Tiger Woods now has to deal with the fact that a sex tape of he and one of his partners is out on the market. Unlike the Paris Hilton video and the Pam Anderson boat trip hammer-a- thon, Tiger’s romp is rumored to be a lot less of a turn on. The love making sounds are drowned out by the clattering of Tiger’s giant teeth up against the enamel of his partner, Elin Nordgren is behind the door screaming, “How long does it take for you to show that maid how to turn down the darn sheets?”, and of course there is Tiger’s caddy standing bedside telling him what to do.

Chad Ocho Sinko promised to change his name back to Chad Johnson if cornerback Darrelle Revis out played him last Sunday night in the NFL final regular season game. Game set match. Chad took the pipe in the contest, in fact he was so bad he should consider changing his name to Mrs. Revis. I’ll admit that Ocho has been fairly entertaining during his career, but this Twitter thing is out of control. He twitters so much, I seriously wonder if he leaves time to shower and spit shine his teeth. I understand he wants to be entertaining, but at what point do you lose focus on the game itself? Bengals should bow out quietly this week.

Dan Snyder hired Mike Shanahan yesterday to be the new head coach of the Washington Redskins. This is Dan’s 7th hire in 10 years. The NFL’s Rooney Rule requires every team to interview at least one black candidate for a head coaching job. What someone needs to tell Snyder is you don’t have to apply the rule every year. Snyder says he believes Mike is a good fit, which more or less means that Snyder’s foot fits perfectly up Shanahan’s ass.

I’m a little tired of hearing the following statement this past week after learning Patriots wideout Wes Welker is out for the season. “The Patriots should have done what the Colts did and took their starters out in a meaningless game.” The Colts pulled their starters late in the 3rd quarter of week 16. If the Patriots did what the Colts did, Wes Welker would have hopped up from his knee injury, and hobbled around the field for 2 more quarters until Bill Belichick walked out and put him out of his misery with a rifle shot to the heart.

Bill Belichick seems to think the poor field conditions were what led to Welker’s injury and publicly blasted Houston after the game. Strange, coming from a guy who routinely waters down certain areas of his home field to make life tough on opponents. A familiar sight an hour before home game kickoffs is Bill urinating all over the field with a trail of empty Flomax boxes scattered behind him. Gillette Stadium doesn’t exactly have a flawless track record either. Remember the game at Gillette after the field was used for the MLS title game? Place looked like it was carpet bombed by a squadron of B52’s.
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One thing the Patriots did not do in their final game is play fantasy football and go for all sorts of goofy team records like the Colts did last Sunday. Tight end Dallas Clark caught his 100th pass of the season, it was a seven yard loss but who cares about playing the right way, let’s get in the records books. I’m surprised Dallas didn’t run the pass backwards into his own end zone so he could join Jim Marshall in the pantheon of NFL’s biggest dumbasses. He could have followed that up by pile driving the football into his own rectum, snapping a photo of it, Twittering it over to Ocho and waiting to see how the gold plaqued simpleton responded to that celebration later in the day. Then Dallas could have walked off the field and murdered his coach; an NFL first that even O.J. never touched.

The Colts were far from done by the way. Peyton glanced at the chalkboard, saw another meaningless milestone hen scratched on the board by Jim Caldwell, then proceeded to hitch up his panties and throw a bunch of one yard hitches to Reggie Wayne so Reggie could tell his grandkids he caught 100 passes in 2 seasons. Yippee. How did the Colts even know these records were available that day? Was Peyton in the huddle saying, “Toss right 67 slot. Let’s get this ball to Pierre so he can become the 89th receiver in Colts history to catch a pass in January from a crew-cutted redneck with a total of three n’s in his first and last names. On four.” Right after that play Peyton three a pick, securing a victory for the Bills and a win for Peyton in his Yahoo Survivor pool. Then the Colts set another record by becoming the gayest team in NFL history, barely edging the 2006 Colts. Then they hit the showers whereupon they set a record for the warmest water temperature ever in a locker room, the most baby powder ever applied by a group of athletes, and the most loving, heart felt post game speech ever.

