Friday, February 27, 2009

Friday A&Ms

I’m wearing white boots today. Alligator skinned white boots with a rock star cross on the side. These are some serious fuck me boots. I can barely keep the bitches off of me. Seriously. Please understand that I live in San Francisco. In any other city in the world these boots would mean I’m not coming home tonight and tomorrow I’m gonna be walking with a noticeable hitch in my giddy up. But in San Francisco, it means I’m a mother fucking hustler. As a co-worker told me, Mickey Rourke called, he wants his boots back. Whatever.

Can we take a minute and talk about the Washington Huskies? First place in the Pac-10 with a game and a half lead. The Dawgs haven’t won the Pac-10 title outright since 1953. (Pause to fully comprehend that sentence.) With 2 games left to play, Husky fever is at an all time high. It’s like when Britney just shaved her head and everyone was so anxious to see what would happen next. We’re about to take an umbrella to some paparazzi cars. Hey ASU…whose house? Dawgs house....Boom. Roasted.

Manny to the Giants? I heard a good reason last night on sports talk radio beyond the obvious. It would benefit the Giants to have Manny on their team as much for his bat as it would to not have him on the Dodgers. To carry on the analogy from last time, Manny is the hottest chick in school that doesn’t even notice you exist. She’s always had a super serious boyfriend and when she walks by she has the kind of rack that makes men make an uncontrollable audible sound. Regardless of if your wife or girlfriend is around you can’t help it. She smells like Italy. And if her hoo-ha could roll cigars then you could sell each for a million dollars. Yes, that is Manny Ramirez. Come on Manny. Let’s roll a fatty.

Every year around this time I like to run through the same tests as the rookies do at the NFL Combine just to see where I stand. My 40-yard dash clocked in at 6.13, I lifted 225lbs approx 6 times (with help) and my vertical was 22.5”. Not bad. I seem to be aging well like Steve Martin. Enough about me, check this out. This turns me on. My only question...where is Joey Galloway? Didn’t he turn in a sub-4.2 40 time?

Jericho had Lasik eye surgery yesterday. Right now he’s sitting in a dark room with shades on watching Forrest Gump like an institutionalized Jim McMahon.

Over/Under parlay of the weekend: Combined number of drinks I have + total number of offers the Dodgers make to Manny + number of times I say “I can’t wait for Monday to get here it’s the Bachelor finale!” + number of times I scour the internet to try and find the Dolce & Gabanna suit Tom Brady wore for his wedding + number of total Tahoe Santa comments on this post…64.

The sports book is now open. Please place your bets.


Thursday, February 26, 2009

Game. Over.

Today has been canceled due to this set of photos. And this photo right here. Thanks everyone. Please retire to your respective homes and don't come back until tomorrow. I repeat, today has been canceled. (See, we can be tasteful with our choice in photos.)


Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Touching Kobe Bryant

All I wanted to do was touch Kobe Bryant. Is that so weird? It’s not like I’m a huge Kobe fan or anything like that, but I thought it would be something I could keep with me my entire life. Something to brag about. Something to tell the kids someday. “This one time, I touched Kobe Bryant.” How many of you can say that? I’m guessing nobody can. Seen him play? Maybe. Own his jersey? Who gives a shit! Have you touched him?

The place I work, my place of service from 9 to 5, is in the heart of San Francisco. It is strategically located near the hotel where all visiting NBA teams stay when they face the fearsome Golden State Warriors. Sorry, let me reiterate. The fearsome 20-37 Golden State Warriors. Let that sit with you for a minute. Yeah. Now imagine how opposing teams feel. Trembling to say the least.

Even if you aren’t a diehard Warriors fan you can tell when there’s another team in town. The sidewalks near the hotel start to fill around 10am with hefty autograph seekers wedged into too tight NBA jerseys and holding the weirdest shit you’ve ever seen. Seriously. Last week I saw a guy who looked like Artie from the Howard Stern show wearing a 1977 Trailblazers Championship t-shirt and clutching a framed LaMarcus Aldridge jersey. Seriously. I can’t make this shit up. He was standing next to his small Asian friend, also decked out in Trailblazer gear, talking his ear off about Brandon Roy and the impact he’s made in the NBA. Now I can’t argue with him. Brandon Roy is a fucking animal on the court (Go Dawgs!) but who were these guys? It was like a group of shit stains from Boston came to hang out on our sidewalk and stalk opposing teams. Those fucks at KSK would fit right in.

As we’ve discussed previously, much to your surprise I’m sure, I am a working professional. I have a signature accompaning my outgoing emails, the receptionist orders pens specific to my liking and my chair is one of those super fancy ones with so many knobs and levers that I’m not quite sure how it works. But it looks pretty sweet. And you’d be totally impressed. The point of all this? At 4pm on a weekday I’m not going on hour 3 of standing in front of a hotel hoping to catch a whiff of Raef LaFrentz. No. I’m at work. Doing work like things. In Excel. And other Microsoft software applications. That’s where I am. Yes sir.

Until I hear the Lakers were coming to town. Then everything changed.

I did some scouting. Like Colin Farrell at Hooters, I knew what I was looking for. It seemed as though 4pm was the average time when a team would make the walk from the lobby of the hotel to the buses waiting outside. This is when players would encounter the rabid fans, the players with their ear buds in, pretending they barely noticed the throng of humans eager to get their attention. This is when I would have my chance.

It was a Wednesday I think. No, I’m sure it was a Wednesday. And when I tell the story to my grandchildren someday I’ll tell them it was 72 and balmy out with a slight southeast breeze. Truth be told it was 58 and grey out. I had positioned myself towards the back of the crowd which at this point was 25-30 strong. It looked like an ‘Everyone Loves Raymond’ fan club meeting. But I was there with a purpose. I was going to touch Kobe.

The anticipation was palpable. Everyone in the crowd was ready to see a Laker. A handful of assistant coaches came first and the amateur autograph seekers pounced. I scoffed. That’s like buying the first bottle of wine you taste when you go to Napa. (See how grown up I am?!) Luke Walton followed shortly thereafter. Some fat chick screamed. I rolled my eyes. Justin Farmar came out and there was an audible groan. It made me laugh. He’s a gigantic pussy.

Then came Kobe. Decked out in a warm up suit and dark aviator sunglasses. Fuck he’s smooth. The crowd enveloped Kobe like he was, well, Kobe. I had no shot. I truly didn’t expect the onslaught of people. What started as a crowd of 35 just a few minutes ago quickly grew to hundreds when Kobe appeared. Ok, maybe not hundreds, but enough that yours truly couldn’t get within 15 feet. I was flummoxed. I didn’t touch Kobe Bryant.

Kobe and the Lakers boarded the bus. Drove the 8 miles to Oakland. And proceeded to beat the Warriors by 8 but still covered the over winning 129-121.

Whatever. Fuck LA. At least I’ve peed in the same urinal as Dell Demps. And I shook Jim Abbott’s left hand once. How many of you can say that?


Tuesday, February 24, 2009

A day late, but I’m busy

Let’s wrap up Oscar season and put the ’08 movie year to rest. A few thoughts on the show and my updated and final top 10 list.

I know I say this every year, but there’s no doubt that the purpose of the Oscars is to celebrate the Oscars, in no way shape or form are they intended to celebrate the films from that year. This year’s example, all of the best song nominees were only allowed to perform 90 seconds worth of their material, yet they featured a 57-minute tribute to musicals that was about as enjoyable as being the “no, you make sure it stays in, I move him around” guy in a Hugh Hefner sex tape.

