The HoG25: The 25 Best Movies of the Past 25 Years (Part One)

Well, we're back. It's time to kick off a new week, and deliver a new installment of the newest House of Georges feature, The HoG25. Each week, we're devouring a topic wherein we select, rank, and defend the top 25 (fill in the blank) over the last 25 years. Last week we kicked things off with the debut installment: quarterbacks. If you haven't checked it out, please do so, and of course tell us how great, or dumb, you thought it was.

We broke up our quarterback piece into two segments, so as to split the reading time. We're doing that for movies as well, but you'll need a small chunk to get through, if, you know, reading is your bag, baby. So, hop past the world-renowned leap, and make sure your popcorn's buttered. It's showtime.

25. Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith

Bankmeister: I cannot think of a more important piece of cinema in my lifetime than the two "Star Wars" trilogies, or the sextuple, if you will, as a whole. That might very well make me a nerd, but color me non-chalant. “Star Wars: Epidode IV – A New Hope,” “Superman,” “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” “Time Bandits,” and “E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial” were the first five movies I ever saw in the theater. “Star Wars”, for me, blew them all away. Other childhood hits include “The Neverending Story,” “The Karate Kid,” “Rocky IV,” “Back to the Future,” “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” None of those, for my green Benjamins, hold a candle to “Star Wars,” “The Empire Strikes Back,” or “Return of the Jedi.” The trilogy, for all intents and purposes, enveloped me. It was a world unthunk, undreamt, and unimagined, one I wanted to see, hear, and smell for myself, and it is, to this day, the embodiment of the perfect good-and-evil dichotomy.

It was about hope, hope that the benevolent can triumph in this universe, that there will be costly sacrifices, horror-invoking truths, and a great, great deal of pain. And it communicated these motifs with the flashiest, most awe-inspiring sensory invocations ever created: traveling at light speed, dueling with lightsabers, owning droids, and knowing dozens and dozens of different types of creatures. And let’s not forget family, love, and politics.

So, “A New Hope” (1979) captivated me. Stopped my world’s orbit. Twisted my way of processing life. When “Empire” (1980) came out, it instilled fear in me. Fear and companionship, and the might of the strong, the ways of the wise. “Jedi” (1983) left me wondering. How could I have feared and hated Darth Vader after he saved his son’s life and told him “You were right about me. Tell your sister... you were right,” as his dying words. I wondered about the emergence of new threats and what the lack of Yoda and Obi-Wan Kenobi might mean to it all. I wondered if I was okay with Ewoks. And most of all, I wondered – having heard rumors in between “New Hope” and “Jedi” about a supposedly six other “Star Wars” installments: What do you mean those were the middle three parts? That just didn’t make sense.

Ultimately, there were only three: “The Phantom Menace” (1999), “Attack of the Clones” (2002), and “Sith” (2005). “Sith,” technically installment three, is the bridge, the knot, the glue to the sextuple. In “Menace” we meet Anakin Skywalker, a young Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon, under whom Kenobi apprenticed. We also meet Padme, who would later give birth to Luke and Leia. We also meet a slew of other characters, including Jar Jar Binks, whose voice single-handedly ruined the second trilogy for many. In “Clones,” light is shed on the massiveness of the plots of the dark side. Suspicions over the intentions of Senator Palpatine arise, and Anakin and Padme wed, a ceremony forbidden for a Padawan (Jedi knight in-training) learner. Plus, Yoda in a light saber battle.

Finally, we get the great melding of it all in “Sith.” A full 26 years after “Hope” was released, the “Star Wars” audience sees Palpatine become the emperor (who, though Vader’s master in “Jedi,” is destroyed by Vader himself) and turn Anakin against the Jedi Council. Skywalker, having become a knight under the tutelage of Kenobi, is manipulated into a mentoring under Palpatine, and is titled Darth Vader. It is not until the end – the original light saber dual between Vader and Kenobi – that Kenobi nearly destroys his apprentice, only to be saved by Sith Lord Darth Sidious/Palpatine/the emperor, and Skywalker is transformed into the Vader the world knew in the original trilogy. Before his near-destruction, though, Vader practically kills Padme, leaving her to die after giving birth to Luke and Leia. The remaining Jedi go into hiding and the twins are separated for safe keeping. In the middle of it all are the infamous plans for the construction of the Death Star, which bounce around and wind up in safe hands, but not before a copy of them is made by the Rebel Alliance. It is the existence of this copy with which “Hope” opens up; Princess Leia successfully stashes them inside R2-D2, and sends him and pal droid C-3PO in an escape pod to Tattooine just before Vader and his stormtroopers board the ship in search of the copy.

Much changes in a span of two and-a-half centuries. Hollywood itself likely went through 10 dozen changes. Old actors grow old. Some die. New actors surface. Technology advances. Harrison Fords are substituted for Samuel L. Jacksons. But, in the evolution of time, a great idea is still a great idea. In this case, the word “great” is emphasized, never substituted for pretty good, or not bad. The second trilogy was incredible, impossible to directly compare with its predecessor, but amazing for its detail, development, fruition, and cinematic impact. And the success with which George Lucas left nearly zero loose ends warrants, at the very least, a spot here.