As more info on Tiger pours in, it appears that the Worlds’ Greatest Lover had women stashed all over the place. The Wood Man played the field the way you or I play the game of Risk, globally. Typically I don’t allow my children to watch the news, but I’ve let them in on this story since it’s a great lesson in geography. It started with a couple of girls, in a matter of hours there were ten; at the rate he’s going, we’ll save more time just mentioning the women with whom he did not have sex with in the past. As the list continues to grow, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’m on it. I did cross paths with the Wood Man at the Country Club in Brookline a few years ago, and I have to say the rest of the day is blurry. All I recall is being in the woods, my hair getting yanked, and then driving home wondering where I placed my pants. Probably just a coincidence though.

The latest rumor is that Tiger impregnated a female golf reporter over in England. I can imagine what that voicemail sounded like before the ##@! hit the fan and Elin discovered his secret life. “Hi, it’s Tiger, my wife might be calling you. You have to change the name of the baby, it’s too obvious. Tiger Cub is going to blow the lid on the whole thing, do me this huge one please. No, I think Tigress is not going to work either, and Tigerling is pretty much the same thing. How about Lefty, that’s a nice name, or Jesper, yeah that’s good, let’s go with Jesper. Okay, gotta run, Elin is coming up the stairs with another golfing tip.”

The latest police report on the “car accident” states that Tiger’s wife informed police Tiger had consumed alcohol, and was also on Vicodin; no doubt to eliminate the pain from the golf clubbing. The cops cited him for careless driving. Are you %$$ kidding me? Careless? I drive carelessly every time I get behind the wheel, yet somehow I don’t leave a swath of destruction behind me. What would the cops have cited him for if he killed someone, not using his turn signal? Driving with the radio too loud? Look at his entire evening, and tell me where careless fits it. His wife assaults him with a deadly weapon, so the sex craving clown inhales a vial of pills, sucks down a vat of Chivas, and then proceeds to careen around the neighborhood plowing into a utility device and a tree; at which point the cast of Reno 911 shows up, finds the idiot passed out face down on the pavement, and says, “That’s gonna cost you fifteen dollars Mr. Woods. You can pay that when you come to. Very careless.”

Can you imagine what would have happened if you or I pulled off a stunt like that? The cops would have arrived, awoken us with a flurry of kicks, jammed a bag of coke up our rectum and then exclaimed, “Well looky here boys, we got ourselves a dope peddler.” Meanwhile our club wielding wife would have been subdued with a taser gun, knocked to her knees with a blackjack to the skull, and left lying naked on the front porch while vultures pecked at her cerebellum. Careless woman!

I feel bad for Tiger’s wife, but I also feel bad for the golf writers who have to follow this guy on tour. When Tiger gets in front of the mike after his next tournament, and says “I got lower on the shaft and tried to get the ball to spin and dip like I did in Tulsa last year,” the writers are going to be jotting down and wondering, “Is he talking about the golf match or are we still on that other thing?”

