Nobody Likes Me

Sports fans, these are tough times. The landscape of jockhood is littered with stories about assholes, pricks and outright salad-tossers. Read any sports page or catch any talk radio broadcast in America today, and you get nothing but whining bullshit by and about some of the most unlikeable athletes imaginable.

The Rapist wants out of L.A. Actually, no he does not. Which is it? Paper or plastic? I'm the wrong guy to ask, as I follow not the NBA, but Kobe is a great player, not a great guy. Yes, that's an earthshattering revelation.

Ron Mexico is inching ever closer to a criminal indictment, and in the big house he can wager on fights between blind inmates. If you're a Falcons fan this is a big deal. For those of us who don't fondle our first cousins, Mex was on the precipice of marginal status anyway.

San Francisco Outfielder (longtime fantasy baseball owners will get that one) is closing in on Hammerin' Henry. Bud Selig may attend, Barry may donate some paraphernalia to Cooperstown, and everyone wishes we could just get this sad episode behind us.

Our old friend A-Rod is bush-league, and he may or may not have a piece or two on the side. This is only relevant because of his status as the game's most talented player, and has nothing to do with the fact that his team is pathetic. In other Yankee news, I actually heard the ESPN crew last night discuss the possibility of Cashman not activating Rocket and saving the cash, since he's signed to a minor-league contract. Stunning.

Elsewhere in the AL East, the wife of Tampa slugger Elijah Dukes would like a divorce. That's a smart broad.

And Iron Mike is back in the fight game, but his criminal past is infringing upon his plans. I happen to think that Mike would be a great cornerman. He's always been such a rational practitioner of the sweet science, and his decision-making is top-notch.

One of the problems associated with being the most talented and respected writer (Editor's Note: This is not true.) at the best sports blog in the whole fucking world (Ed: Also a blatant lie.) is that our millions of reader(s) expect me to react to this shit. It's not fun. I'd rather write about the good guys, like Yook and his 22-game hit streak. But the big news is the big news, and it makes me want to cover Wall Street today. Hopefully this weekend will bring about some warm and fuzzy sports news, and perhaps a Cecil sighting to boot.

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Adios from the Man Pad

It is with great sorrow that I type this morning. This is the last porn site I'll check out/time I'll set any fantasy lineup/opportunity to have an actual dwelling to be alone in post I will ever publish from Shelter Bankmeister. Once this post is up and available for all of you fine cats to not read, I will disassemble the old computer, load the last of my belongings into my pimped-out ride, and be gone.

Not forever or anything. I know.

Scary thought, eh?

It's been incredible. I'll miss the top half of this house about as much as I will all that other trim I never got to nuzzle up to. But such is life.

Things will be wonderful at the new abode, though. With the wife lurking above, I'm sure to have countless hours of time to create posts, scour the Interwebs for images, and pretend like it's all something severely important that demands solitude.

The view has been sweet from within these walls. I can only imagine how marvelous it'll be from the new locale.

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We Are Hot Chicks, Yes We Are

Maxim has to be one of my least favorite magazines. I've always thought it was a waste of time--why not spend your hard-earned paper on some real, honest-to-goodness pornography? Maxim and its legion of imitators (Stuff, FHM, etc.) can spend time on the coffee tables of undergraduate tools. They have no place in the erudite household of Mr. and Mrs. Old No. 7.

At least, that's what I once thought, up until the point that there was a Mrs. Old No. 7. The fact is that the wives tend to frown upon that honest-to-goodness smut. Furthermore, women are by nature obsessed with other beautiful women. My house is often littered with People, Us Weekly, and other such crap. The words are nonsensical, but there are photos of hot actresses. You take what you can get.

Anyway, here at the HoG, we respect the fact that you can find hardcore penetration, squirting, fisting and gay broomstick rides pretty much all over these here Interwebs. We appreciate the fact that you're here, where we may curse up a storm but at least visually we keep it respectable. You never know who's watching. So without further ado, here are a bunch of women covering their nips and hoo-has and not much else:

All photos courtesy of Savvy.com, which is kind of like the Best Buy of softcore poon. Read more

Baseball In The Daytime: 5-30-07

Hey, another day, another Red Sox win and Yankees loss. It's almost getting sad, although not really. At least A-Rod has found solace in this miserable Bombers season.

There are, apparently, other teams out there beyond the New York-Boston axis. I know, I had no idea either. Some of them even play today.

Atlanta finishes their series with Milwaukee at 11:05 Mountain, on TBS and XM 186. Tim Hudson takes on Dave Bush in a matchup of serious Dungeons and Dragons devotees.

Five minutes later we get the White Sox and the Twins. John Garland pitches versus Scott Baker on XM 181 and DTV 734. Baker is an interesting prospect who was wildly successful in the minors. I think the Twins are spot on in ditching fat ass Sidney Ponson and letting a kid like Baker take his lumps, as he may one day give them the kind of steady production they once received from Brad Radke. He's not a huge strikeout guy.

The best pre-evening pitching matchup takes place in Oakland, where Brandon McCarthy's Rangers battle Danny Haren and the Athletics. I say "pitching matchup" based on Haren's awesomeness and McCarthy's good starts in spring training two years ago. Since his trade to Texas he's been hideous. Catch this contest at 1:35 on XM 178 and DTV 735.

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Tradition Tuesday: Buckshot de Confianza

Editor's Note: The rough focus of this blog is the rivalry between the Kansas City Chiefs (heralded by yours truly) and the Denver Broncos (defended and whined about by Cecil and Old Number 7). It may seem unfair that it's two vs. one, but once KC gets that second Super Bowl we'll even out the delegation.

Seven years ago we started The Tradition, in which Brrrrrr-onco fans traveled out to the Truman Sports Complex with their team, and lovers of all things CHIEFS returned to the Rocky Mountains with theirs. We tailgate, we talk massive amounts of shit, our wives occasionally get assaulted by rival fans, and we almost always watch the visiting team lose. It's a grand old time.

