We Are Hot Chicks Wednesday: Callin' Yer Shot

Every once in a while we throw up a post in haste. This is one of those every once in a whiles. It's quite possible that I've thrown up this array of talent before, but I'm too short-sided on the memory front, too lazy to look it up, and too drunk to make any better sense of the whole mess. The nugget of the piece, though, should be remembered as such: Denver fans have a tendency to have fluidity with their teams. And by "teams" I mean Broncos. They could ultimately care less about the Rockies, Nuggets, or Avalanche, but when it comes to the beloved orange and blue, they'll go to the grave with whatever retardedness a current or former Bronco says. And that's unfortuneate. Why, you ask? Well, let me tell you.

Old No. 7, citing inspiration earlier in the day, threw up this post, and 'tis true that he did vomit it. It's unfortuneate that he attached his name to it in many ways, only a few of which can I bring myself to muster. They, however, look like this:



1) "Shannon was snubbed by the Hall of Fame back in February, which is of course preposterous." Shannon Sharpe deserves to be in the Hall of Fame? For what? Being the biggest tool to ever don an NFL uniform?



Sure. he set some records and owns a few rings. Who cares. No. Really. Let's take a non-Denver poll...(Editor's Note: Crickets.) He was, at one time, a pretty good tight end. He'll never be anything more. If he gets elected into Canton, only then will we see the real exhibit of preposterity.



But it gets worse, I assure you. Seven, in his infinite wisdom, decided to allocate a box quote to the Hall's most unworthy recipient since Scott Norwood:



"But I never played on a 2-14 team two years in a row," Sharpe said.



I ask you, non-short-bus-riding citizens: To whom does this retard (Sharpe) refer? Who has gone 2-14 in consecutive seasons? I'm Jack Bauer up in this bitch. That is to say, I'm lost.



Oh, no. Please. Wait. The best point of all is yet to come.



You see, Denver Bronco fans like to attribute their back-to-back Super Bowl victories to one man.



Personally, I don't take away from the fact that they won two consecutive titles.



If there was a feasible way to negate that piece of history -- trust me -- I'd already have the patent.



The fact remains, though, that Denver fans, Old No. 7 specifically, like to attribute such feats to one man in particular.



Over here on Planet Earth, however, we're aware of the notion that -- regardless of late last calls, fat chicks, and country inbreeding, it takes a team to win.



In Denver, however, the belief is quite the opposite.



You have a tight end, who blatantly feels responsible for the franchise's successes, as evidenced by his horse-lipped mouth:



"He's all they had. I only lost five playoff games. He's lost three already."



Mos' Def, Horse Lips.



Like in 1997, when the Chiefs went 13-3, then lost to Denver. That'd be off-subject.



Tony Gonzalez was what?



Oh, that's right.



A rookie.



He had 33 catches for 368 yards and two scores that year.



But you know, it was his fault that the Chiefs lost that game.



And don't even get me started on the row-add cookin' touchdown pass he caught where he was pushed out of bounds by a cheatin' Bronco.



So, as you can plainly see, Shannon Sharpe suggests that Denver playoff losses and wins are solely attributed to him and him only, and the same can be said for Kansas City, the Chiefs, and Tony Gonzalez.

And now would be a bad time, I assume, to mention Sharpe's rookie stats. What? No? It wouldn't? Okay, well if you insist...

...seven catches for 99 yards and one touchdown. In 14 years, he accomplished less, at his exact same position, than Tony accomplished in 12. But, you know, throw in a quarterback that refused to play for the team by which he was drafted, and wah-lah -- Sharpe's better, and a guaranteed first-ballot guy.

Makes sense...

...except for the fact that in Kansas City, we focus on team. Not one guy. Tony is part of a team. John Elway was part of a team. Tony, as part of the Chiefs teams, hasn't won a playoff game. Elway, as part of a team, won many, and of course, ensuing championships, but over here on Planet Reality, we chalk that success up to the whole team, whereas a guy like Shannon, ultimate HOFer that he may be, continues to whine, along with his afficionados -- that he missed out on first-ballot status. And for that we can only say, help yourself to the box of Puffs, ese.
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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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Ground Zero

In retrospect, the cigars were a bad choice.

It was perhaps four or five hours ago, maybe fifty feet from the coffee shop I write from now, that I dipped into my pocket for some stogies. We puffed on them, and I'm not going to lie, mirth ensued. But now the staff of the HoG (and the Lone Reader!) are headed to the Missouri-Kansas border to fucking play hockey.

On the list of all-time bad ideas, this one ranks No. 1 by about a million. I feel like a commander at the Bay of Pigs, launching the boats and saying "Well Hal, it sure is a nice day for an invasion." At first my concern was the risk of injured wedding guests and, oh, the fact that none of us know how to ice skate. But those worries have been superceded by the crippling hangover and cigar-flavored gerbil that has taken up residence in my throat.

Regardless, today's topic is the the fishwrap perched next to me. I've always really liked the Kansas City Star (and when does one italicize the just the newspaper name, not the city, and when does one do it all?). Granted, I only read it on the morning of Chiefs-Broncos games at Arrowhead, when I'm full of hope and vinegar. And then I take a massive shit that smells like smoked pork.

Back on topic: The Star is a tremendous daily from a midsized Midwestern burg. The sports page is tight, and reflective of the hardcore fan that dwells in this city. For years Jason Whitlock patrolled the sports columns, but I haven't the foggiest of what his actual job is these days--I think he still literally mails one in to the Star now and then. And of course the professor emeritus is Joe Posnanski (who I used to always confuse with Ed Podolak), arguably the best columnist in America.

You can tell a lot about a fan base by the way their sports page prioritizes various topics. If you're in the South, college football is generally page 1, above the fold, even in April--you don't see this in, say, Denver. One of the things I love about Vegas is the Review-Journal's lineup: they give the appropriate amount of respect to the NFL, of course, but tend to shun all of the sports that shun Sin City: baseball, pro basketball, and the NHL. However, the leagues that thrive in Vegas (boxing, NASCAR, motocross, college basketball, golf, etc.) are treated like royalty on the sports page.

This here, of course, is an NFL city first and foremost. The Chiefs are covered every single day whether one of their players was arrested or not. College hoops and racin' are big as well. As we're smack dab in the middle of baseball season and the Royals are, um, pacing themselves, the tone of horsehide coverage is fairly self-mocking and masochistic. The Star does not pretend that the Royals are not subpar, unlike, say, the Denver Post's ultraserious coverage of the typically woeful Rockies.

Light on the links today, I know, but I'm in a hurry to go throw up on an ice rink. I must say, to my esteemed Administrator--There's still time to bail on the wedding, dude. Kidding. Congratulations, bro, and welcome to the everlasting furnace of shit that is marriage. I sure hope we sing the National Anthem at the ceremony.

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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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