Peter Gabriel Question #1: where does Peter Gabriel refusing to perform live in retaliation for the 90-second limit rank on the “who gives a fucking shit” scale?

Peter Gabriel Question #2: when you’re Peter Gabriel and you're bald and look like Anthony Hopkins’ dick and Sledgehammer was 22 years ago – why the fuck aren’t you performing? Let me put it this way, when you’re Peter Gabriel you perform that song in a fucking toilet while Clint Howard craps on you if they ask you to.

Peter Gabriel Question #3: when you’re Peter Gabriel and you’re sitting in the stands watching John Legend gently massaging the clitoris of the song you wrote but refused to perform, do you stab yourself in the neck or the leg? I mean, are you limping out of the Kodak or do they carry you out?

Look, I like Sean Penn as much as the next guy, but does he have to be so fucking grandiose about everything? Remember his rambling tribute to Mickey Rourke that started off with “I’m proud to live in a country that elects an elegant man president.” What the fuck is he talking about? Barack is as elegant as Lando Calrissian’s moustache, no fucking doubt about it, but as a preface to Mickey fucking Rourke? Huh? I mean, in a million years could you possibly come up with a rational sentence that started with Barack Obama and ended with Mickey Rourke? Try it. I dare you. It’s not fucking possible. Barack could run Mickey Rourke over in a car on national TV and you still couldn’t come up with that sentence.

Here’s the bigger “why is Sean Penn so grandiose about fucking everything” question: does he do this in his every day life?

Waitress: More coffee, Mr. Penn?
Penn: Coffee? Do you know that in Guatemala there are literally hundreds of thousands of orphans climbing the cocao beans of Mau Mau Ploo, asking themselves the same question, when will this country elect an elegant man president, Mickey Rourke, Mickey Rourke, Rourke, Rourke, Rourke?!?!

For as much posturing as I do about my movie knowledge, there’s just a bunch of shit I don’t understand. For example, how can a movie like Slumdog beat a movie like The Dark Knight in a technical category? When Slumdog wins for sound mixing, is the Academy saying “man, I can’t believe they did that with such a small budget?” or do they actually think that the movie sounded better? That baffles me.

Okay, here’s something that bothers me. The screenwriter and actor for Milk get raucous applause during their speeches – yet the movie doesn’t win best picture. You can’t just make fucking clap noises for something and not vote for it. Not to go all Sean Penn on you and make this a bigger issue, but this is a bigger issue. All the people that were yelling approvingly for gay rights are the same ones that voted against a gay rights movie winning. That’s a little hypocritical, isn’t it? I mean, we elected an elegant man president for Christ fucking sake!

And for shits, here’s my top ten list for 2008. See you next year.

10. The Reader
9. Tropic Thunder
8. Iron Man
7. Pineapple Express
6. Vicky Christina
5. Doubt
4. Frost/Nixon
3. Milk
2. Wall-E
1. The Dark Knight

Gran Torino, The Wrestler, Step Brothers

Worst Movie of the Year:
Indiana Jones and The Crystal Cock That Took A Giant Leak on My Legacy

Happy Fucking Tuesday

I wrote a new post. I had it up for all of 3 minutes. Read it again. Ran it by KK. He hated it. I hated it. So we pulled it down. See, that’s the dedication we have for you. We are so determined to not post garbage like you’d find on other sites that I will second guess myself into a frenzy. You should see me right now. My hair is a mess, I’m sweating like I’m being interviewed by Sam Ryan. You have my promise; we will not post garbage on our site. We’re too small at this point to name names, but there are plenty of shit sites out there right now for you to waste your time reading. We’re poised to take them on. It’s go time.

So I’m sitting on my couch last night, watching the Bachelor Tell-All episode, and thinking to myself “man, I might be the gayest dude in all of America right now.” And then the camera panned to the crowd, showed some dude applauding with fervor and a twinkle in his eye, and I felt much better about myself.

Check out this new site, dedicated to all things NFL Draft Related. Did you know Brandon Pettigrew ran an abysmal 4.87 40 and top O-Lineman Andre Smith hopped on a flight and flew home without telling anyone? Neither did I. Now you do. Check them out and let me know what you think.

We saw The Reader on Friday night and I am happy that Kate Winslet won the Oscar. But she should have thanked her tits in her speech. They did a helluva job. The thing nobody is talking about is how great the kid in the movie was. I mean, if that kid turns in a half assed performance then the movie falls flat. Why didn’t he get any Oscar mention? He carries the entire movie. I don’t think Ralph Fiennes’ character in the end pays off unless the kid truly nails what it’s like to be in love for the first time. Which he did masterfully. Oh yeah, Kate Winslet has big and tasty brown nipples.

Apple (Photo above and this Apple courtesy of FWG)
Just when you thought that tramp stamps were going out of style, Bam! you are hit with this. A biblical tramp stamp. Love is blind? Love is patient? Love shot all over this tattoo? You just know some dude was reading this, hitting it from behind, engaged in premarital intercourse. Sinner.

There’s a reason San Francisco is the greatest city in the world and no it’s not because our starting 5 will challenge for tops in the majors this season. Check this out. Do I think this will pass? No chance. But at least the issue is being escalated even further through government channels. Now pardon me, it’s almost lunch time.



Saturday night I found myself at a bar out in Berkeley. Usually I don't travel outside of the city confines unless it's for:

a) food
b) a music event
c) the promise of ridiculousness

It was a birthday party for a friend so option C was still on the table. He is, however, a friend in a different social circle than me so I knew roughly 3% of the attendees at the party. Not a problem. I had my hella fine wife on my arm (translation: this bitch was banging) and I was wearing a sexy top. (Guys translation: A t-shirt.) My girl lost the obligatory paper-rock-scissors battle on the way over which meant daddy was going to be president of the giddy up bandwagon. (translation: Bring on the Maker’s and lots of it.)

We sashayed our way into the bar and quickly found the birthday boy. We did our obligatory man hugging, thanked him for inviting us and then wandered over to the bar. I was thirsty. Let's pause for a quick bar description:

1) Tons of stinky hippies, this is Berkeley remember

2) a sideshow band that came complete with a banjo player and a one-eyed dude playing what appeared to be an Obo

3) sticky floors

4) Chubby but friendly cocktail waitresses
(I have to say, I re-wrote that last sentence about 15 times. At first I had 'Chubby and friendly waitresses' and then changed it to 'Chubby but friendly waitresses'. I went round and round. Is it more of a surprise that she's friendly despite of her chubbiness? Or is her friendliness in compliments of her chubbiness? In the end I decided that it was in shocking contrast to her physical stature, so settled on 'Chubby but friendly'. All in all those chicks were a disaster.)

As I mentioned, I was thirsty, I didn't know anyone and I wasn't driving. All signs pointed to a small glass filled with ice, some Makers and a splash of Diet Coke. While I'm standing at the bar one of the CBF (Chubby But Friendly) waitresses came up to me.

"Do you need a drink?"

"Yeah, that's cool I can just get one up here," I said motioning to the bartender who was about to take my order.

"Are you a part of the birthday party," she asked in a friendly tone.


"No problem, I can take your order and bring it back to you," she said, hungrily.