Here at the HoG, we're going to keep The Tradition alive all year long with Tradition Tuesday--a weekly state-of-the-rivalry address.

This week, we'll look at fan confidence.

Every off-season, Cecil puts together a well-written, entertaining, disturbingly accurate prediction of how the Denver Broncos will fare in the forthcoming season. Two words into reading it, Old #7 sports the kind of massive wood they warn you about in those annoying commercials you hate to watch with your wives, moms and sisters in the room.

Once he's cleaned his Tommy John surgery up, he repeats the process over and over until he makes it to the end of the first paragraph. Then he adds his dos centavos. Like his Mile-High city counterpart, he too is accurate, confident, and entirely disturbing.

In short, the season rolls around, and, as mentioned in the above Editor's Note, the home team almost always wins.

We're all aware that, upon conclusion of last year's regular season, the Chiefs snuck into the playoffs with the help of Joe Nedney's overtime field goal in Denver. On New Year's Eve. Aside from the fact that sewage rocketed out of our kitchen sink moments before our first party guests arrived, it was a glorious evening.

The Broncos players, pillars of the community that they are, went clubbin' and acted as a sponge for random bullets and blood spray.

The Chiefs players went to Indianapolis to face the would-be Super Bowl champions.

Outcome: not one happy AFC West fan on the planet.

This off-season, Denver, like they always do, added nice depth to their roster via free agency and the draft. Nabbing Brandon Stokely, Dre Bly, Travis Henry, etc. will pay huge dividends for the Broncos. The Chiefs, regardless of the completion of the new head coach's first season, continued their off-season rituals of losing key linemen to retirement, getting DUIs, griping about contracts and drafting pretty shittily.

Thus, the theme of today's installment. Denver, as opening day approaches, will have its collective cock sucked by every major media figure (excepting those that Cecil despises, which is like 97% of them), and there will be talks of conference championship appearances, Elway's replacement finally being under center, and the perennial beat the Pats/lose to Chesning consistencies.

The Chiefs will win most of the games they should, lose all the ones they should, and be just shy of division championship contention. And I will be thrilled. Not to worry. The Tradition will still happen. As a bit of change, Cec' and 7 will roll into town first this year; I'll bite my tongue at how lame the venue/tailgating/fans/team/ownership/coach is when I hit Denver in late November. I'll be wearing my Zubaz with pockets overflowing with the one thing all Chiefs fans feign: hope.

And I'll go home swearing to cease my heart-wrenched fandom of football. All will be right with the world.

Therefore, I personally cannot wait for football season to start. Everything looks par for both clubs. As our beloved Hermenator stated last year, "The way to be a playoff team is to win the division." That was about the only thing he said all season that was accurate.

This division is tough. Even with the Raiders in it. Landing that wildcard spot last year took literally until time expired in the last game of the season. You can't bank on getting one of those spots. This is the Ass-Kicking Football Conference. Not the Nearly Fucked-up-our Chances side. It's only a matter of time before east-coast media, the four-letter network, and the rest of the world realizes that Chiefs-Broncos football is as good as it gets.

Even woman-assaulting diamond cutters that, for no particular reason, support his Clownness, realizes that.

It's May, not that hot yet, and not quite free-agency deadline time. Nevertheless, I'm ready for a coin toss. Read more

Peer Non-Pressure

Remember when your mom found condoms in your dresser drawer while "putting away your socks"? Or when your pops discovered a roach in the ashtray of your first car as he took your ride in for a fatherly oil change? Or when your buddy's folks knew you were spending the night solely because you were too hammered to face your own parents?

What was everyone's favorite response? Yep, you guessed it: Everyone else is doing it.

The HoG loves reminiscence. Our guy we don't even know buddy Matt Ufford at With Leather is like that high school homeboy that de-virginizes the crew on a weekend camping trip by busting out the surprise bag of mushrooms.

Though not solely responsible for all Internets mayhem, Ufford did play a significant role in the alleged steamroll of attention toward Miss Allison Stokke. Apparently, Swiss Family Stokke ain't too thrilled. We'd love to help their efforts to minimize the publicity.

Problem is, we're just too damn weak. We also happen to love pole vaulting. Not quite as much as we love soccer, but a little more than curling. Therefore, we can't.

Tune in next time when we talk about super models Tom Brady bangs, how dumb Michael Irvin is, and how cool hockey is not. Cheers.

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Jocks v. Nerds

The nation (and the Nation) breathlessly watched as Rocket mowed down the Toledo Mud Hens yesterday and proclaimed himself ready to play for his last-place employers. Good times.

After the game, the press conference turned mean and nasty when some reporter (I'm really annoyed than several seconds of research did not reveal his or her name) brought up the fact that Rocket is not universally adored. Quoth Rock:

"If you want to be negative be negative. I'm not a negative person," he said. "You be negative as much as you want. If I stink and I don't pitch well out there, I know I stink. I don't need you tell me that. I have pride in what I do. I'll pull my heart out and set it right there [pointing to the table] for you to see it. When I perform, I've done it. I got that from my mother so if you want to write and these other people want to write negative...everything has to be negative these days. There always had to be a negative. I've always been positive in my life. It won't end. I don't want to be around negative people. So I won't associate myself with those people. So if it makes you feel good to write negative stuff then go ahead but you've never been in the arena. Never been in this arena to understand what it's like. Keep that in mind. People read your column and associate things with me that are not true. I'll answer it as honestly I can so that 10-year old when he reads about won't assume things. You can tell how passionate I am about it. Ok?"

First of all, if you've seen the clip, Rocket starts to get a little misty, pounds the table and bolts. Real Leave It To Beaver stuff. I get the feeling that Rocket wishes he could go back and play in the Fifties, when ballplayers called their managers "Skip" and reporters knew their place. Of course, he'd prefer to take a tackle box full of pills from the Bay Area with him in that time machine, but that's neither here nor there.

