The HoG's NFL Draft LiveBlog 2009, Day II

(software courtesdy of Cover it Live)
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The HoG's 2009 NFL Draft LiveBlog

(software courtesy of Cover It Live)
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Feelin' the Draft '09: One Week Away, Mark Your Calendars...

Just a note to the vast, squirming mass of internettery known as our readership that the 2009 NFL Player Draft is next weekend.

Are you going to watch it on television? Do you plan to travel to New York? Listen to the local radio station?

All fine ideas. But we'd request you add another item to the day's docket: follow along with the members of the Iron Triangle as we hold our first-ever, for-reals live chat--with the actual software and everything! We'll be starting bright and/or early New York time, so don't drink too many Midori Sours the night before.

We'll see you then. In the meantime, your team and city blows, unless it's mine.


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Five Feckin' Haikus fer a Friday. 'Cause Why the Feck Not?

I dunno about yous, but me brain's frickin' fried. Therefore, I'm takin' the feckin' liberty o' postin' a bunch o' nonsense this flurryish frigid day. Do take note, however, that the entire Iron Triangle is represented in these here lines. They create quite the body of work, and you can find it after the jump.

As for the picture, I imagine I'm the dude on the left, given that I can't grow a mustache. Cecil's gotta be the cat on the right; he's such a jovial character that you couldn't package his simmering piss in a simmering vial(redacted) if you tried. That leaves Old No. 7 as the middle man. He and his gray bear'stache (Editor's Note: It's true. He's that Old.) are begging for mercy from the Lord above as we all await the (now less than a week away!) birth of the first House of Georges child. Rumor has it that he and his wife conceived this offspring, but we'll wait on the DNA test results.

Following the ridiculous loss the Chiefs suffered at home courtesy of the then-soon-to-be-called Chris Simms Express two years ago, Cecil and Old No. 7 left town happy, my 'fridge with haikus on it. Cecil's looked a little something like this:

"Bad Port-A-Potty
A meathead Chefs Fan Douchebag.
Where is John Elway?"

Old No. 7's was, well, Old No. 7-ish:

"Arrowhead again.
Average weight in seat: three bills.
Chiefs lose game, not weight."

In a rather astonishing fit of coincidence, Seven offered up a new pair this afternoon. There was this one:

"Cutler, Jay -- slinger
Of Gun. Asks barmaid for gin,
Insulin chaser."

And there was this one:

"Arriveth fetus
Naked and afraid. And he
Hasn't seen Broncs yet."

My contribution was in response to this last piece:

"Once he's here, clothed, bathed,
Affixed to nipple, and wit-
nessed the team, fear grows."

Sure. I probably cheated by hyphenating, but who cares. It's feckin' Friday. And it's feckin' freezin' out. Have a great weekend, y'all.
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Happy Birthday to Us

Zoinks, Scoob. I almost forgot: It's our birthday. We won't get into some of the elaborate recollections like last year. Instead, we'll just touch on a few highlights that've occurred in our two-year existence. And if you don't know where that's gonna happen, well, I really just can't help you.

Obviously, our first post happened two years ago today. Don't bother clicking; it's pretty bad. It has, on occasion, been downhill from there. There've certainly been setbacks, though. Like when Old No. 7 blazed the HoG path of racism, or when he dropped the atomic here's-what-this-blog-was-originally-gonna-be-about bomb. There was the trio of moments in which Seven and I thought Cecil had officially lost it.

And from there, we kind've pretended to get semi-serious about delivering quality inside this here House of Georges. Seven went way, way yard with the first ever Tradition Tuesday. I attempted to hit clean-up with the first installment of We Are Hot Chicks Wednesday, and Cecil kept the mashing going with his first NFL Draft sequence.

Frankly, once we'd lumped that mound of coal onto the fire, the smoke just kept churnin'; we almost turned into regular-feature machines. There's "Baseball in the Daytime," "Sleeping with the Enemy," the good ol' "ThumbTubes & YouNails," and my personal favorite: the thus-short-lived, but currently fixin'-to-stage-a-comeback "Friday Fiction Fix."

Sometimes, friends, a cliche will say exactly what you want to communicate. It's a tool that lazy, untalented writers like myself must pull from the shed every now and again, and I use one here to say that that list of links and highlights is but a mere scratch on one lone pane of a House of Georges window. The posts listed within those links should be more reading material than most any person should really ever spend on this site, but in the event that it's not, there's always the (now with two full years of material!) archives that are conveniently listed in chronological order near the bottom of our home page.

With that, we'll leave you with some song. I for one have enjoyed the Iron Triangle's construction of this here House, and look forward to the many added wings in the months and years to come. Happy Birthday to us.


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Iron Triangle Update; or Mother Nature's Attempts to Cancel the Tradition

When I was a Colorado resident, people always wanted to know why shit was so expensive in Colorado. To this question, I always responded with: "Blame it on the mountains."

Of course. They are gorgeous, but they must be traversed when hauling groceries and fuel and whatnot. Plus, their scenery is what makes the real estate as pricey as it is. Therefore, when Old No. 7 and Mrs. No. 7 must re-route, engage in whiteouts, accidents, snow embankments, hour-and-a-half-long trooper waits and near arrests, all because of alpine winter conditions, the blame must go somewhere. So why not Ma Nature and her splendid Rocky Mountains?

Fear not, though HoGsters. The Sevens are alive, uninjured, well, and persistent. Giant bummer for Mrs. 7, though, as she must operate the vehicular module with trailer in tow for the duration of the drive here. And the one home, too. Those are some good times I certainly don't envy.
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