Great. This would be much easier. I could tell her what I wanted and wait for her to bring it to me. Like I was Lil Wayne in the VIP section getting some bubbly on ice. Except replace the VIP with a stink hole in the East Bay and the bubbly with a watered down whiskey. I told her what I wanted and returned to the dark corner of the bar the group had commandeered. My drink arrived and I quickly got into a competitive game of darts.

Side note: I spent an entire winter at college doing nothing but focusing on getting better at darts. This happened for 3 reasons:

1) I was convinced that with a little practice I could seriously consider going pro with my dart throwing skills. I was wrong

2) I lived in Seattle and winters are cold, dark and rainy. There's not much else to do.

3) I was incredibly stoned for, well, most of the winter. It made sense at the time. Despite my determination and 3 months of honing my pin point precision I barely improved. Darts is for bitches. There I said it.

And then? She disappeared. ("She" being the CBF Waitress. I realize this story is going in a number of directions but stay with me. There's a question at the end of this and I need your opinion.) Nothing. Gone like Keyzer Soze. Gone like Courtney Love’s music career. Gone like Marvin Harrison. I didn't see the CBF Waitress for another 30 minutes. I was parched, my charm was wearing thin and my dart play was severely suffering. And then, like Jesus himself descended upon the bar, there she was. In all her CBF glory.

"Can I get you something," she said in a chubby but friendly way.

So here's the question. Here's the 'choose your own adventure' portion of the program. What would you order? I figured I wouldn't see her again for another 30 minutes at least and I wanted to be prepared. I decided ultimately I had 2 options:

1) I order a double Makers and Diet Coke anticipating that she won't be back for a long time

2) I order 2 Makers and Diet Cokes anticipating that she won't be back for a long time

But either way I felt like an alcoholic so the real question is this;
which is the more socially accepted move? Ordering a double or ordering 2 drinks at a time?


Monday, February 23, 2009

Caity's Time of the Month...

*We've got tits! That's right. A&M now has a female writer complete with anatomically correct parts. Enjoy Caity's time of the month, a segment written for the female side, from the female side of Apples and Moustaches.

By Caity -

Today, I would like to extend a warm "fuck you" to the state of Georgia. Specifically, to anyone involved in the writing, implementation and/or enforcement of Georgia Statute 3-3-20, regarding the sale of alcoholic beverages on Sundays, election days, and Christmas Day, which states:

(a) Except as provided in subsection (d) of this Code section or except as specifically authorized by law, no person knowingly and intentionally shall sell or offer to sell alcoholic beverages on Sunday.

Thanks to your Puritanical asses, I was forced to watch the regional theater production otherwise known as the Oscars stone sober last night. Apart from cribbing all of Jericho's Oscar picks and, therefore, winning $10 off my roommate, that was probably the most painfully boring 3 hours of my life, including the time I got tricked into chaperoning my little cousin's elementary school sock hop. And I had to do it all without my best friend--Kettle One.

I know what you're thinking. "Well, Caity, you should have planned ahead and stocked up on Saturday." To quote Jack Donaghy: Thank you for telling me what I already know--you should work for the Huffington Post. This isn't my first rodeo, smart ass. I tried to stock up on Saturday, but my friends had to cancel their trip to New Orleans for Mardis Gras, so I took Mardis Gras to them. You see, then, the only thing that ever came of my planning ahead is a headache and confusion about why my sweatpants are in the kitchen and there is an unopened pack of raw bacon in the bathroom. True story.

Except for watching Hugh Jackman and Zack Efron battle tooth and anal beads for the title of most obvious closet case in Hollywood, all the drinks in the world couldn't have made that show entertaining. Consuming copious amounts of vodka would, however, have given me something to do during the 2 HOURS of technical awards besides shout obscenities at my television and wait for the next parade of has-beens. Cuba Gooding Jr, anyone? However, I will never--never--get over being robbed of my celebratory "Even Helen Keller Could Have Seen That One Coming" double-shot when the camera honed in (twice) on Angelina Jolie's fake ass smile during Jennifer Aniston's presentation.

This brings me to my next question: Who the hell is manning the sinking ship that is Jennifer Aniston's career? Now, I spent my formative years watching VHS tapes of Friends, so this comes from a good place, but whoever let her go onstage with that would-have-been-cute-2-years-ago braid and Jack Black needs to be shot. It was probably the same person who let her appear in a movie called "He's Just Not That Into You." I mean, why? The snarky commentary writes itself.

Hot tip of the day:
If you find yourself at the center of a very public divorce, don't spend 4 years conspicuously "not" talking about your ex-husband and his road whore of a baby factory, only to turn around and take half-hearted bitch slaps at them any chance you get, while promoting an unfortunately titled shitshow of a movie. And if you do, under no circumstances, should you choose the Oscars, where they are both nominated and sitting front row, to parade your C-list, tool shed, cabana boy as if anyone's impressed. And finally, if your masochism compels you to such self-immolating behavior, at least insist that you be the one to slowly open the envelope, take a long glance at her no-talent ass, and hand Best Actress to some other hoe.


Friday, February 20, 2009

Let’s All Win Our Oscar Pools

Sorry boys, the Academy fucked ya.

OK, you've waited long enough. Let's dance. Quick run down and then a few thoughts:

Best Picture
Will Win: Slumdog
Should Win: Milk (although it really should be The Dark Knight)

Best Director
Will Win: Danny Boyle
Should Win: Gus Van Sant (this is probably the best argument of the year with two complete contrasts in style. More on this below)

Best Actor
Will Win: Penn
Should Win: Penn (Not only is he just all around better than Rourke, but the Oscars don’t want Rourke up there)

Best Actress
Will Win: Winslet
Should Win: Winslet (You know what? Pound for pound, I really think Streep was better, but it’s Kate’s year and everyone knows it)

Best Supporting Actor
Will Win: Ledger
Should Win: Ledger (My Heath thoughts are best summed up here - it’s the best performance of the year by a landslide)

Best Supporting Actress
Will Win: Cruz
Should Win: Cruz (this is always the toughest category to predict and the nominees are extremely underwhelming this year. I think Cruz wins by default)

Best Original Screenplay
Will Win: Milk
Should Win: Wall-E (Milk is fantastic, but Wall-E was the most creative, most imaginative script of the year – don’t get fooled by the lack of dialogue. Guess what? The action scenes, scenery, sounds, look and feel of the characters, yeah, the writers do that too!)

Best Adapted Screenplay
Will Win: Slumdog
Should Win: Slumdog (three things I won’t argue so don’t even bother: Dark Knight is best movie of year, Ledger gave the best performance and Slumdog is the best screenplay. End of story)

A few thoughts:
*I think the Dark Knight will win the most Oscars of any film. It’s nominated for 8; I think it wins 6 or 7. Everyone in that room knows that it should be nominated for Best Picture; this will be the consolation. In other words, if you see Dark Knight on your ballot, check it.

*On the flip side of this, I think Benjamin Button gets crushed. Make up, art direction, costume, maybe editing – I’m thinking 3-4 tops. Pretty small number for a movie nominated 13 times.