What really gets me about this little outburst is that Rocket played the "you've never been in the arena" card. It's as old as he is, maybe older, and that's really old. Every jock who's ever lived has had this feeling. They get better and better, and they receive nothing but adulation and bullshit praise. And then one day some hack, a fat idiot who gets winded climbing the steps to the press box, criticizes them, and they lose it.

Listen, Rock. You're not some fireballing rook in need of Kevin Costner's advice. You've been around the block and you know how this works. You're making $28 million of George Steinbrenner's money for half a season's work. George has never "been in the arena" either, but you resepct what he does, right? Over your career you've earned more money than the GDP of India. And the reason you've banked so much is the fan interest you've created, interest that has been fed by the media you blasted yesterday.

Most of us that write about sports are failed athletes. If we were good athletes we'd still be playing, because that's fun. Writing is work. Even the bullshit that I spew here takes time, Rock, and talent. And a little shot of smack, just to get me through the dark times. It ain't a fuckin' walk in the park. I know you work hard, but that scribe you dissed yesterday does too. After all, he traveled to Scranton to watch you pitch in the minors. And Scranton blows mega-balls.

If you don't like it buy the newspaper--you can afford it. Then you can run whatever "positive" stories you like for all the innocent 10-year-olds out there. Until then deal with it, old man.

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I Swear I Thought it Was Mustard

Our official HoG charter requires us to make comment on the NBA.

Ever since the Nugs dropped out, I haven't really been paying close attention. Evidently LeBron was too indecisive, then overrated, now back to Human Sponsorship Reel status. Timmy D continues to bank 15-footers over and over and over. The Jazz looked like Bix Beiderbecke against Golden State's frantic midget ball (Ed. Note: Apologies for the use of the offensive locution "midget." The author meant to type "dwarf" or "little person." He hadn't decided which. Carry on.) but are pulling the cloak off a surprise three-hour set with Kenny G and Marion Meadows on this one. The Suns are nowhere to be found.

And you know what? Good. I love the way that team plays, but I've seen enough of their resident Canadian muskrat to last me until senior citizenship. I look forward to a Finals starring the protruberant Bugs Bunny teeth of Rasheed Wallace and the hilarious Argentinian acting skills of Manu "I'm not Balki" Ginobili.

Pistons to beat Cavs in 6.
Spurs wipe up the Salt Lake crumbs next game,

Spurs beat Pistons in the Finals in 6 games.

Now off to your bookies, kids, and remember: those tablets make you run faster. Read more

The Quest for the Cup: Stanley Cup Finals

Chris Pronger has got a package to deliver. Take caution when opening it; it's a non-air-conditioned truckload of beatdown. And it will be delivered on time.







That's right, homes. The long-awaited Stanley Cup Finals are here. Until this point, it's been full of surprises. No more. Cecil's Anaheim Ducks seek to etch Walt Disney's name on Lord Stanley's trophy. Their sticks are dipped, ready to carve.







It's no secret that my playoff picks have been just shy of atrocious, but I have a 50% chance of not being wrong now that there are only two teams left. It is officially time to get Giggy with it.







These Ducks mean business. They will not do as all Buffalo-oriented franchises boast.





They have old-time hockey in their corner. Teemu Selanne, originally property of the Winnipeg Jets, will steer the offense, while Pronger anchors the D, just as he did in Alberta, Missouri, and of course, Connecticut.

There's no question that the Senators are the surprise club of this year's post-season. They advanced twice when I suspected they would fold. They're playing some awesome hockey.

Those marks however, just won't be enough for Barry Melrose.

It won't be a slaughter. Not by any means. It will, however, be Ducks in six. You heard it last first here on the HoG. The dufus wizard of Stanley Cup Playoffs picks has spoken. Read more

Baseball In The Daytime: Federal Holiday Edition

Light up the Kingsford and pass me a fishin' pole, because it's Memorial Day. The day we honor our nation's fallen warriors by passing out in the back of a pickup. Seriously, men, I hope everyone takes just a little time today to think of why we don't have to work. Think of those kids over in Iraq right now, and those kids that put everything on hold to beat Hitler, and those kids that had to fight each other in a field at Gettysburg. That's some hard core shit, much more so than the meaningless fandom we celebrate here.

But don't get too depressed, fellas, because there is weekday baseball on tap for the masses. It's a little criminal to spend this glorious day inside, so if you have the ability get your ass out to a ballpark and give the umpire a ration of grief. If not, sneak the following games on the radio, or duck inside while you're cleaning the garage (my personal holiday hootenanny, with beer of course).

From the aptly named Great American Ballpark in downtown Cincinnati, we start off with the Pirates and the Reds at 11:15 Mountain. Underrated Ian Snell and properly rated Kyle Lohse get the assignments, and I would expect some dingers. Tune in on XM 184 and DirecTV Extra Innings channel 734.

Ben Sheets takes the field with his fragile wing and first-place Brewers today, against Chuck James and the Braves at noon:05. During the broadcast (on regular old TBS for you cheapos), it will be mentioned that the Braves once played in Milwaukee, and that Hank Aaron is in fact black. Hopefully the roof at Miller Park will be wide open, and you can catch the audio only on XM 186.

More free baseball for basic cable subscribers (so I guess it's not "free") takes place on WGN, where the White Sox travel to the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. That roof will not be open unless something has gone terribly wrong. John Danks, bro takes on the best pitcher in baseball, Johan (Call Me "Ervin" And I Will Kill You) Santana, at 12:10. Seems mismatchy, but Santana has brought out the best in his opposition this season and is only 5-4 despite typically bad ass numbers. If you want to listen dial up 181 on the XM, and if you want any more stupid nicknames you'll have to talk to Chris Berman.

That other Chicago franchise hosts those feisty Florida Marlins at the Friendly Confines at twelve twenty. Why is this game not on WGN? The broadcast/ownership scenarios of the Cubs make my brain hurt. Tune in to DTV 737 or XM 185 for a taste of Ricky Nolasco and Sean Marshall, playas.

