Apples and Moustaches...just cause

by Magglio and Jericho

Apple
I always knew Eli Manning had periods, I just didn't know he got them on his forehead.


Moustache
Brett Favre is returning to football. This story is the equivalent of my obsession with Mad Dog 20/20 in college. Every Thursday night I’d attempt to put down 2 bottles of MD 20/20. Inevitably I couldn’t finish the 2nd bottle. We’d then go out to a bar and within an hour or so I’d be headed home to spend the rest of the night puking and making out with a fat chick. Brett Favre is the drink, the puke and that fat chick I used to take home all wrapped into one. I want nothing to do with Brett Favre ever again.


Apple
Twitter update! The funniest twats I’ve read come from Sarah Silverman. That is one funny dude. What? That’s a chick. Why does she have a moustache then? Oh and by the way, we’re on Twitter now. Find us @rickreilyisgay “ We have exactly 0 followers. Follow us. Or don't. But either way, fuck Twitter.


Moustache
A few years ago, Magglio and I decided that every time Matt Millen appears on TV, a little box should appear that says “Was GM of first team in history to go 0-16” for the entire time he’s speaking. Here’s another one I’d like to add. Every time Katy Perry is shaking her admittedly gorgeous tits around, the box should say “has most definitely had Russell Brand’s poop in her mouth.” I like Russell Brand and I like Katy Perry’s melons, which are admittedly gorgeous, but those tits have been on a wild ride and that should be noted.


Apple
I'm approaching my fantasy draft the same way I approached being with a naked girl for the first time: if something looks good I'm grabbing it.


Moustache
Remember the “help me, help you” scene in Jerry Maguire? Anyone who has ever worked at an agency (PR, ads, escorts, whatever) can attest to how accurately that scene captures the frustration that comes with trying to talk a dumb person out of doing something dumb, full while knowing they’re going to do it anyway because, after all, they’re dumb. Having clients who won’t listen is analogous to watching your dog eat a pile of shit. The worst part isn’t the shit itself; it’s the weird look the dog gives you that says “man, you’re crazy, this shit is delicious” as you’re imploring him/her to stop. That look is 50 times worse than the act itself. Replace the dog with a client, the shit with an idea they just took a dump on and the “delicious!” look with a “I’ve got it!” email and you’ve got agency life.




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A few A&Ms

Apple
I’m not a girl. I don’t have girl parts. But I do know that any time a commercial starts with ‘my doctor told me there’s no need to have my period once a month’ and ends with warnings of possible inflammation of the uterus and vaginal lacerations, then something is out of whack. I’ll take my birth control the old fashion "pull-out and aim" way thank you very much.


Moustache
Who do you take with the 7th pick in your fantasy draft? Let’s say it goes CJ, AP, Rice, MJD, Turner, and Andre Johnson…who do you take then? As much as I love the Niners I don’t want Gore. No thank you on Steven Jackson. A quarterback? Maybe. The other option is you nut up and grab one of the big name WRs not named Moss. Like Roddy White or DeSean Jackson or Miles Austin. My strategy this year is to not worry about where I’m picking but worry about just taking who I want.


Apple
Can someone please explain to me once and for all what the fuck Twitter is all about? I don’t get it. I really don’t. I have a Twitter account and yes it’s great to stay up on sports news as well as what J-WOWW’s mighty cannons are up to. But that’s about it. I’ve had precisely 9 tweets. All of them go out into the great unknown world of the interwebnet and then what? I don’t get any feedback. No former classmate who used to give handys to the entire basketball team gives it the thumbs up. So what then? Someone please explain. Preferably someone named MarinGuy.


Moustache
I’m trying to hook two people up that I know. The dude is one of my best friends on the planet who I’ve known since we were 5. The other is a chick I work with. Here’s the funny thing about hooking two people up. At first, you know everything about how things are going. You know who texted who. You know what they talked about on their dates. You know if he went under the shirt over the bra or if he went straight for the slap and a tickle. And then….BOOM. Just like that you know nothing. They all of a sudden have their own wave length, their own moments and their own inside jokes. This must be what a momma bear feels like when she lets her cub go into the wild. Fuck that was gay. Forget that last part please.


Apple
Here’s a trend I’m tired of; articles about sandwiches. Where to get the best sandwich. How to build the perfect sandwich. What your sandwich says about you. Is this really what this world has come to? We have nothing better to talk about then which mayo aioli to pair with ham and provolone? Go fuck yourself articles about sandwiches.


That is all.

Go Giants.




III

Que Bueno!

I’m excited about a few things. So naturally I wanted to document my feelings. Like a tender 10-year old penning her daily crushes into a notepad and stashing it under her mattress for nobody to find. Under this scenario I would be the chick, my blog is my notebook, you are the mattress and my crushes are the following:

• I’m excited about...the start of another season of Hard Knocks. Let me put it like this. If you have HBO, then I know exactly what you should be doing tonight. If you don’t have HBO, then I know the call you should be making to your local cable company tonight. This is a must. At one point we even threatened you, the reader, if you weren’t watching. We said, and I quote, “If you’re not watching Hard Knocks this season you are officially uninvited from reading this blog.” This still stands. So make it happen.

• I’m excited about... the offer I just received from the SF Chronicle which will ultimately put the Sporting Green back into my hands. You see, there was a solid string of 18 years or so when I read the sports page daily. It became so much of a routine that when I got to college I would deliberately set my alarm early, waddle my hung over ass downstairs to the fraternity kitchen, confiscate the sports page, then bring it back to bed with me to ensure I could read it when I woke up. After college I did everything in my power to afford a paper subscription. But that shit is EXPENSIVE. Eventually it went away. And my life was crushed. Nothing can take the place of the sports page. Not espn.com, not sfgate.com, not the free paper they hand out on Market St. Nothing. I’ll spare you the details, but as of next week, I’m back baby. I’m back.

• I’m excited about... the upcoming fantasy draft with my high school friends. 17 years and running. Un-fucking-real. Maybe this year I’ll actually win.

• I’m excited about... the rainbow belt I bought. It’s like this, this shit is legit. It’s Paul Smith. And when you look at it you either get ‘dude, is that Paul Smith? Nice belt.’ Or you get ‘dude, that’s a rainbow belt, you’re fucking gay.’ It immediately tells me where somebody stands in life. And you know what? I like it like that.

• I’m excited about... Buster Posey, the chick in the pic above, the half-marathon in November, peanut butter, hating LeBron, Bubba, and the fact that there will be a football game every single Sunday from now until February.

Tits dude, totally tits.







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