*Possible upsets:
- Rourke and Penn canceling each other out, opening door for the well-liked Frank Langella
- Not really an upset per se, but Streep might inch past Winselt for Best Actress. Some might consider Kate's performance more of a supporting role and go with Meryl.
- Best supporting actress can always surprise, would not be surprised to see Amy Adams or Marisa Tomei take this one

*Okay, so let me be the 5 billionth person to ask this: why isn't Springsteen nomintated for best song for The Wrestler? It was crazy when Eddie Vedder get shunned last year, but there's only three songs nominated this year! They snubbed him on purpose! That's like getting shot down for a hand job by the response, "I'm sorry I don't have hands." I can see your hands, biatch!

*When Crash won Best Pic in 2005, it won a total of 3 Oscars - the lowest total number of Oscars ever for a best pic winner. There’s a very good chance Slumdog ties that record this year – it’s got three awards in the bag - Picture, Director and Screenplay – and has a very good shot at two more - Cinematography and Song – but only winning three is a very real possibility.

*I don’t buy the “redemption” angle that people are saying will push Rourke to an Oscar. A great analogy to this is 1994 when a well-respected industry veteran with one Oscar already (Hanks in Forrest Gump) was up against a once-respected has-been who rejuvenated his career with a risky role in a well-regarded indie film (Travolta in Pulp Fiction). The drum was beating for Travolta but ultimately the better performance and better actor came out on top. Honestly, the nomination is the reward for guys and stories like this. I think the Academy would be much happier with Penn as a two-time winner than Rourke as the comeback kid.

*More on the director race: I think this is less of a proficiency question and much more about personal preference (which I guess every category is ultimately). If you think about it, there are two types of well-directed films: the kind where you really notice the director and the ones you don’t notice him/her at all. You think of movies like Trainspotting where the camera is moving all over the place, quick cuts, random angles, the type of movie where you are aware of the director at all times. On the other side, you have movies like Good Will Hunting; quiet, still, the movie seems to float effortlessly from scene to scene. I mention those two movies b/c they are the flagship films for each of the two nominees in question and showcase their contrasting styles perfectly. I just happen to prefer the latter style b/c I think the frenetic, fast style can sometimes overpower the actual story, which happens in Slumdog one too many times for my liking. Again, just my preference, but I’m pulling for Van Sant and Milk to take this one home.

*I need to see a few more movies – Frost/Nixon, Grand Torino, Rachel Getting Married, etc – before I can give you my top ten, but from what I’ve seen so far, four of the five best movies this year aren’t nominated: Dark Knight, Wall-E, Doubt and Vicky Christina Barcelona.

*On that note, I’m less excited for the Oscars this year than I’ve been in a long, long time. You have to go back to 1998 to find a year with weaker all around films (Shakespeare in Love, Saving Private Ryan, Life is Beautiful, Elizabeth, The Thin Red Line – I really like the first two, but neither one is a Best Pic in my view. Also, much like this year, the best movie - The Truman Show - wasn’t even nominated). With all that said, of course I’m watching every second, winning every pool I enter and just loving all the excess that is Hollywood.

Good luck in your pools. RIP Heath.

Talk to me

Do you avoid visiting our site while at work because sometimes the picture we post is of slutty hot chicks? Or do you not care and you look forward to seeing what amateur porn/celeb chicks we’ve found for your viewing pleasure? A reader of our blog told me he’d read us much more often if he had peace of mind that when he came to our site it wouldn’t feature pictures like this. (Great picture by the way.)

Talk to me. Either in the comments or email at

Sluts or no sluts?


Thursday, February 19, 2009

One more cup of coffee...

Tomorrow night Jack and Meg will be playing Conan O’Brien. It will be their first performance in almost 2 years. Needless to say our DVRs are set. And so should yours. Look, if you loved us, you would watch them rip shit up tomorrow night. If nothing else then to have the chance to see a man play a guitar with nothing but his 18-inch cock. Believe that.

Oh yeah, it’s also Conan’s last show.


Who's Better?

So, you’re all wondering, “how did the pool game go between Jericho and Magglio?”

Well, here’s a quick review:

- Our waitress looked like a cross between Kristen Bell and Johnny from Karate Kid

- Magglio shocked everyone, including himself, by ordering his first martini. Much to my chagrin he said the word “delicious” more than three times.

- We split a pizza and some calamari, both wanted to order something else but were waiting for the other guy to say something, so ended up hungry and angry for the rest of the night.

- One unspoken rule of being a guy: if you’re presented with the option of increasing your beer from 16oz to 23oz for another $2 and turn it down, your buddy gets to jack off on your face in the middle of the bar. Thankfully that deal has never been turned down in the history of the world.

- After dinner, we moved to the pool area and had a frumpy little waitress we named Carmen.

- The music at the bar was unequivocally the worst music in the world. Apparently it was a station on XM called “fat girl crying herself to sleep with Angel’s food cake and the latest Vogue.” It was unbelievably awful. One highlight though, Magglio becoming visibly aroused when a Ryan Cabrera song came on. He tried to pass this off as “you remember him, he was the really weak guy that Ashlee Simpson dated.” One thing he wasn’t able to hide? The pool cue conspicuously jammed up his ass.

- Carmen definitely loved the music.

- We played 6 games at $2,500 a pop. To hear Magglio tell it, he played better, made better shots and is just a better all around pool player. Lucky for me, I wasn’t able to hear any of this as I was too busy counting the 5 grand I won off his dumb ass.


Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Some A&M's just for kicks

by Magglio and Jericho

The two of us are going to play pool tonight at a local drinking establishment. Here’s a quick run down of how the night will go. Jericho will suggest a wager of $1,000 a game. Magglio will look him dead in the eye and up the stakes to $2,500. They will seal the deal with a sturdy and completely heterosexual handshake. Magglio will come out strong, sinking his first 3-4 shots. Jericho will sink a ball here and there. Then the whisky will start to talk back and while Maggilo will go on a major cold streak, Jericho will catch fire. On the final shot Jericho will sink the 8-ball on an improbable, behind the back, bank shot. However, Magglio will be too distracted by a heaping plate of Nachos to even notice. Jericho will announce his victory to which Magglio will reply, “dude, the Nachos are here.” Then they’ll rack ‘em and play another game.

Doesn't it feel like all the A-Rod hating lately has more to do with A Rod himself than steroids? Everyone hates A-Rod and has since the Texas contract and has been waiting for the chance to vilify him. This is totally analogous to the Michael Jackson ordeal a few years ago. As much as he weirded us out, and as much as we hate pedophilia, what we were really mad about was the fact that he got to tickle Maculauy Culkin’s little starfish. In other words (cue Phil Donahue music), are we sure the problem isn’t us?

Bad smells that don’t bother me: my own pee, hard boiled eggs, skunks, gas.

Thank you Uncle Icee for sending me a poke on Facebook. Unfortunately I have that weird switch in my brain where I cannot just let this go so I will continue to poke you back for eternity or until you give up. Whichever comes first. That brings my list of total poke recipients on Facebook to two. The other has been going on between me and a girl friend of mine for probably over a year now. Seriously. We don’t even talk, email or IM. We just poke each other. Back and forth. Non-stop. And yes my wife knows that I’ve been poking this chick. Sometimes I even let her watch. (Ah, Facebook humor.)

Today is Nip Slip Wednesday. So, in honor of the upcoming Oscars we bring you a throwback. Ladies and gentlemen Anne Hathaway. (Thanks KK)

Here are the two best philanthropic ideas you’re going to hear this year:

1) Salma Hayek auctions off three minutes of breastfeeding to the highest bidder on eBay. You know there’s some weirdo millionaire with a crush on her that would pony up $10 million for this. Proceeds go to the charity of Salma’s choice.