Finally, we get some horsehide here in the majesty of Colorado. Somewhere in the vicinity of one o'clock, the defending World Series champion St. Louise Cardinals will play ball with our beloved Rockies at Coors. The home team has been on a bit of a tear since last Sunday, taking two of three from the D'Bags and sweeping the Giants in San Fran for the first time ever. What happened last Sunday? Well, Cecil's boy Mark Kiszla wrote his once-a-year good column, in which he called for the firing of the Rockies' ownership. The purple cobras have been winning one (or five) for the Monforts ever since. Kip Wells and Jeff Francis get the call today, on 850 KOA, whatever frequency KMOX is, and Fox Sports (Rocky Mountain and Midwest, respectively). Not in Denver or St. Lou? DTV 738 and XM 187 on the motherfuckin' cop.

UPDATE: If you have the DirecTV Sports Pack, you can also catch some minor league ball today. Reading and Portland (AA) go at it at 11 on 623, and 643 has Memphis and Round Rock (AAA) at the same time. Looks like that garage may not be as spotless as the wife had hoped.

SECOND UPDATE: The Rockies have a better record than the New York Yankees. Just sayin'. Read more

The Sunday Review

For a while now I've been wanting to review the Sunday Sports section as a regular feature of this here bloggery, but have been too (lazy, drunk, asleep) to follow through. No more--I've crushed up a huge bindle of over-the-counter cold medication and washed it down with a 44 oz. jug of lukewarm coffee. Let's have a gander at the news in the Sunday Denver Post.

(For those who live in Kansas or Uzbekistan or wherever, Denver's two major newspapers are engaged in a Joint Operating Agreement--or JOA for easy digestion--that assigns each rag a weekend day; thus, the Rocky Mountain News prints a Saturday edition and the Post gets the much better slot on Sunday. JOAs aren't necessarily a great way to preserve independent local media voices, but this one most definitely prolonged the existence of at least one of the papers and, more likely, both. But what usually happens in JOA cities is one paper becoming clearly dominant and the other an afterthought. Although that hasn't really been the case here in Denverado, we may be seeing a curiously opposite effect: since both papers stayed roughly equal, they're now strangling each other going after the same audience, writing the same stories. Anyway.)

Woody Paige's Column

With the exception of a few too-short years in the early aughts, we Denver sports section loyalists have put up with Paige's sentence fragments and ridiculously mailed-in columns for decades. Today's edition finds Woody ruminating on his position as "sports columnist." Why, for instance, he can't root in the press box, why he criticizes the performance of athletes and their bosses, why it's really still about the simple glory of the gol-durned games themselves.

In other words, the sort of boilerplate dreck you'd expect from a sophomore in a college journalism program, a bush league justification of a spectacularly lazy professional existence.

We get it, Woody. Columnists must hold dear the ideals of the underserved local fan, call out truth to power but still pat backs when the backs deserve it. You're great. Thanks. Who out there doesn't get what columnists do? Anyone? Type real loud so we can hear, please. No? Right.

This is the perfect example of what Woody does: bloviate for 20 column inches about how friggin' vital he is without offering a single piece of red-meat sports opinion to any poor sap who bothered to wade through. And guess what?

The joke is on me, just like it has been my whole life, because this poor sap waded through that shit. Someone smack me.

Onwards...

Front Page Story on Colorado Crush

Look, I know people think it's the closest thing to pro football available in the off-season. They talk about how fun and low-key the games are, how these underpaid myrmidons leave blood and skin on fake turf for nothing more than the joy of athletic contest, how the cheerleaders are far sluttier than their NFL counterparts.

Thing is, people are fucking idiots. This is a "sport" in someone's eyes, but that someone's eyes are set too close together. This is football like the XFL was football, but without even the star power of this guy. And please, let's put to rest the "why don't more NFL teams scout the Arena League? That dude caught 539 touchdowns last year, etc. etc."

I'll tell you why. Because the guys in the Arena League are only there because they not only weren't good enough to make it in the NFL, they weren't good enough to hang on as Euro League oddities and they weren't good enough to play on the big field up north. So this is it, the final stop before a career in the Lowe's garden department.

The story in question is about Damian Harrell, wide receiver for the Colorado Crush (which admittedly has a pretty solid football pedigree amongst ownership). Harrell seems like a good guy, he's awfully productive in the AFL, but every year Denver sports fans with nothing else to do swarm local talk radio to ask why he doesn't get a tryout with the Broncos. Maybe because they wouldn't give him a running start at the line, perhaps? I can think of one non-QB AFL player who did anything in the League: O.J. McDuffie, wideout for the Dolphins. You remember him, right? Right? O.J.?

Mark Kiszla Writes About Soccer

I won't get into Kiszla, our town's version of Skip Bayless. But I don't hate soccer. We'll leave it there. Good for the Rapids and their 37 fans that they don't have to play at Amvescap anymore. Now, instead, they get to play in Commerce City.

To make a rough comparison, that's like a band going from performing at Radio City Music Hall in front of no one but their parents to playing in a festering bucket of camel shit for their parents plus a few uncles and cousins.
Jim Armstrong's Notes Column

Whoo boy. While this particular effort wasn't quite as rife with his favorite cliches--death, taxes and __, "pillow mints" to denote teams on the road, the old "news/views" gag--it's still a Jim Armstrong notes column. Which means you could write it with a computer program and no one would know the difference. He calls noted homophobe John Smoltz a "righteous dude," mentions his preference for Danica Patrick, calls out a sport he thinks unmanly (in this case poker, where he happens to be right)...ah, yes. Jim Armstrong is in the hee-zay, bitches, as predictable as the tides. Read more

Peculiar Gesturing

I'm not sure what El Rey had in mind when he went to make this gesture, but I do know one thing. This story has gotten really old. The wife and I had a lovely stay in sunny Costa Rica. In the few moments I was able to escape to the bar, the only sports highlights available -- in extreme redundant nauseum I might ad -- had to do with a silly sport that's very popular down there.