Tiger Woods had a solid weekend for himself. And before you go off on me, saying, “You’re just piling on because he’s black,” let me stop you right there. I am not piling on because he’s black, I’m piling on because he’s Thai. Every race has its own steroetype, but the folks from Thailand have coasted along for years without any sort of black eye on their personage. Till now. The most famous descendant of that country, with one crank of the steering wheel (and several downward tugs of his pants zipper), has now placed an onerous distinction on his fellow countrymen; namely that Thai folk cannot keep their pants on.
Tiger initially tried to weasel out of the mess, claiming he was in a minor accident, and that his wife came to his rescue. We now know the only thing his wife was trying to rescue was the car. If you’re going to lie, you gotta do better than the story he came out with after the accident. First of all, he claimed he was heading out at 2am. For what, an early tee time? Or was he heading out to search for Nicole Brown Simpson’s murderer? Then he smashes into a hydrant and follows that up by tagging a tree. The last guy to pull off that combination was 94 years old, and he had two bodies strewn across the windshield blocking his view. I don’t know about you, but when I hit something, I generally get out to survey the damage, thereby eliminating the potential for me to plow into a bunch of other shit. Tiger told the cops he mistook the gas for the brake. Seriously? It’s not like you’re driving around in a piano, there’s only two pedals down there, pick one Mozart. It seems fairly obvious to me that if you’re driving a car and it suddenly accelerates towards a tree while water gushes out of a water main behind you, you should TRY the other frigging pedal.
Tiger claimed his wife came to his rescue by smashing the window so he could climb out of the vehicle. Okay, first of all, how did your wife know you were out driving? Is she a zombie? Was she at the door blowing you kisses as you pulled out of the driveway at the crack of 2? Is this a common scene in the Wood’s household? Was Woods waving back saying, “Bye bye dear, I should be back around 3:56. Love you. Where am I going? Ummm, for breakfast. I love dem eggs. Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m cheating on you or anything, look at me! Ooops, one of my seventeen cell phones is ringing, gotta grab it, don’t wait up. And stay out of my drawers!”
The fact that his wife ran out of the house with a golf club seemed strange as well. The scene had I was just beating him with this written all over it. A golf club is not typically the device one uses to free someone. The only scene more ridiculous would have been if she ran out to save him while clutching a vial of hemlock in one hand and a castration kit in the other. If I ever see my wife coming towards me with a golf club, I for one will not be uttering a sigh of relief.
The whole story is screaming domestic violence, but the cops are not going to pursue it. That’s spelled Pur$ue by the way. I think the cops are dropping the ball on this one. Last time there were signs of domestic violence in a famous athlete’s house, the end result was murder and a mad chase down the highway in pursuit of a white Bronco. Based on Tiger’s ability to operate a car while being pursued, a lot of innocent people could get run over.
I just hope the announcers aren’t phony when he returns to the course. Tell it like it is in other words. “Tiger is two up on hole fifteen. Good lie, not like that one he told after the accident. He’s going three iron here. That’s the very same club his wife used to mash his skull in back on Thanksgiving! Is it me or is the shaft slighly bent? Still a bit of dried blood on there too and what appears to be a piece of tooth. There’s a shot of Tiger’s wife, how long you give that marriage Bill? Boy does she look pissed. That other chick was smooooo-king. Maybe our cameraman could pan the crowd, see if she’s lurking out there somewhere.

The other shoe will drop when Tiger starts losing sponsorship deals. So far no company has dropped him, but who wants to buy a car whose spokesman is a skirt chaser? Maybe they could change the the promo so instead of Tiger driving a Buick down some ocean view drive, the ad depicts the ability of the car to accelerate away from a deranged broad running down the road waving a frying pan. Tiger could then wink at the camera as he pulls a pair of panties out of his glove compartment. Doubt it, but it’s worth a try. Tiger is also the face of many video golfing games. He may lose those contracts, but maybe his face will pop up on the next version of Grand Theft Auto. Lots of sex and rape in that game. If Tiger does lose any major deals, look for other companies to step in and fill the void. For example, Band Aids is a good fit right now, as is Giant Glass Windshield Replacement, Geico Car Insurance, and AstroLube.

The Pats rebounded from that devastating loss to the Colts by hammering the Jets at Gillette Stadium.  Rex Ryan was contrite after the game, and praised the Pats for outplaying his squad.  Then he retreated to the locker room so he could whittle a coffin for his team.

Now that the Titans are on a roll, fools are again starting to believe that Vince Young is for real.  Are you kidding?  Who have the Titans played?  No one. And while they have won four straight, Young has tossed the rock for an average of about 115 yards a game.  Young makes the forward pass look like a scientific experiment. The Titans PR team has gone out of their way to dress up Vince’s numbers so fans won’t understand how mediocre he is.  On Monday night for example Vince led his team to a 20-17 victory.  He completed two laterals, four pitches, 23 handoffs, and caught 17 shotgun formation snaps.  Vince successfully broke 72 huddles and created numerous playing opportunities for his punt team. In the passing department, Vince threw for over 340 feet, including four tight spirals, six wounded ducks, and seventeen wobbly-assed chuck heaves.

The Steelers choked on the pipe last Sunday, falling in overtime to the suckbag Chiefs.  Big Ben took a blow to the head, and appeared to be bereft of his senses on the sideline. Ben doesn’t look like a Rhodes Scholar when in control of his faculties, so no sane team doctor was going to make the decision to insert the addled fool back into the contest, especially considering he was on the sideline pouring smelling salts on a bucket of French fries. Ben’s injury left the game in the unsteady hands of Charlie Batch. Yes, Charlie friggin Batch. Then Batch got hurt avoiding the rush so he could hurl an incomplete pass into the stands (to his credit, the fan was wearing a Steeler jersey), leaving the Steelers completely undermanned at QB.

