequisite. It’s not surprising, then, that these guys are so focused on their looks–everybody else is. What’s one more person?
I’ll use the most prominent example: the Yankees have been accused of more than their share of pretty-boyism in the past few seasons. Many blamed last year’s Red Sox comeback partly on that factor–that the left side of the Yankees’ infield was more concerned with their hair than with fielding ground balls.
But Dereka and Alexis aren’t alone. Closer Mariano Rivera, the Latino Loofah, has also been accused of being stuck on himself. Latino men have always been considered a little vain, but....jeez, there’s beisbol and there’s beisbol. (Has anyone checked to make sure Rivera actually has cojones?)
And the world-champion Red Sox, they of the scarred batting helmets and quasi-mullets, must’ve had an eye-opening off-season. All that media attention must’ve gone to their heads–their now gel-covered, freshly cut and shaved, silky-smooth heads–because they’ve, uh, come out as the Pretty Boys of 2005.
Scant months after they were crowned the king warriors of the major leagues, they were guests on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Considered the double-snappin’ gay cousin of American television, this makeover show sees “manly” men being tended to by five ultra-queer experts. And the Red Sox’ appearance gave a whole new meaning to the term “limp-wristed.”
About the show, centerfielder Johnny Damon said this: “You know, I was never a popular kid. Do I agree with being gay? Well, I’m not, but I can enjoy a makeover....Many guys, they do get manicures, pedicures, back-waxing, not a lot of guys, but guys do...”
Just not guys who play major-league baseball!!
Oh well. That quote is from a man who–no joke–has his own personal traveling hairdresser. Maybe the Red Sox’ journey from Might to Light can only be blamed on us, and in turn, the never-ending barrage of media coverage. Maybe they’re just trying to give us what we want.
Well, this fan wants spike slides and Skoal spit. I want back the old days of cursin’, spittin’, punch-the-ump-in-the-face ballplayers....not these “spherical manipulation artists,” to use the proper p.c. vernacular.
When it comes down to it, sick bastards, there’s no hairspray in baseball. And while I’m sure I’m the millionth-and-first person to wax nostalgic on this subject, maybe there’s a reason we all complain. Hopefully major-league ballplayers will realize what we fans already know: The old is definitely prettier than the new.

The President-Poop Correlation

So I'm at dinner with the fam recently, and talk of the recent election turned into a heated political discussion--quite unusual for the Hefty bag of trailer trash that is my family. It was mainly between my cousin Allison and me--she thinks God is great, God is good, let us thank him for....well, you know. I jokingly said they should let Clinton run again, and she retorted with this pearl of wisdom: "How can you think he was a good president? He SINNED against the LORD!" I told her that I was sure she didn't have a problem accepting a pay-raise every time minimum wage went up. That seemed to shut her Jesus-hole.
But I digress. Later that evening, ruminating on the pot, I had the expected flash of brilliance. (Don't they always happen on the shitter?) So here's the theory:

The ability of a president is directly proportional to the size of my turds.

Think about it. When the president's good--as most think Clinton was--one makes more money, which means more grocery dough, leading to better eatin, and finally to hellacious dookies. I shat several third-world nations during Slick Willy's reign; lately, with George W. leading us all, it's Hershey Squirt city.
Oh, well. Guess I'll just buy some stock in Depends.

(P.S. It's next morning. I just had a friggin freaky dream.....I became the leader of the Turdlican party. Wonder what Freud would think of that one?)