I, for one, don't get it. The Royals were on a tear (thanks for keeping true to the "win while Bankmeister's out of the country then return to crappy baseball mantra upon his return" guys), the Sabres proved that I shouldn't try to pick a Stanley Cup Champion two months before the finals, and some other things in the wide wide world of sports happened as well. Like you, I didn't give two squirts about them.

Not at first anyway.

But I return home, and, strangely, find myself longing for more highlights of guys like these:

And guys that bow to/wave this:

Heck, even paying attention to guys that dress up like who knows what, just so they can root for their club and lock arms with Jose Lima's ex-wife other adoring fans would be cool at this point.

Anything to make the ever-so-sleepy Green/Peterson debate go away, and go away fast.

It wasn't easy down there. I had to learn what baseball statistical abbreviations in Spanish look like/mean. I had to wade through tired seas of sweaty Yankee-capped fans dancing salsa, and wait until every other piece of futbol-related news had been covered 400 times just to find out whether or not the Royals had won.

And this is what I come home to? Come on. Let's move on, already. We have a Huard brother. We have a mighty young SEC grad waiting in the wing. Let it play itself out. When the deal is over, let's cover it then. Not before.

I don't wanna get the Master of Verbalization all tired out before pre-pre-season mini-camps OTAs are over. Last time I checked, that would just be flustrating.

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Last Call

The big talking point around the sports blog-o'-hood today is the lawsuit filed by Josh Hancock's dad. I'd imagine that 98 per cent of intelligent people think this lawsuit is bullshit and indicative of all that is wrong with overly litigious America.

That's a perfectly reasonable position. I was (unfortunately) listening to Colin Cowherd this morning, and he did what he often does: make a salient point that I reluctantly agree with. Cowherd called Old Man Hancock out as a man and as a dad, stating that the restaurant and the tow truck company did not force the pitcher to get loaded, speed and talk on his cell with pot in the car two days after he'd wrecked another ride.

(You see, Colin? That's called attribution. When someone else has an idea you can use it, but you need to give credit to the author. It's not that hard.)

I personally think that Old Man Hancock is missing the boat, not in his frivolous lawsuit but its target. Let the tow truck company and the restaurant alone, grumpy, and go after the real villain here: Missouri.

Those who have not traveled to the Show-Me State and sampled its wares may not know this, but Missouri's bars are open until forever. Sometimes they close at three, and sometimes seven, and sometimes never. It's very confusing, especially when you're plastered, tired from driving across Kansas, and stubbornly defending the greatness of Colorado. I tend to get really wasted and disoriented in Missouri, and it is totally not my fault. That fucking state and its mesmerizing alcohol laws will completely knock you on your ass.

Plus, most of the chicks there are fat. And there are a bunch of broken-down cars on the side of the interstate. And the humidity blows. I conclude that all of these problems are directly attributable to the mysterious last call policy.

So what I'm saying is, Josh Hancock's dad, you're barking up the wrong tree. Sue Missouri, and preferably every single citizen in a class action. It's their fault.

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Baseball In The Daytime: 5-24-07

The last weekday baseball of this go-round takes place today. The pitching matchups aren't the greatest, but it sure as fuck beats tape-delayed soccer.

Leading off, at 11:05 Mountain time, are the Angels and the Tigers. Ervin Santana takes the ball for Los Anaheim, while Detroit sends Jeremy Bonderman against the anemic Halo offense. Bonderman is fresh of the disabled list, and in his stead the Tigers called up rookie phenom Andrew Miller, exciting many a pitching-desperate fantasy owner. Alas, Miller's big league career was put on hold for another day, as Leyland seems to favor steady (if uninspiring) Chad Durbin over the tantalizing potential of the ex-Tar Heel.

Speaking of fantasy ownership, is anyone else beginning to sour on Santana, the erstwhile Magic Man? His home/road splits are brutal: 3-1 with a 2.33 ERA in the O.C., 0-4 and 7.86 elsewhere. In my main league I'm giving him one more chance in a road start today (no choice, I've got four starters on the DL and a Rocket in the minors) but then that is it, you bastard. Broadcasts are on DirecTV Extra Innings channel 734 and XM 180.

At 11:10, Tom Gorzelanny leads the Pittsburgh Pirates into St. Louis to face Braden Looper and the Cards. St. Louis' season, it's enough to drive a guy to drink (or make a guy drink and drive, one of the two). Catch this one on 735 (DTV) and 187 (XM).

Finally, Seattle (Ramirez) invades the empty dome in St. Petersburg to take on the D-Rays (Seo). There is nothing I could possibly say that would make this game interesting. Thankfully there is no television information, but diehards can tune in to XM 181 to listen to the sounds of silence.

UPDATE: Gadget disaster. I forgot my XM receiver today, so I'll have to rely on MLB.TV in the office and suffer through dead air in the car. I picked a Thursday, of all days, to pull a boner like this.

SECOND UPDATE: Ervin Santana yields 8 ER in 3 2/3 innings of work, and can burn in everlasting hell.

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Getting Handsy

So Tatum Bell is happy to be in Detroit.

No real surprise there. Aside from being a really great place to live, Detroit has an up-'n'-coming football squad led by an ex-Marine. Those guys never make mistakes. The GM has a panty-wetter of a moustache and rides a Harley. The offensive coordinator wears glasses, hates running the football and, as a bonus, is a total douchebag. So naturally a frustrated young man like Tatum would feel as if he'd found new purchase on life's glassy slope.

"I want to run the ball, but I think it's a better opportunity for me now, with Martz's scheme," Bell said during the club's most recent minicamp. "I can catch the ball pretty well. I wasn't exposed to that in Denver like I am here." (Courtesy of the Detroit News via cbs.sportsline.com)

Here's where it gets greasy. Anyone who has watched a Mike Shanahan-coached team over the last decade has seen plenty of passes to the running back. And, while not as big on screens as some coaches, ol' King Woodchuck still calls his fair share. Terrell caught a fair amount of balls, and in 1995--KW's first year at the rudder--he and Aaron Craver combined for 82 catches. That number dropped over the intervening years as different backs with different skill-sets moved in and out, but you all get the point.