Big Ben said he’s going to play this week, and that the blow to his vagina was no big deal.  When informed that the blow occurred to the skull region, Ben said he wasn’t able to obtain the license plate on the flying saucer, but his attorney was looking into whether or not he was abducted and subsequently raped by aliens.   When asked what day it was, Ben replied, “It’s the sixth Sunday in ordinary time.”  Then he rubbed Vagisil on his privates and headed onto the practice field. If I were the Ravens, I’d send 11 men at Ben, twist him silly; then have a field day with whatever dolt the Steelers have at 3rd string.

How about those fantastic Thanksgiving Day NFL games? Would it be too much to ask for the Detroit Lions to step aside next year on Thanksgiving so the rest of the country can hold their food down? People are literally stuffing their bellies with carbs, then ambling to the TV in the hopes of seeing some talent on display, only to discover that the Lions have actually out-eaten them and are now stumbling around in some sort of Tryptophan haze down on the field. The Lions did not win a game last year, yet they were actually a better team because that Lion squad at least knew it sucked. This pack of nitwits takes the field with an arrogance that borders on ignorance. I know Stafford is a rookie, but does he know that NFL corners can see where he is looking before he throws it? He threw one on Thursday that was so bad, I thought the corner was going to signal fair catch. There are bad interceptions where you see it and remark, “Oh, he should have thrown that one away.” But Stafford makes throws that make you wonder if he’s fixing games or playing under the influence of ether.

The Raiders didn’t exactly make dessert any easier to digest either. The Raiders are so bad, my dinner guests not only left early, they told me to go %$$ myself. The Raiders quarterback is a guy named Gradowski. No idea who he is or where they got him, but if he’s playing for Tom Cable he probably possesses the ability to take a punch to the face. The final game of the day was between the Giants and Broncos. The game was televised on NFL Network and had “refund” written all over it. The Giants flat out blew, and although you could credit the Broncos for showing up, try keep in mind they were home and therefore actually live there.

Something smells fishy on the women’s side of track and field. Caster Semenya, an 18 year old from South Africa, has been blowing away the field in recent sprinting events, but a sex test on the runner now reveals that she/he/it has both male and female characteristics. The other women in the field are requesting that Caster run with the men, but there are opponents of this idea, who state that Caster belongs in the female races. I have a third option….. kill it. I know you’re thinking hey, that’s murder, you can’t do that! But it’s not murder. If you take the life of something that is neither a man nor a woman, that falls under the category of hunting.

The 100 meter dash is a bit of a racial event anyway. Think about it, a white guy fires a gun and eight black men run for their lives in the opposite direction. Then they break through the yellow tape so it looks like they’re escaping the crime scene. Sometimes you see a guy grab his leg and stop running; the announcer says he pulled a hammy. Give me a break, that guy got shot.

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I’d like to applaud Bud Adams for his behavior last Sunday in the Bills-Jaguars game.  Football that boring needs some entertainment, and Bud came through big time with his two handed bird flip to the opposing fans from up in his luxury box.  Bud has just earned the right to have his visage carved next to Al Davis on the Mt. Rushmore of Senile NFL owners.  Is Bud still driving a car? If so, it won’t be long before he is seen careening through a Tennessee marketplace in his vehicle with several mangled bodies strewn across the hood; Bud behind the wheel, both middle digits proudly exposed, wondering why his brakes aren’t working.

Gotta give Bud credit, he looked like he was having a grand ol’ time up there; it was as if he’d somehow discovered the fountain of youth. When I watched the video clip, my first assumption was they were shooting a remake of Cocoon in the owners’ box. Just curious, how many 86 year old men are going around these days with the name Bud?  He’s probably married to a broad named Kit, has two kids, Munch and Bolt, and a dog named Frank.   If the old coot had any chance of being a spokesman for the king of beers, he pretty much killed that deal on Sunday.   Poor Bills fans can’t feel to well after getting flipped off by a besotted octogenarian.  Haven’t Bills fans suffered enough with four Super Bowl losses and another losing season under the tutelage of now deposed coach Al Jauron, who strikes about as much fear into you as his evil twin Tim Kurkjian.

I watched Bud up there in the booth and a few questions came to mind.  Why the two handed middle finger gesture?  When flipping people off, most folks agree one is plenty. One middle finger tells the person he needs to bleep off. Two middle fingers screams, “Bleep off, but while you’re doing that, please get me some help.” It’s a classic case of less is more.  One middle finger has never failed me. Have you ever flipped someone off and had the cretin look back at you quizzically?    “Not sure what you mean by that padre, your right hand is telling me to go %$$ myself, but your left hand seems to be saying we’re cool.  Could you please be a little more specific?”