2) Chris Brown and Mike Vick fight to the death – the winner gets completely exonerated from all charges and can return to normal life (minus their criminal ways of course) and the event is shown on pay-per-view with all proceeds being split by domestic violence prevention groups and animal rescue shelters. Here’s the awesome catch that really raises the awesomeness on this one. Unbeknownst to Brown and Vick, we’ve got Eve Ensler and Caesar Milan up in the rafters with sniper rifles and whoever wins the fight will get immediately shot in the head. Awesome, huh?


Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Dear Manny

Dear Manny –

I don’t normally do things like this. Write letters to strange men trying to coerce them to come to town. No, this is not normal for me. But you are different. You with your strong bat and ice cold veins. You are something special. So allow me to dream for a minute will you Manny? Just this once.

Let’s cut the bullshit Manny. We need you and you need us. We are desperate for a bat. Something to jump-start our offense. And let’s face it you are a winner. When you went to Boston you put the team on your back and willed them to win a World Series title. Hell, you did it twice. In LA last season, you took a completely worthless bunch of slap dicks and advanced them to the NLCS. Well, Manny, you’re the missing link for our little ball club here in San Francisco.

And think about it. By signing with the Giants you could do what you’ve been dying to do for the past few months. You can stick it to the Dodgers. You can stick it to them right in their little pussies. Look Manny, I’ll be honest with you. We here in San Francisco hate the Dodgers. We hate the Dodgers like Sam Ronson hates dick. They’re like a bunch of Ju Ju Bees stuck in between our teeth. We are raised from birth to hate the Dodgers. Won’t you help us Manny? Help us stick it to LA.

Seriously, what are your concerns? The weather? It’s always 65 with a touch of fog. The gays? They’re like the nerdy kid in high school that you decided to become friends with and then realized had a pool table at their house. Chinatown? Me too. But just avoid that area and you’ll be fine.

Look Manny the last time I wrote this adoring of a letter to another man my wife almost left me and Posh alerted the authorities. But my motives are sincere. All I want is to be dancing in the streets come October. Please, consider San Francisco. And bring Pedro’s creepy little midget too if you want. We’re waiting with open arms.

With hope and little dash of lunacy,


Monday, February 16, 2009

The first 8 Facebook Commandments

If you’ve been paying attention lately you’ve noticed that I have some pet peeves when it comes to Facebook. As interesting of a time suck as Facebook is there are certain things that people do that really get under my skin. So I’m putting it down on paper…here are the first* 8 commandments of Facebook.

*Please Note: Jesus needed 10. Our founding fathers needed 10. I am taking 8. But just like the right-wing Christians added to the 10 commandments and women bitched long enough to get the right to vote (what are we up to 26 amendments now?) I hereby leave this topic open to change, amendments and/or room for same sex marriage. We’re off topic. What are we doing here? Enough with the side note.

(Sing like Montel Williams and/or Tahoe Banta) “This is how we do it……”

The First 8 Commandments of Facebook:

1. Thou shall not have more than 500 friends. We’re capping this at 500. Honestly 350 is pushing it. Seriously, nobody actually has this many friends in real life. If you do have more than 500 friends then you’re either:

a) a drug dealer

b) claiming "friends" for social status like they’re 1989 Upper Deck baseball cards

c) Mormon

d) Kendall. That’s right, Kendall is allowed to have 676 and beyond. Please note, 676 is an accurate count of Kendall's friends as of this post. By the time you read this she may be well into the 700s.

2. Thou shall not post pictures of yourself breast feeding. Here’s the thing, even if it’s like a sexy or artistic tit shot with maybe a close up of your nipple and the babies mouth or some leaves and ivy or some shit like that…NOBODY WANTS TO SEE IT. I just saw some uncomfortably personal pictures from a friend that I did not need to see. But there was some decent exposed areola. So that counts. Sweet.

3. Thou shall not post mundane and uninteresting status updates. Look, we can’t all be as amazing as ‘Bamer’ (her status update tonight was “Bamer has been conversing somewhat impolitely with the universe.”) But like we learned in 2nd grade, if you don’t have anything interesting to say then don’t fucking post it on your Facebook status.

4. Thou shall not become a fan of bullshit companies. This is a site for personal interaction. I have no problem if you become a fan of a music act, a sports team or even your local deli. But Chipotle? Or T-Mobile wireless? What are you the definition of sell out? Blow me, please.

5. Thou shall have a picture of yourself available for public judgment. People with 10 pictures total, none of which are of them self, trip me the fuck out. If you’ve gained 200 lbs or had some serious plastic surgery to fix that lazy eye let’s see it! I don’t trust people who don’t flaunt their business. Don’t be shy. It’s only the internet.

6. Thou shall not have pictures only of one's self. We all know the guy. He has 30 photos, all of himself, mugging for the camera like he’s Jamie Foxx or some shit. What’s worse is he blatantly cut other people out of all the photos. And at least 8 of them look the exact same. From the same angle. Like somewhere along the way somebody told him this one picture of him was good so for the next 15 years he did everything possible to hit that same angle. We all know this guy. What a dick wad.

7. Thou shall go easy on the super pokes, the drink gifts, the flirty nods, the poker invites, the Ben & Jerry gifts, the snowballs, the Tetris invites (yes, Joshy, easy on the Tetris invites), the quizzes, the 25 things you didn't know about me but somehow incorporates my Aunt's name and the last name of my 3rd grade teacher blah blah blah come on already. We are all grown ups. We are on Facebook to be pervy, to be caddy, to point and laugh and I guess to say hello to each other. So calm the fuck down everyone.

8. Thou shall understand the natural progression of things. There are rules people. If we are not friends and I send you a ‘message’ to say hello, don’t just reply with a friend request. This is like dating, but friend dating. Let’s talk before we become friends. I haven’t seen or talked to you in 10 years. Let’s friend flirt before I let you ram it home.

Now your turn. What else needs to be added to this list of commandments?

Disclaimer: I am guilty of breaking a handful of these rules and truth be told if my friends on Facebook ever read this post I’d be, well, friendless. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure. Those pictures of me breast feeding Patch will never, ever see the light of Facebook.


I'm so mad, even my writing is suffering

I look like K.D. Lang today. Let me just say it’s not the look I was going for. I’m wedged into too tight jeans and thought it would be a good idea to pair them with a similar shaded blue buttoned down shirt. And a tie. And a black sport coat. And some messy hair. I look like a lesbian. A big dikey lesbian. Again, definitely not the look I was going for today.

Are you working today? Chances are you’re not, because you’re celebrating past presidents of our country. Me? Yep. I’m here. At work. Loving every second of it. I’m so angry about being at work today I’m doing little things to remind myself how miserable I am. Like making a pot of coffee extra black and not putting any cream in it. Then re-heating it up in the microwave just to give it that freshly stale taste. I’m so mad today I want my taste buds to suffer.

Who is this chick? And why is she so fucking funny? And why won’t she email me at Was it something I said? I certainly hope so. I feel like Hugh Grant in a bad romantic comedy trying to get the attention of some innocent British chick with bad teeth who wears different colored scarves everyday. I hope this chick doesn’t turn out to be Neve Campbell. That sure would be awkward wouldn’t it?

