Welcome to the HoG Life, Jackson

No. 7 will undoubtedly fill this in later, the way it should be. But on behalf of his tired ass, we welcome his new son--all 8 + pounds of him--to the world and to the Rivalry. That kid is gonna have an Elway onesie before you can say Jack Robinson.

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Say It Ain't So, Drew

Since the Open Letter has become the style of the times, I'd like to post one to Drew Bledsoe, who announced his retirement. There is clamoring from Lone Reader for an NHL playoff preview, which we will not provide. Dude, you live in fucking Canada. Doesn't someone up there do that shit? The playoffs already started, anyway--that ship has sailed.

I kid, I kid. We love our Reader(s). I'm sure Bankmeister is busily flunking out of school in order to deliver his predictions for this riveting spectacle. Don't forget his previous ruminations on this topic (what, like anything has changed?). And rest assured that I, your favorite HoG Farmer, will publish my own indepth analysis of why the Colorado Avalanche will capture their third Stanley Cup (what? you can't be serious! that's never happened!). It will be very positive, because I love the ice hockey and America Junior.

But back to Drew, who probably loved those last few paragraphs because he often lives near Canada himself. Dude, what are you doing? Retirement? How can you hang it up? Just because kids keep taking your gig? Trust me, Bledsoe, you've still got it. No one can freeze a rope like you, sir. Well, almost no one, but he's a superhuman sex machine. Your class and composure in the face of adversity is a beacon to all of those up-and-coming players who view you as a role model.

By the way, is it "role model" or "roll model?" I've seen it both ways, but that’s probably because I read a lot of sportswriting and people that write about sports are fucking retarded.

So please, Drew, reconsider. There are many, many, many teams that could use the services of a mistake-proof, level-headed leader such as yourself. Don’t worry about some other punk stealing your job—none of those moves have worked out. You're a smart guy, Drew--for the love of Mike, you matriculated at Washington State--and you're the prototype 21st-century QB. You're mobile, elusive, and in possession of a thick skin. It ain't time for golf just yet.

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Breakfast In Augusta, Day 2

Once the dust settled from Thursday's first round, a few things became evident. One is that this course is a brutal bitch. Only nine of the world's best players broke par on a dry day with moderate wind. The National's efforts to lengthen and "Tiger-proof" their track seem to have resulted in a true challenge for a major championship.

Another revelation, from the scores of the Masters Invitational, is that Darren Clarke will single-handedly steal your money. The ruddy Irishman posted an 83, devastating the chances of the unlucky three who picked and started him in their groups.

Kids, you should have seen this coming. Clarke's wife died last year, and he reacted as most of the Irish would: by going on massive benders and not showing up for work. And his "job" is playing golf--tough gig. The dude's a mess. Plus, he attended Wake Forest, and with one exception those guys are colossal failures.

Bringing up the rear of all Invitational participants was ol' Mayor McVesco at 25-over. Team G-Hole not only featured Clarke but historic choke-artist Sergio Garcia. We may never know why the Mayor holds such a lifelong crush on Serge, or maybe we do.

Two-time defending champ Arvada Schwag leads at +4, with yours truly a stroke behind. I will win, even if I have to send the Schwag to the hospital with life-threatening infections. What? Too soon?

They're back on the course, check back throughout the day for updates and breaking news regarding the cut.

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Blatant Queefage

I can't get the comment link to work right now; if I could, I'd be leaving Lucky Number Slevin with a comment on his overtly racist post about Caucasian wide outs. Just because Johnnie Walker Orange is upset that his brother's ancestors didn't deposit said ancestral seed in his family tree doesn't give him any grounds to plaster these walls with generalization.

Let's be real here. I know tons of NFL fans. And neither one of them is a racist. In fact, they both whack (the PC term for mulatto). Every time Wes Welker catches a pass, my homeys cheer for the oppressed white man receiver and the Randy Mosses of the world at the same time.

Now that guy can play. When he wants to. As long as he ain't mad atcha'. Or playing in California. Or Minnesota. Or hungover. Or fresh out of traffic court. But anyway, Ol' Slevin had another point in mind. He just didn't know how to voice it.

That's what I'm here for. He really, really really likes any ties the Dirty Broncos can have with the Indianapolis Clowns. Especially if in some tangential way, it reflects upon Eli-esque (don't forget Daddy) behavior. He's secretly Stoke-leyd about the acquistion. But enough about that. I ain't tryin' to bring up old shit. Or new shit. Just shit, really.

What I is tryin' to bring up is the black quarterback. And its synonymity with general suckdom. Okay. Sure. Warren Moon -- great. Kind of. Randall Cunningham -- pretty damn good. Usually. Donovan "Chunky Soup" McNabb -- wouldn't mind having him on my team. If he could stay healthy and not lose three consecutive conference championships followed by a Super Bowl. Michael Vick -- whatever. Go ahead. Play the Doug Williams card while I take a quick nap and dream of ridiculous statements. Like the one at the top of this post.

Anyhoo. I'm pretty excited about Casey Printers continuing to occupy a spot on the Chiefs' roster. That guy's pretty good. If you like 6'2", 222-pound, CFL leftover, fumble-prone quarterbacks. I like how the Chiefs cut Printers more times that a side of deli pastrami, only to bring him back from the practice squad when Trent Green went down. Good times. I don't care how razzled Green's noggin was, how long it had been since Damon Huard had started a game, or how many times Brodie Croyle broke his leg in Tuscaloosa. I'd sew together pieces of each of those guys before ever giving Printers the reins. And I'm pretty sure his suckiness is attributable to one factor: his blackness.

Seriously. Maybe if some slave owner would've knocked up his grandmama mama out behind the shed, that guy could, how do you say, take a snap and not totally blow.

This all ties together nicely, really. Lets keep whitey under center and blackey runnin' routes. But only in games. We ain't tryin' to talk about practice, here. By the way, anyone wanna buy a seldom-worn Marc Boerigter jersey? It's a steal. Oh. Nevermind. I'ma keep that one. He's white. I'm racist. And for my money, those two adjectives are like peanut butter and jelly.

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