I was also a little confused as to why Bud would choose a game in which he won to exhibit that behavior.  Is the old man having trouble reading the scoreboard at his lofty age?  No Bud, you own the team in black, put your rocket back in your pants. Bud wound up getting fined 250K by the NFL.  He tried to weasel out of it by claiming he was simply telling the Bills fans that at their current pace, they would be drafting 11th.

Now that the dust has settled on the Pats-Indy game, and everyone in the country has chimed in with his lame opinion, let’s get one fact across; the zebras blew the call.  The NFL refs blow, and Sunday was another prime example of why we need full time refs and more challenges.  Three challenges is not enough, if I were coaching, I would ask for somewhere in the vicinity of four or five per minute.  I’d be holding so many red flags; it would be like I was pacing the sidelines clutching the AIDS quilt.  These refs are that bad.

Have you ever seen the look on the face of an 80 year old official after he returns from the replay camera?  It appears as if he is saying, “Where the hell was I when that happened?  And why am I wearing the outfit of a Footlocker salesman?”   The NFL doesn’t help itself by informing the fans that the refs are tin salesman and plumbers in the off season. Too much information.   I’m laying hard cash on a game, and you think I need to know that today’s official owns a septic tank cleaning company?  Got any photos to corroborate that?  Why don’t they throw these interesting facts out there on the players and coaches while they’re at it?  Announcer: “Backup QB Rich Calhoun is going into the game for the injured starter.  Rich sells cocaine in the off-season and works part time changing diapers at the Eastwood Nursing Home.  He’s also a part time gay waiter at Chili’s. He could be a star in this league according to his coach, who incidentally dresses up as the ass end of a donkey for children’s parties.”

Quick word about this product, don’t buy it.  If by perfect they mean a perfect tear in the rotator cuff, then by all means have at it.  I cannot even lift my arm over head due to this piece of crud.  If you aren’t familiar with it, the product is basically 2 rotating disks that you do pushups on top of, and according to the makers, it will build up your arms in a greater way than normal pushups.  If driving to the physical therapist is their idea of building up your arms, they are right on the mark.  The obvious question that I overlooked when I bought this contraption is….why do you need rotating disks, when we are all born with these things called wrists.  How lazy can you get?  What is coming next, a device that lowers your chest to the floor and then raises it again?  How about a device that builds up your legs.   Call if the perfect ass tightener.    Lift a lever, bend at the knees and slowly place your ass on a toilet and do a few squats.  I’ve got an idea for a perfect chin up I’d like the perfect pushup folks to try.  Hang a strap from the ceiling, then place your skull in the noose.  Swing back and forth, you should feel immediate results.

I watched a bit of the British Open this past weekend, and came away feeling as though I was as old as Tom Watson.  Is this guy boring or what?  If he were any more boring, he would be a plant.  I was pulling for him, as a 59 year old winning a Major further solidifies my opinion golf is not a sport, but at times I wanted to reach through my screen and slap the old  coot.  Show some emotion, whip a club, swear, pull your pants down and moon the gallery!   At his age, whose gonna care anyway?   The PGA would just chalk it up to senility.

In the end, it appeared Watson had it, but that final putt was a disaster.  He tapped it like he was playing mini golf and there was a windmill in the way.  I think golf chokes are the best, cuz you are out there all alone, the whole world watching, and the only hole you could possibly crawl into is too small for even your trembling hand to fit inside.  If I were running this sham of a game, a nice tradition in these moments would be the previous tourney’s  choke artist to walk out and offer this years chokehard a loaded pistol and a vial of pills.  I’m sure Watson would have waved him off in typical boring fashion, instead of wowing the gallery with an exploding head and brain shrapnel all over the green,   but it would have been a nice touch.

With Duke out I can now sit back and enjoy the NCAA tournament.  Along with the Yankees and Lakers, Duke sits atop my list of most hated teams.  Unlike the Yankees and Lakers however, Duke is no longer relevant.  They have become one of the few teams that are easy to hate, but don’t really worry you cuz they are going nowhere.   I lump em in there with the Jets, the Sabres and the Bulls.   I haven’t been worried about Duke winning it since Elton Brand left town.  What makes me even happier is they could take Brand back today and they’d probably be worse.