Check this shit out. This will help you waste time at work today. Click on next for endless enjoyment. Thank you Murph.

Ever notice how flat Kate Hudson is? Of course you have. But ever notice how much she flaunts her flat chest? That’s what I think makes her so sexy. I wonder if Kate Hudson has to work today.


Friday, February 13, 2009

What a lady...

I can’t help it. I know we’re still t-minus 24 hours before pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training but I’m gonna write about baseball. Fuck all ya’ll! (said like Jessica Simpson after she’s piled her buffet plate sky high with fried chicken and turns to find her entire crew, back up singers, manager, etc staring at her with their jaws on the floor. ) That’s right. Fuck all y’all!

The Giants just signed Rich Aurillia. I was alerted of this by a text message from my brother that had not 1, not 2, but precisely 6 exclamation points. What the fuck? It’s Rich Aurillia, sure he put in some good seasons with us in the past but 6 exclamation points? I don’t think so. Save that for when we’ve inked Manny. I told him that Richie Brooklyn is the equivalent of following the fat chick into the bushes. Sure, it makes for a great evening but it’s not something you want to make a habit of. She’s reliable and she sure tries hard. But let’s not go buying her a 2 carat diamond. Am I wrong?

This got us to talking. What’s the chick equivalent of other former Giants? Yes, this is how we pass the time.

Tsuyoshi Shinjo

Notable stat with Giants:
In 2002 with Giants, Shinjo became the first Japan-born player to play in the World Series. He went 1 for 6 with 3 strikeouts. Though he could track down any fly ball in the outfield, Shinjo was better known for his stupid hair, his stupid face, his throng of Japanese reporters following his every move and his utter lack of baseball skills.

Girl Equivalent:
Shinjo is the really skinny, really hot, cokehead chick who shows up at the party and everyone is a little scared of. But she's showing some cleavage so you think “ok this could be alright, I guess.” Then 10 minutes later she's doing blow off the toilet seat and freaking everyone out with her 'cutter' stories.

Marvin Benard:

Notable stat with Giants:
In 1998, with the league minimum salary, Benard batted .322 which factored out to $2,700 per hit. He then signed a ridiculously rich contract with the Giants and in 2003 hit .190 which factored out to $300,000 per hit.

Girl Equivalent:
Marvin Benard is the cuddly bitch that has only had 1 serious boyfriend her entire life. She’s had the same hair style her entire life and is really nice. No, really really nice. Like when people talk about her behind her back the best and the worst thing they have to say about her is how nice she is. You’d trade this bitch any day of the week but the problem is nobody wants her. So you continue draining your bank account on dinners at T.G.I. Fridays so she can get the Chicken Caesar salad because she thinks its low fat and you can drown your misery in the 20 oz happy hour beers while Journey plays over and over and over again.

Bill Mueller

Stats with Giants:
Drafted by the Giants in 1993, Mueller’s highest batting average with the teams was .294 in 1998. He went on to win the AL batting title with Boston in 2003 and got a World Series ring with the Red Sox in 2004.

Girl Equivalent:
Billy Mueller is the girl that got away. You almost didn’t realize how great she was until she was gone. You’d get home and she’d have Lasagna on the table and the game already on TV. This would happen every night, just how you liked it. Then, she’d serenade you to sleep with a buff and a blow that could only be described as ‘magical’. Things didn’t work but you can’t quite remember why. Every Christmas you get a holiday card from her and her new family and she looks so happy. Smiling ear-to-ear and you wonder…was she that happy when she was with me?

Jeff Kent

Notable Stat with Giants:
During his MVP season in 2000, Kent batted .334 with 33 HRs and 125 RBIs. He also got into a fist fight with Barry Bonds in the dugout during a game and lied about breaking his wrist while riding his motorcycle.

Girl Equivalent:
Jeff Kent is the older girl who’s been popular as long as you can remember. You actually can’t remember a time when she wasn’t popular. But not popular in like the sexy cheerleader way. No, more like a burly softball chick that drives a Jeep 4x4 and one time beer bonged an entire 40 on a dare. She’s at all the parties and there are always way too many people piled in her Jeep at lunchtime. You want to like her, because everyone else does, but you’d rather just admire from afar. Plus leg hair, even very light leg hair, is not very becoming on a lady.

Bobby Estaella:

Notable Stat with Giants:
Bobby Estaella either homered or struck out in over 1/3 of his at bats with the Giants. He also had the biggest biceps in the Bay Area since the Bash Bros, Canseco and McGuire.

Girl Equivalent:
What a slut. Estaella is the big sexy blonde with a tattoo on her lower back that’s looks like a cum stain. Not like a butterfly or a sun or some crazy design for a tramp stamp. No, a tattoo of a cum stain. Imagine the conversation at the Tattoo parlor. “I want you to just trace it. Trace the stain. Hurry it’s starting to dry.”

Hummmm Baby!


Thursday, February 12, 2009

Thursday Thoughts

Congress is a bit like the NFL in the sense that once something is proven to work, everyone has to try it at least once. For example, congressmen screaming at high paid executives about their bonuses are completely analogous to football teams trying the wildcat formation: It’s worked; the crowds love it; so why not give it a shot? Barney Frank is definitely the “Ronnie Brown scoring 4tds against NE” of congress right now.

I am literally waiting with baited breath to see what Jay Z and Kanye do to Chris Brown. Honestly, I haven’t been this excited for a fight since the finals of the All Valley Karate Tournament. You know how there’s that scene in every cop movie where they have the key witness in a hotel room, and everyone is freaked out and checking all his food and shit? Isn’t that exactly how you picture CB right now? The question: which witness is he? Joe Pesci in Lethal Weapon 2? The weird looking bald guy from Traffic? Or Jet Li in the straight to DVD movie co-starring DMX and Marlon Wayans: “Cookie Doh” (Before U get da cookies, U gots 2 make da doh).

Three things I’m dying to say to a client today:

- (Upon hearing that activity X isn’t in the budget): Well, that’s funny; dumb fucking faces aren't in my budget yet here we are.
- Dear, X, rather than edit my content like the dumb cunt fucktard that you are, why don’t you just print it out, bring it to the bathroom with you, wipe your fat ass with it and fax it back?
- Actually, that's a really good idea, thanks. Hahahahahahahaha

You’re going to be hearing a lot of Oscar and general movie thoughts from me over the next few weeks – I’m holding off on making any Oscar predictions or ranking the 2008 films for now until I’ve seen a few more movies and can be a bit more objective, but I do have one overarching theory / thought that I wanted to set up the next few weeks of posts with: The movies in 2008 sucked and everyone knows it. You know it, I know it, and you bet both the curly hairs on your left nut that the Academy knows it.

Now, even though the year as a whole was fairly dismal, there were still a number of standout films, the problem though is that they fall outside of the traditional “Best Pic” type. That doesn’t matter to the Academy though, they have a proven formula and they stick to it, come hell or bad films. Think about it, the Academy basically nominates the same five films every year. Almost without fail you’re getting:

1) Epic starring really famous person wearing makeup or period garb: Benjamin Button
2) The little indie movie that could: Slumdog
3) Historical figure / biopic: Milk
4) War / Holocaust / Courtroom: The Reader
5) Seminal event / news story: Frost / Nixon

Look at 2007, you could use the same formula and dissect the nominees.

