Preview This

When the Blizzard got a building permit for this House and we started to erect it, I was adamant about one thing. I didn't want to feel compelled to cover anything, save for The Tradition. For instance, TO is going to say some shit, and thousands of sports opiners are going to weigh in on it. If I have a mandate to do the same how original or insightful is my input going to be? Fuck that. We throw ink at what needs it and let the rest of the world cover the mandatory beats.

This stance is all well and good, but I apparently underestimated the HoG's thunderous power. We now have legions, nay, battalions, of loyal readers who demand our unmatched wit and wisdom on all sorts of topics. If Bankmeister goes two days without breaking down Stanley Cup playoff tape, the masses file a class action suit. The people have spoken, and they want much, much more tasty HoG-flavored man sauce.

Specifically, previews. Everybody wants you to make a pick. I get this, as I myself love it when those who proclaim themselves experts make predictions that turn out horribly inaccurate. That's funny. So I'll play along, to an extent, and prognosticate on all sorts of bullshit.

Today a few things are going to happen. One is the beginning of the NHL Finals, where the Otaawaa Senators will try to knock off the Mighty Ducks of Los Anaheim. The...actually, I'm being informed that that sport is already over. Basketball? Didn't that end last week? I'd forgotten all about basketball. Apparently it's the NBA Finals tonight, and I'm going to preview it. Bitch all you want about my lack of enthusiasm for or knowledge about the Association, but we did assign guest columns recently to not one but two fellows. Both of these cats comment regularly and are huge NBA guys, and both shrunk from this challenge like balls in a glass of ice water. So you're stuck with me. Deal with it.

We also have some baseball to digest, of the amateur aluminum-bat variety no less. Today brings us the first-ever televised MLB Draft, and I'm sure the boys at the four-letter network will do their level best to ruin this formerly cool event. And we sit on the eve of the College World Series in Omaha, Nebraska, which I'm told is pretty rad. I know next to nothing about the ins and outs of high school and/or college baseball, but, again, the pressure from our audience is excruciating. I'll hit that too.

And what are my colleagues doing whilst I cater to your every whim and desire? I don't know. Bankmeister acts as though posting a few photos of boobs is like putting out alpine wildfires, and he's probably done for the week. Cecil is looking for the Yeti in the wilds of Bangladesh, and he may appear come Sunday. I hope so, because I'm going fishing this weekend and not watching sports of any kind. See ya soon.

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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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