If you’ve watched Coach K recently, its plain to see the man has given up.   Nobody knows their team better than the coach; formerly he’d be up ranting and raving at officials, begging for every call, phoning in death threats and creating more sideline havoc than anyone East of Bobby Knight.  That, and the rich pompous jackass student body,  were some  of the reasons this team was so hatable.  I hardly find it a coincidence that the first syllable in Duke is the same as the first syllable in Douche Bag.   But after last nights debacle against Villanova, I’m actually starting to feel bad for them.  Coach K sits on the sideline watching the game like he’s undergoing Chinese water torture treatments, a method by the way, that is only slightly less aggravating than watching a Duke center play under the hoop.  This year’s center, some clump by the name of Doubek, looked like a cross between Hank Finkel and that giant from the movie Giant.  The guy had his arms in the air the entire game.  I wasn’t sure if he was playing defense or surrendering.  Based on the score I’ll go with the latter.   Villanova rubbed it in a bit by waiting until there five minutes left in the game and then deciding to release some moisture from their sweat glands.   Poor Coach K built this school to be a powerhouse, today they can barely run with the mid majors.  This year’s squad featured more white players than an Italian League team.  You know you’re in trouble when you take the court with guys named Jon, Greg and Olek. I was in the kitchen making a sandwich when i heard the announcer mention Olek.  My wife turned to me and asked if I was watching an infomercial on vacuums.  I said no but when you get right down to it both of them suck.   Also a memo to coach K, if you’re going to draft a Jon, make sure there’s an h in there.  Inner city kids names Jon are non existent, if you find one, you really haven’t, he’s just a bad speler.   Either Coach K has lost the recruiting touch, or like most people his age, he’s afraid to venture into the city after suppertime.   Where does Duke recruit to come up with this roster?  I can just picture Jim Calhoun, Bill Self and Billy Donovan rushing to the airport so they can meet with some inner city phenom; meanwhile Coach K is taking a first class flight to Des Moines so he can land a 7 foot three inch chemisty wizard.   Good riddance boys, see you next season where i’ll make a bold prediction and say they go a step further and make the Elite Eight……of the NIT.

Jay Cutler performed his best Jim Mora impersonation recently after his team, the Denver Broncos, attempted to ship the gunslinger out of town.  Trade?  Trade?  Me?  Trade?  Ya kidding me?  Trade???  Trade???  Let’s get the violins out for Jay, who is apparently upset that his new coach attempted to trade him.   Apparently Jay figured the new coach was going to come in, look around and say, “Well, we were 8-8 last year, so I guess we’re pretty much all set.  I’ll see you all at mini camp in a few months.  Keep up the mediocre work and remember our new team credo,  “”A committment to okayness.”"  Jay, you had a so so year last year, but I’m not going to trade you, because so so fits under the umbrella of okay. I don’t expect you to go out and win us a title, just get us a few ties. “”

Denver’s new coach Josh Mcdaniels spent several years working with Tom Brady, of course he’s going to consider trading Cutler.   Josh must watch tape of Cutler with a small barf bag on his lap.  After two hours of film, he has to call Tom Brady who then talks Josh out of killing himself.  Each of Cutler’s 18 interceptions must cause Josh to blurt out, “‘Holy crap, we are wearing orange!!  How much more obvious can we be?  Should we put neon decals on our helmets and attach those long curly drinking straws to the facemasks?  Hook a few cowbells to our cleats and paint our asses red? ” Cutler was so bad at times last year, he entered the locker room at halftime leading his team in tackles.   Seriously when you think about it, Denver has the most noticeable uniform in the league, maybe in all of America.  Throwing interceptions for an orange team is like shooting your hunter partner in  the face.  Simply put, Cutler is the Dick Cheney of the NFL

And the Denver Broncos uniform reminds me of UPS with their all brown attire.  Cutler thinks he has it bad, imagine wearing brown all day?  Brown shirt, brown pants, brown socks, brown jacket, drive around all day in a big brown truck, dropping brown boxes off to brown buildings, go to lunch with John Brown, brown bagging it ,  drive a brown car home, your brown wife waiting for ya,  “Honey, how was your day ?”  “It sucked, get that brown dress off before I smack ya. “   I’m not suggesting they beat their wives…its just a hunch.   Denver in orange ain’t much better.   Ask Cutler, “”What can orange do for you?”"  It can lead the team down the field, only to then toss the rock into a waiting safety wearing silver and black.