Tatum, in particular, was the target of more frustrating goddamn passes than any back in my memory. Plummer would float one out there, seemingly no one in the same postal code, and it would bounce off Tatum's face mask. Or hands. Or knee. Or face mask, hands, then knee. Every once in a while he'd mix it up and knee one right into his face mask.

Tatum doesn't just have bad hands, he doesn't even have hands--just hand-shaped bricks of adobe and suck. But, by all means, allow him to prove me wrong.

After all, now he's got a real quarterback laying it out there for him. Read more

We Are Hot Chicks Wednesday: I Believe the Term is "Ba-Donk-A-Donk"

I didn't really have a theme for today's installment until Old #7 tossed one my way. Well, I thematically imagined myself having to do his job while he whines and complains about having to work, pay taxes and feed the dog. Tough life, I tell ya'.

Sheesh. Anyway, the wife's at the pool, and I'm hogging one of the Best Western's three complimentary computers, so why not talk about buns, right? Good. Glad you're with me.

I have absolutely no idea who any of these girls are. This was merely a fun exercise in which I sought as many ways as possible to do Google image searches on Central American buns, or nalgas, if you will. I figured it would be pretty fun.

And I was right. In addition to going well with hot dogs and hamburgers and the occasional chicken sandwich, buns are fun to stare at, poke, and if you're lucky, squeeze.






Like these. Allegedly, these are Brazilian buns. And obviously, squeezing them would be a bit of a task. Not an unaccomplishable one, but you might bead your forehead with a bit of perspiration.



These, however, smaller handfuls that they are, wouldn't get one quite as worked up if held at gunpoint, and ordered to cozy up to. I'm sure the rest of the folks in the picture might find it a bit strange, but they'd adapt. I'm confident of it.

What exactly is that "covering" her buttocks anyway? A pair of underwear gone wrong? An item meant for the children's department that was accidentally placed in the adult clothing section?

It's a curious article, whatever it is.














There's not much in the way of curiosity about this lovely young lady, though. In fact, one quick glance gives you all the answers you need. She's got a cute bottom. Moving on.


































Didn't really catch much scenery like this during the ol' honeymoon, but one can always wish, wonder and hope, right? But of course.















Finally, what better than a good ol' buns sandwich? A display of Buns-o'-Plenty on the buffet, a ferris wheel of buns, even. Buns are great on their own, but much like their counterpart boobs, they're even better when smashed together. Let's hear it for bottoms. Hell, bottoms up, even. Salud.



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Baseball In The Daytime: 5-23-07

I hate to ruin your Wednesday, which is rightly dedicated to poon, but we've got a ball game today. Fear not, at some point before sundown Bankmeister will grace us with some bulbous jugs and sweet ga-dunk-a-dunk. That is, if he's not exhausted from complaining about how excruciating his vacation is.

Back here in America we have jobs, taxes, rain and Jason Giambi. But we also have an afternoon tilt between Minnesota and Texas (noon-oh-five Mountain time, XM 177 and DirecTV 734). Your pitchers are gonna be Robinson Tejeda for the Rangers and "Coach, How Dat Look Up In Da" Boof Bonser for the Twins.

I've always hated the Rangers, and I don't really know why. Sure, they're from Texas (even worse, metro Dallas), but that's not it. They've never really been good enough to despise, and although they've had some true knuckleheads grace their roster their players are generally cool. Dubya once owned them, that's not good. And from 1989 to 1994, the period of Bush's ownership, they sported most of baseball's juiciest dudes: Sosa, Palmiero, Pudge, Juan-Gone, Incaviglia, Canseco and Dean Palmer, plus ball doctorer Kenny Rogers and Julio Franco, who found some mysterious "fountain of youth" cough! HGH cough!

On the other side of that coin, I've always sorta liked the Twins. Can't really explain it. They've always had likable players, and the fans in Minnesota tend to be good honest Midwestern folk. Life's an enigma sometimes.

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Tradition Tuesday: The Next Man-Crush

Editor's Note: The rough focus of this blog is the rivalry between the Kansas City Chiefs (represented by the newly betrothed Bankmeister) and the Denver Broncos (championed by Cecil and Old No. 7). It may seem unfair that it's two vs. one, but once KC gets that second Super Bowl we'll even out the delegation.

Seven years ago we started The Tradition, in which the Broncos fans traveled out to the Truman Sports Complex with their team, and the Chef-lovers returned to the Rocky Mountains with theirs. We tailgate, we talk massive amounts of shit, our wives occasionally get assaulted by rival fans, and we almost always watch the visiting team lose. It's a grand old time.

Here at the HoG, we're going to keep The Tradition alive all year long with Tradition Tuesday--a weekly state-of-the-rivalry address.

Today let's go down in the trenches, to a battle that may or may not define this series for years to come. KC signed defensive end Jared Allen to a new contract Monday (sorry for the ESPN link, but Pasquarelli scooped the fuck out of the Star this morning). The drunken maniac does provide a steady and effective pass rush for the Indian Chiefs, something that we Broncos fans know nothing about (the pass rush part, not the DUIs).

Who will keep Allen away from Screamin' Jay? The Broncos' tackle situation could not possibly be more of a mess. George Foster, a colossal first-round draft bust, was benched last season for sucking balls. Once replacement Adam Meadows was injured, Foster returned to the starting lineup, where he was easily the worst player in the NFL last year. He was traded to the Lions (thanks Matt Millen!) and will not be missed.

Moving forward, Meadows returns this season. Matt Lepsis comes back from his knee injury, which is probably karma for ending Terrell Davis' career, and will certainly start. Erik Pears, regardless of his bad ass alma mater, is backup material. There is a need for new blood at this critical position, and it may well exist in the person of the Broncos' third-round draft choice, Ryan Harris.