1) Epic starring really famous person wearing makeup: Atonement
2) The little indie movie that could: Juno
3) War / Holocaust / Courtroom: Michael Clayton
4) Seminal event / news story: There Will Be Blood

No Country For Old Men doesn’t really fit, but I think you get my point. Go back through the archives and that formula will work every year.

One little difference between 2008 and 2007 – ’07 was a fantastic year for films, all five nominees were outstanding. So, in a widely publicized bad year, why didn’t the Academy shake it up a bit, nominate movies like The Dark Knight and Wall-E, two wholly original, creative, excellent movies? Yes, one’s a comic book movie and one’s animated, and neither of those categories fit within the little confines above, but who gives a fuck?

In my opinion, the Academy totally blew this one. They nominate inferior films that ft their criteria, totally blowing an opportunity to expand their horizons and acknowledge two films that will be remembered long after someone gets The Reader on Netflix, lets it sit on the coffee table for three months finally returning it unopened.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Six Foot Frank

Maybe it was the last post by FWG. Maybe it’s because I just heard a friend talking about her useless major in school. Or maybe it was the fact my wife dressed up like Harry the Husky and did a little strip tease for me last night. But I’ve been thinking about school lately. And the ridiculousness we used to get ourselves into. Was there a more concentrated 4 years of fuck-around douchery than during college?

Not that I can think of.

We went to school with a kid named O-town. That wasn’t his government name; we just called him that because he was as weak as the band with the same name. Don’t act like you don’t remember O-Town. They were right around the time of the Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC (check the correct spelling on *NSYNC, yep nailed it. I always thought they did that because the asterisk looked like a puckered butthole.) But the thing about the band O-Town is that they were just weaker than the rest of the weak bands. In fact, they were the weakest. In all fairness, our friend O-Town wasn’t the “weakest” guy around but he was definitely in the upper echelon of weak. Like being Pete Wentz at a Killer’s concert and claiming you weren’t the gayest dude wearing eyeliner that night.

Now O-Town was a good dude, he meant well, but he was so much fun to pick on. He wore a headband when he slept. He claimed to have never seen porn. And he also loved the library. This guy would study on weekends, he would study during the summer, hell he would even leave parties early just to go back to the library for some more studying. The dude was truly bizarre.

Let me set the scene. It was a Saturday. Five sweet dudes. All hung over. Sprawled out in the living room watching re-runs of Punk’d on MTV and trading turns with six-foot-Frank. And then, like we were mouthing off to Chris Brown, it hit us right across the face. We should punk O-Town. Yes, we could videotape the event. We could do something to truly knock him off his block. Something that rocked him right to the core.

We walked the short distance to the library, following the next nerdiest in the group because lets face it none of us knew where the library was. We strapped empty half-rack boxes on our heads and peeked out of the handle holes. (You haven’t lived until you’ve had an empty box of Natural Ice on your head, in daylight, trying to find your way through tiny peepholes meant for your hands.) We had the boom box and the shaving cream ready. One guy was even wearing a Speedo. The idea seemed so much better in our heads. We’d run into the library, surprise the nerds by blasting ‘Me So Horny’ by 2 Live Crew, douse O-Town in shaving cream and become the kings of the universe. We had even sent one dude ahead of us to perch himself in the balcony of the library so he could film our mastery.

What ensued was nothing short of a disaster. Two of us forgot to put the beer boxes on our heads. Those of us that did scared a group of elderly librarians half to death as we entered the room. This in turn made them scream which alerted the nerds of our arrival. The guy with the video camera decided he’d rather zoom in on the cleavage of an unknowing coed below. So the only tape that exists of the event is of some tubby chick’s sloppy hoots. And what of O-Town? Well, we should’ve guessed. He knew the whole time. In hindsight, we were a bunch of stoned idiots of course he could see this coming from a mile away. The boom box got taken away and the shaving cream never even made it out of our backpacks.

What did I learn from all this? Ashton Kutcher probably never tried to pull off a stunt after going ounce for ounce with six-foot-Frank.


Introducing Fat White Guy

Despite our fake names that make us sound like Latin Chippendale dancers, we are actually just fat white guys. Yep, the secret is out of the bag. So, it is with great pleasure that we share our silly little blog space today with the one and only Fat White Guy or FWG if you're into the whole brevity thing. FWG is a plus sized dude who played D-Line for the UConn Huskies and writes one of the better blogs out there. He provides a unique look at college football from an insider's perspective. He also can eat 3 foot-long Italian BMT's at Subway in one sitting.* He's heading to Austria soon to drink beer, chase foreign women and continue playing football. Ladies and gentlemen, introducing on A&M for the very first time, the Fat White Guy, Rob Lunn.

*FWG has not yet confirmed this. But we're willing to put money on it. All the fixings, including onions and jalapenos, no double meat, light on the spicy mustard. Over/under is 38 minutes. Who wants in on this?

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is FWG or the Fat White Guy. I played 4 years of college football at the University of Connecticut. 47 consecutive games with 22 starts. I know college football. I have my own blog, THOUGHTS FROM A FAT WHITE GUY in which I break down the world of sports, mostly college football, NFL, and MLB, and also my incredibly hot girlfriend (see below).

But also anything that strikes my fancy, including featured segments like "This Week's Sign of the Apocalpse" and "Your Fat White Guy Moment Of The Week". But here I am, blogging for Apples and Moustaches.

What an honor. Seriously, what an honor. It’s so intimidating to be in the presence of such great bloggers. (cue “Like a Virgin.”) So when Jericho and Magglio asked me to guest blog for them, first and foremost there were some questions that needed asking. With such "ethnic" sounding names, and living within earshot (cumshot?) of "The Castro," and being "best buddies,"...are you two gay?

The answer was a resounding (and in unison), "No." (Not that there's anything wrong with that). The quick denial means that this topic may still be up for debate. Which brings me to today's guest post.

**Why I don't give a shit that A-Rod Juiced.**

First I don’t know why this is such a huge surprise to everyone. Were you thrown off by his chiseled jaw and Latino swagger? Well apparently that jaw was cut from HGH and not his south of the border genetics. Was he the poster child for all that was good and pure with the sport? I certainly hope not. He’s a New York Yankee for Christ’s sake. It should no longer surprise the American public that athletes are juicing, especially the ones we think are "clean." In the land where bigger is better, and it’s only 40 more cents to "super size it" all of a sudden we want our sports to be free of this self imposed gluttonous madness. I say Juice-on A-Rod! In fact, pass some to your boy (and hetero-life mate) Jeter. A professional athlete’s career is only so long, so call it "maximizing your earning potential." For example, the average career of an NFL Linemen is only 2.5 years. 3 years gets you a pension, and league minimum is under $400,000. If shooting some synthetic testosterone helps these guys make a few extra bucks, or prolongs a career instead of leaving them broke and pension less, then I am all for it.

I'm not saying the next step is passing out syringes to our little leaguers, but we are talking about professionals here. Let them make as much money as possible, by being the very best, in their decidedly short careers. I wouldn't deny a doctor a new tool or medicine that would help him to perform his duty the best. So why are we denying these so called "performance enhancing drugs?" Educate them on the risks, and then turn them free on an endless stream of Winstrol, cream and clear, HGH and whatever else strikes their fancy.

Cause when its over, its over. Take it from someone who knows.


Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Tuesday A&Ms

I don’t know what bothers me more: a successful actor (Joaquin Phoenix) walking away from acting in the prime of his career or a successful teeny bop band (Jonas Brothers) being abstinent. I guess if you had a gun to my head, I’d say Joaquin because he’s been so flippant about quitting a job that 50 million people want. But if Nick Jonas ever comes out and says something really glib about pussy I have the right to change my mind.

Here’s a term I can’t stop saying lately: mind fucking. It’s so cool and it works in so many different ways. There’s the obvious: I’ve been mind fucking Bar Rafaeli ever since the SI swimsuit issue hit the stands. But it’s multi-dimensional too. For example, I was so hungry today in this meeting I actually mind fucked a sandwich. Or, I was so excited about my outfit for Magglio’s birthday party I mind fucked it all week. See, addictive, huh?

I’m really digging when chicks rock the sweater dress, tights, big belt and boots look at work. That outfit really belongs in its own genre: stripper professional. I couldn’t be happier about this. If we can figure out how to blare ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ when the accounting assistant walks by all the better.

Let’s get one thing straight: when you give birth to octuplets when you already have six kids and then go on TV and say you have no idea how you’re going to support them, but that you’re asking God for help - you are not asking God for help, you are asking people for help. Let me put this another way, when you put your wife’s hand on your dick you’re not hoping that God gives it a few tugs. We all clear on that?

How are Led Zeppelin fans supposed to feel about Allison Krauss and Robert Plant’s album winning record of the year at the Grammys? I mean, that album and that tour is probably the biggest roadblock to Zep getting back together, right? It’s Plant, so you have to be happy for him, but sort of fuck him too, right? This is kind of like your wife declaring that she won’t blow you again until she finishes her novel and then the novel wins the Pulitzer Prize. After all, nothing ruins a Pulitzer Prize acceptance speech like a flying dick to the mouth.

Monday, February 9, 2009

A champagne hangover

By Magglio and Jericho

Jericho has been at jury duty the past few days. It's killing me. It means I actually have to do work while I'm at work. He updated me on where things stand with the trial. He said they've started jury deliberations and its come down to 11 saying guilty vs. 1 not guilty. And they need a unanimous decision. (remember OJ?) Unfortunately the 1 voting against the group is a 95-year-old Chinese woman. If there's one thing we've learned while living in San Francisco it's that old Chinese woman are the strongest human beings on the planet. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Forget Barry Bonds, forget Chuck Norris, forget David Blaine or that drag queen who's dating Hugh Hefner's ex chick…I'd take the 95-year-old Chinese woman any day. I guess it'll be some time before Jericho resurfaces.

So, Tiger has a daughter named Sam Alexis and a son named Charlie Axel. By doing a few calculations here I'm fairly sure his next kid will either be Joe Ax or Chris X. It's like he's raising an androgynous white trash army over there. Or a bunch of WWE wrestlers.

At the start of the playoffs the odds for Arizona to win the Super Bowl was set at +5000 meaning if you put down $100 you get $5000 in return. That was at the start of the playoffs. The odds as they stand today puts the Bills, the Texans and the Redskins at +4000 to win the 2010 Super Bowl. What?! How does this make sense? That means 'they' (the sneaky collective sitting behind glass walls and smoking out of corn cob pipes in Vegas) figure the Bills, Texans and Skins have more of a chance to win it all in 2010 then the Cardinals did when the playoffs started this year. That makes no sense. Do they think we're not paying attention? I'm starting a petition. Or burning some bras or something. Who's coming with me?

Like everyone else who watched the A-Roid confession on SportsCenter, I was struck by the three following things 1) That sweater? Really? It's one thing to confess to steroid use on national TV, it's another to do it in periwinkle. 2) We all know that steroids make your head bigger, but who knew they made it shinier? He looks like Dora the Explorer's gay brother. 3) Have you ever seen a pair of pinker, plumper lips in your life? Cheater or not I'd totally mouth fuck him.

Let's get something straight here. If you look and talk like Chris Brown you don't hit Rihanna. You don't raise your voice at Rihanna, you don't look cross at Rihanna, you don't even think ill thoughts about Rihanna. This is the literal equivalent of Pepe La Pew bitch slapping that cat.


Friday, February 6, 2009

Forgive me...

I broke the rules last night. And I need to repent. I need to alleviate this burden that is weighing me down so heavily. Truth of the matter is if I hadn’t been caught then I probably wouldn't have confessed. But that’s beside the point.

When we’re little and we screw up we have to say we’re sorry. When we’re a bit older we think of more creative ways to get around the fact that we’ve done wrong. But sometimes, just sometimes, our mistake jumps right out and dick slaps us in the face. And it stings.

Last night was a pivotal basketball game between UW and Cal. The Dawgs were a half game back from UCLA going into the game and Cal is only 2 games out. Now there are unspoken rules when it comes to wearing sports clothes. I even wrote about it once here. But last night I broke my own rules.

Without even thinking, I was wearing a Cal football sweatshirt. I know, I know, hang me from the rafters. Strike down upon me for I have sinned. (You can tell I’m not real religious because I’m not quite sure how those sayings go. But you get the jist. I’m the asshole.) It was an honest mistake; I packed my clothes for the gym which included a Cal sweatshirt.

Now a fair question is, “why do you even have Cal gear? Don’t you think they’re a bunch of stinky hippy fuckers?” Yes, yes I do. And don’t forget “long haired granola humpers.” It is inexcusable to have clothes from a rival Pac-10 team. This much I know. However my situation is unique. My brother was the equipment manager at Cal for his 4 years in school so he got so much free shit. I’m talking shorts, shirts, jerseys, everything. For the most part I turned down any and all offers of free Cal gear. I didn’t want it burning my soul and blackening my heart. But lo and behold a few items found their way into my closet. Like a pair of workout shorts and a lightweight sweatshirt. And based on my rules of sports clothes it is totally acceptable to wear ‘other’ teams if it’s a part of your workout attire.

But never on game day. Never, ever on game day.

I didn’t even notice my mistake until I had completely sold myself out. I had just got back from the gym (oh tuff guy!) and was watching the Dawgs completely shit the bed. They were up 6 when I turned it on and within minutes were down 4. I was on the phone with my brother, the conversation was mostly civil. We did have a bet on the game that the winner would get to kick the loser square in the nuts. (He now owes me one. Little bastard.) But in the course of the conversation Patch, my one eyed dog, was just being too adorable for words. So I thought I’d capture the moment with my iPhone and send it to my brother. (Let me stop you there. Yes, I am straight. And yes, I have a pair of testicles. I can't help it if my purse sized dog melts my heart. Does that make me less of a man?) Of course, what I failed to realize, is that in the picture I sent you could see that I was indeed wearing a Cal sweatshirt. On game day.

Here is the picture:

“Did you get the picture,” I said.

“Yeah, it just came in.........Dude. What are you wearing?”

“What? Um. Nothing. I just got back from the gym.”

“Are you wearing a Cal sweatshirt," the little bastard asked.


“Dude, yes you are. So weak. Go Bears huh?” My brother taunted.

“What? No. I didn’t. I mean.”

“Dude, you are so weak.”

“I gotta go, I’ll call you later.”

“Go Bears!”

“Eat me dude.”

And like any good brother he called me back and continued to ridicule me for the next 15 minutes. I had nothing to say.

Forgive me my fellow Dawg fans. My heart still bleeds purple and gold.