The WBC ratings are floating in a cesspool, and supporters of the tournament can’t figure out why.  Here’s one possible reason.  Similar to the Olympics, this tourney pits countries against other countries for bragging rights to a particular sport, in this case baseball, which I don’t even consider a sport since players are only required to sprint about once every hour and a half unless their manager happens to be Larry Bowa.  The difference between the two is the Olympics takes the viewer to lands it has never seen before, magical places like Egypt and Morocco.  The WBC is a collection of third rate dumps, places where a Motel 6 is considered a palace, and where the most popular citizens are the ones who float away in raft made of coke bottles, as opposed to the citizens who choose to stick around and swat flies for the rest of their existence.

The tourney would be greatly improved by pitting squads of players with things in common, other than their native heritage.  For example, a team of players consisting entirely of those named on the Mitchell Report.  Managed by none other than………. George Mitchell.  Victor Conte could skipper the helm of a squad of Balco clients.  Think of the money he’d save not having to buy athletic supporters.    Then a dream team of players who have not been in any way linked to steroids, yet deep in our hearts, we all know these sons of bitches have cheated more than the ones who’ve been caught.   That squad could battle a team consisting of players who perjured themselves under oath.  Pete Rose could re enter the game as the manager of that team.  I’d personally like to watch a team of players who can’t speak English take the field vs. a team of guys who suddenly forget how to speak English when facing a court judge.   We could wrap it up with a game pitting the all time home run hitters taking on the characters in Jose Canseco’s books.

Ahhh, tourney time is upon us, and it can’t come soon enough.  Is there anything more annoying than Championship Week, the endless talk of bubble teams, and the yearly whining of coahces who don’t get invited to the Big Dance?  Do these coaches really thing we the fans give a rat’s rectum?

Exhibit A this year is St Mary’s.  Yes there is college called St. Mary’s and they do have a basketball team.  Putting aside their RPI and the their record for just a second, let me go way out on a limb here.  St Mary’s sucks.  I watched them play twice and ended up flipping to Home Shopping Network after being driven to the point of suicidal boredom.  There is not a single player on the team who plays an exciting brand of hoop.  The word Saint in their name is fitting, since the bulk of their shots are absolute prayers heaved rimward by a cabal of stiffs who would have trouble stopping the local hot shot down at the Y.  I don’t want to hear about RPI because if this got in, it would be R.I.P.    Another bitch and moaner was San Diego State.  I accidentally flipped on one of their games, which tend to fortunately air when most of America is in a peaceful slumber, including those in attendance,  and honestly thought I was watching a team try out to be the fodder in an upcoming game against the Harlem Globetrotters.   Small dumb players tossing the rock around like it was an unpinned hand grenade.  Just once I want to see a coach of one of these bubble teams stand up and say, “The committee did a great job by not selecting us this year.  We almost fooled ya all with our RPI and our record, but fortunately the committee was able to strip through the layers and realize that we completely eat donkey dung.  I’ve coached some bad teams, but this one was always able to reach down and get to a level of suckiness that others couldn’t match.  I look forward to bringing this cabal of stiffs to the NIT where it will get hammered by some 8th place Big Ten team. ”

The NIT is an even bigger catastrophe.  What exactly is it?  A tourney for teams that don’t make the tourney?  What about the bubble NIT teams?  Can we set up a tourney for them?  Call it the NOT.  Bubble NOT teams will be invited to the NO, otherwise known as the Microscopic Dance.   The NIT tourney is akin to the NFL saying, week 1 of the non playoff teams will pit the Browns against the Raiders.  The winner goes on to face the Lions in the Suckass Bowl on April 10th in Des Moines.

I wathced the NIT final last year, and have to say that the celebration after the final buzzer was astounding.  I could not figure out what all the jumping around was about.  There were no winners out there.  Only bottom feeders who had to sit out the NCAA tourney after a horrible year.  “We are number one!” was a chant I heard that evening.  I wanted to go up to each player and say, “No, you are not number 1, you are number 65.”  And the winner of the NCAA play in game would have every right to say, “Step aside chumps, you’re number 66.”