I grow more enamored with Harris every day. He certainly seems like the prototypical lineman in the Broncos' system, in that he's a good athlete, he's intelligent, and he might have a chip on his shoulder (he dropped to the third round due to concerns about his size). I like that he started 45 games at Notre Dame. I'm sick of trying to win the war in the trenches with projects (Alex Gibbs could do this, and Alex Gibbs is gone)--I want a freaking stud down there to knock Jared Allen into the Gatorade cooler.

Editor's Note: I am contractually obligated to mention that the Denver Bronco O-Line is comprised of cheaters who endanger the careers of defensive players. We're all sure that Ryan Harris is locked in a room somewhere reviewing film of how to break ankles and blow out knees from the side. We're also sure that any myopic Chiefs fan who's still hung up on this outdated notion is fond of sheep.

The downsides to Harris are there, but I choose to ignore them. He did attend Notre Dame, which in this draft was somewhat of a hindrance. We all know about Brady Quinn's first-round freefall, and how Darius Walker went undrafted. Many felt that Notre Dame's success over the last couple seasons were due to Charlie Weiss' magic and a soft schedule that feasted on the likes of Stanford, Michigan State and the military academies. Harris is undersized, and his measurables weren't particularly mind-blowing. He's a bit of an extrovert, and he talks about a career in politics after football. Around here we want our big uglies to be seen and not heard.

Finally, there is the issue that Harris is a Muslim. I have no beef with any religion, but we went through this with Ephraim Salaam, specifically the fast at Ramadan. I hate having a tackle who struggles to keep weight on forced to fast for a month in the middle of football season. I guarantee that Jared Allen isn't fasting, and that he doesn't believe in any God at all. All Jared Allen cares about is drinking, fucking and killing Jay Cutler. We need someone who can counteract this dedication.

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Go-oh Take the Plastic and Limp

Let's face it. Most of the shit we make fun of women for leaves us in some way with an avenue that leads to the things we as men really like to do.

This morning, our last day in ultra-poor, be-thankful-for-neighboring-Manuel-Antonio beautiful Quepos, the wife went shopping. This of course leaves me in a bit of a conundrum. She could be kidnapped, held for ransom, raped, murdered, or all of the above. Thus, I should accompany her. Instead, I mainline some true internet time. Actually, she's quite safe for those of you that were concerned. Thanks for that, by the way. Love you guys.

I'm amazed at the HoG happenings that have occurred in my absence. oNs came through; his daily efforts are MVP material. Our One-Man, Mobile-Uplink-Unit Weekend Correspondent resurfaced, made abundant fun of Asshole Yankee Fan, and even submitted a post about hockey. Even if it was to make fun of it. I will request some evidence that the Anaheim team's creation was after/tied to/dependent upon the Estevez film. And by evidence, I don't mean Wikipedia and your other hilariously questionable sources.

We've even gotten comments from Arvada, aforementioned asshole and the two other HoG authors as well. In essence, we blew up. And I'm stoked. A job well done, all. Anyway, I suppose this post should have something to do with female anatomy and/or sports. So here you go.

My boys have gone 5-2 in my absence from the states. Priority number three of fantasy sports-related funds is now in effect. Priority one and two are semi-interchangeable, circumstantial if you will. They involve a) the acquistion of a certain Denver-area condo for the rocky-mountain half of The Tradition, and b) getting Cecil a computer. Priority three, however, has established its clearcutness: the Bankmeister must travel to Central America with more frequency in order for the Royals to string together wins. They took three of four from Oaktown and two of three from these guys since the wife and I tied the knot. Those, my friends, are good times.

In other sports news, my hockey predictions went down the toilet faster than oNs' morning duke, which is to say that they trickled at a salt-laden slug's pace. In reality, it was a gravity flush. I merely take every advantage I find to talk about his to-the-second bm schedule. Dee-lish. In sum, I'm baffled that the Sabres choked. End of story. I'll now root for Cecil's beloved Ducks to finish off the douche bags, and go from there.

In lady-related news, this just in:

Costa Rican women are hot.

Every last damn one of them. Sexy and beautiful in their own way. Obviously, none of them hold a candle to my wife, but what're you gonna do.

Anyhoo, I'll turn the reins back over to the big guns. Let's please talk more about Ron Mexico. That guy's like that euthanized horse, that guy that's threatening to break Aaron's record, the draft, Cut that Meat, and Yankees/Sox baseball all wrapped into a paper tortilla and not sprinkled with Cholula. Let's spice this guy up a bit. Shall we?

Is it football season yet?

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Where My Dawgs At?

In a story that simply will not go away, our old pal Clinton Portis has Mike Vick's back, saying that the whole dog-fighting scandal is no big deal and what happens on private property is nobody's business.

Look, I'm not someone who's big on judging morals and casting stones. I like sports, but I realize that most of these guys cheat on their wives, do drugs, and are no-good pricks. But there is obviously a subculture out there that is really, really into fighting dogs, which is a complete mystery to me.

Sure, I get the concept. It's competition, and there bloody violence, and gambling. I love all of those things. I'm not a member of PETA, and I have no problem with horse racing. Even bullfights and cockfights, I'm not losing much sleep over those. If you own an impressive cock, and you want to pit that cock against others for money, so be it. Not my thing, but to each his own. And at the end of the day the worst thing we have is a couple of dead chickens, which we eat in this country.

But jeez, dogs? Why does it have to be dogs? I thought that was something that had just gone away, like smallpox. I love dogs. They've got personality, and personality goes a long way. I guess I feel that even in the dirtiest fighting pit bull resides a goofy puppy that wants to frolic in fields of dandelions, not shred jugular veins. But again, I just don't get it.

There's a trend among rich men to want to own shit, and to pit the shit you own against the shit others own to see who's boss. Poor guys do this to, but it's called fantasy football. Some guys buy minor league baseball teams or race cars, but you don't really own the folks that are competing...I guess Abe Lincoln was not a rotisserie geek. You can own a horse, but the sport of kings is pretty bourgeosie. So, for guys like Vick and Portis, you own fighting dogs. In some way it makes sense, but it's still fucked up.

Does this change the way I feel about Portis? Not really. I don't see him as a bad guy, just a punk. He's really funny, and he loves the bitches, and he can be a great running back. When he's on your team you love him, and when he's not you think he's just a loudmouth.

By the way, no scheduled day baseball today, but two teams you might have heard of face off tonight.

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NHL Playoff Update!!!!!

Actually, not so much.

Just when I want to give hockey the respect it so obviously deserves--the athaletes that play it can not only stand up on those skates but actually skate on them, which, as it turns out, is goddamn hard--something happens. Something to jog the ol' Disrespekternator back to creaky life. Something like the very existence of the Anaheim Ducks, formerly The Mighty Ducks of Anaheim.

Look, I have nothing against ducks. Just last Friday I spent an afternoon drinking Galliano with a small flock of Northern Shovelers. (Don't you judge me.)

But I simply can't take seriously any "major" sports franchise that was named, even for a little while, after an Emilio Estevez film. (Unless it was maybe this one.) Can you imagine that happening anywhere else in this country? Or in any other sport? Of course not. Only the NHL thinks enough of its product to tie civic hopes and dreams to the fate of a fucking Disney movie.

L.A. even already had a hockey team, and no one really knows if Anaheim is even real. (Certainly not this guy.) The team only seemed to exist to be named after the movie; a grand and humiliating cross-promotional exercise. The late attempt at blotting the corporate jizz-stain by dropping the "Mighty" was just that. Too late.

Sorry, hockey. Scrub though you might over the years, you'll never remove the Mouse's stain. It's on you like murder on Ray Lewis, women's clothes on Marv Albert, war crimes on the Bush family. Read more

Expert Status

The commissioner of our main fantasy baseball league (seen above with "special pal") is currently riding a late-'90s Yankees period of success. His team--cleverly named "Three Timed Defending Champs," because, you know, in case one of the guys in our league fell from a motorcycle as a child, he might not have gotten the message by now--is in the process of defeating mine in an unfortunately lopsided matchup.

Normally, I take my medicine like a man and keep quiet. Even when my first-place squad suffered a terrible setback the previous week to the worst team in our league, the worst team in any league, a team so thoroughly awful its manager had to leave it alone to fend for itself, hope the world would throw it a stale bun and a blanket, I kept quiet.

But this time...no. Any loss to the 3TDC--Christ, just typing that makes my side hurt like I took poison--is a loss times three. And then! Then, HoGNation, he posts smack-talk about it on the House itself. I feel like my garage got tagged by a pack of retards.

And our nascent rivalry doesn't compare to the one he and Ol No. 7 have going. Nominally pals, fantasy baseball finds them making like each was a bear and the other wearing beehive underpants. The fact that No. 7, despite some epic struggles at each season's end, has never been able to climb this hill of bespectacled, loose-boweled Arizonan--why, it's a stain on HoG integrity. That's what.

But cease your fingernail mastication, o legions of loyal readers. With a (really) good night from three guys--Jorge Posada, Carlos Beltran and Bobby Abreu--I could eke out the sweetest victory of this young fantasy season. Excelsior, you Motherfunction.

(Editorial Update: It ain't happening.) Read more

He Lives

Glad. Very glad indeed to know that the One Man Mobile Uplink Unit lives on, and in alleged good health. I'll drink to that, even if the water has a bit of malaria flavoring. oNs, I trust you're gearing up for another go at Trad Tues & WATCH (redacted). Cheers, boys.

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Tally ho! An afternoon tilt at Cornhole!

Apologies for being literally the last person to post this, but on behalf of my HoG brethren it simply can't go unremarked upon: the Quarterback for the Cincinnati Bengals wants to play a little game with you.

Relax. It's as natural as chili on spaghetti. Just lean back while Carson grabs a beanbag... Read more

Your Weekend Correspondence; or, Why Exactly It Is That You're Such a Tool

We try hard to cover a little bit of everything here at the HoG. Cricket, Elephant Polo, Big-Wave Surfing (love how they call Gabrielle's husband "Lard") Random Capitalization and Hockey.

Still, we have our little forts . No. 7 knows the innermost workings of Pro Baseball from minor league onward. Our Administrator is capable of executing a perfect neutral-zone trap against the world's puckless...no, really, no wisecracking. He does that.

I spend a lot of time drinking. This makes me an expert in abso-fucking-lutely everything, but even in my besotted case, specialization becomes an issue. I trend toward the NFL, the NFL Draft, Pro Baseball and the NBA. I'm far and away the biggest supporter of professional American basketball amongst our lil' cadre. The Administrator only likes semi-pro players from one midwestern university and No. 7 is too easily distracted by a dynasty that lives in his backyard.

But to waste even a few more sentences on these playoffs--not happening. Not here. We've all read about Saint Nash's honor in only becoming a semi-flopper, Robert Horry's easy new nickname, The Human Sponsorship Reel leading his team to a place that is...ur, not maybe *promised* but still land, in any case, and a Bulls series loss that somehow failed to dim the yelling of Windy Citizens. And since we all did, no talk about it. None.

(Stay tuned for 4,000 words on The Preakness from the point of view of a parasite in Curlin's intestine.) Read more

Hide The Weenie

There's really no dancing around it. When something like this happens you can't hide, you can't put the toothpaste back in the tube. Two of America's most accomplished sportsman have sunk into a hideously bitchy catfight, and from the slapping and crying emerged a new bullet in the arsenal of comedy:

Hide The Weenie.

You can read about it here. On ESPN's website, the phrase is removed, called a "graphic sexual description." Actually, it's a harmless euphemism, which is why it will live forever. There is an SNL sketch being written right now that uses the phrase.

Speaking of endless sources of humor, Howard Dean totally saw this coming.

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