24. The Truman Show

Bankmeister: I’ve never claimed to follow the norm of thinking when it comes to film. “The Truman Show,” perhaps, best embodies such a philosophy. Jim Carrey’s existence in the world of drama was never meant to be compared to John Wayne, Marlon Brando, or even Tom Hanks. The nature of the films he has made tell you that. But every once in a while, the most unexpected of seeds is germinated, the perfect amount of sunlight and water sneak in, and a near-masterpiece blossoms. This movie is one of those, and it makes this list for two reasons: 1) The possibility behind the idea is frighteningly possible, plausibly real, and 2) Carrey steps out of his typecast and hits a home run. I’m as far from an Academy expert as you could find, but my sister is pretty close. She says that the Academies are, and I’m paraphrasing here, not so much what matters anymore, but rather, the Golden Globes do.

Ed Harris got a lot of nominees and recognition for his role in this film and he deserved it, but so did Carrey, and Carrey won the 1999 Golden Globe for best actor, and, well, Harris took the supporting actor award in the Globes as well, Those awards, she might say, are the ones that the actors in Hollywood are concerned with, the ones they consider the real deal.

I’m not gonna lie. I’m a freaking faucet when it comes to movies, the hydrant the fire department opens on hot summer days so kids can play in it. Some bad actor in some movie I’m watching to make the wife happy skins their knee and I’m reaching for the Puffs. No kiddin’. But go back to the concept of this film. The notion that one’s entire life, especially now, 10 years after it came out, could be all for entertainment purposes, for the next reality show, for advertising and ratings, is synonymous with original, and accolades go to writer Andrew Niccol and director Peter Weir (“The Mosquito Coast,” “Dead Poets Society,” “Fearless”) for their incredible work in making this film the experience that it was. Harris’ role is astonishing, and the job the supporting cast – as the viewing audience – does to convey their devotion to the “Show” really sells it. And the soundtrack. Soundtracks, to some, go largely unnoticed, but they tie very much into the emotion of particular pieces of film, and the score in this one is very evident. Christof, Harris’ character, tells us directly: "...Easy On the Fog...Stand-By, Crane Cam…Crane Cam...And wide, Curb-Cam Eight…Button Cam Three...Fade Up Music..." Commence crying. And the undying faith of the beautiful Natascha McElhone who plays Sylvia. Without uttering a line, her beauty, both physically, and dramatically, seal this incredible deal. If you haven’t seen it, I gotta ask: “How’s it going to end?”

23. Planes, Trains, & Automobiles

Cecil: I would like to take this opportunity to discuss less the movie itself than John Hughes’ career as a whole.

And that’s no stab at P/T/A. I drafted the sucker, I’ll defend it -- it’s an excellent buddy movie starring two of the best comic actors of the last 50 years, John Candy (RIP) and Steve Martin. It’s perfectly paced, humane and loaded with cinematic love for the Midwest . But it is by no means Hughes’ best.

What is, though? I mean, Hughes was such a huge part of moviemaking in the ‘80s that he seemingly had a hand in everything. He even wrote “National Lampoon’s Vacation,” for God’s sake. How do you pick just one? “Mr. Mom”? “The Breakfast Club”? “Sixteen Candles” was a superb movie, even though it suffered from the same disease as most of his other works, an incurable addiction to the easy story -- how many times in a Hughes movie did the rich kid/jock not get the girl? -- but that doesn’t win. Neither does “Pretty in Pink”; even though the sight of a teenage Molly Ringwald still gives me a funny feeling in the downstairs region, both of those films were…how do I say this…meant for the Summer’s Eve crowd.

Ah, but “Weird Science”? Now you’re talking. Pure fucking candy for the teen boy, what with the Kelly LeBrock and the gunfire and the I-can’t-believe-you-dropped-wolfbait-with-chicks-in-the-house. But even upon writing that, I remind myself of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” which I thought as a young man to be a filmmaking achievement on par with the best of Welles. I can’t decide between the two, but I’d probably have to give the edge to Ferris for two reasons: Jeffrey Jones’ principal and Ferris’ girlfriend. YEeeeeow.

Bankmeister: I thought this movie was magical when it came out. Original story line. Fantastic, sore-gut laughs from Candy, and yes, the buddy factor.

22: Brazil

Cecil: “Brazil” is a tough one, because so few people have really seen it, or at least seen the “real” version, the one with the ending that Terry Gilliam wanted that was deemed too dark and depressing. But rest assured, it belongs on this list, and not just because we needed to have a movie representing Gilliam (although we did).

The story, basically, is the tale of a man named Sam caught in the machinery of a future society controlled by an excessively bureaucratic, yet bumbling and incompetent government, a government unconcerned with the use of torture and coercion to keep its secrets and “order” (sound at all familiar?) It’s a comedy -- a super dark one, but, still, a comedy. Robert De Niro is a “terrorist” in the film, by which I mean he is a renegade air conditioning specialist who has a posse of fellow underground HVAC men. Occasionally, the comedy veers into an outright dreamscape. And by occasionally, I mean “most of the second half of the movie.”

It’s not exactly a lighthearted romp. The film ends with the lead character being tortured into madness -- there’s no win for good v. evil, the oppressors successfully oppress. Maybe that’s why it was a complete flop in America , circa 1985; we weren’t exactly dialed into movies that required a ton of thought. We were diggin’ on “Red Dawn.” But I shed no tears for Gilliam—he had his moments in the commercial sun later on, and Brazil has become something of a cult film par excellence. And we dig on excellence.

21: Repo Man

Cecil: The genius of “Repo Man” is not in its plot, which is completely ridiculous -- a rogue scientist, driving a Chevy Nova around Los Angeles with alien corpses in the trunk, attempts to elude a cadre of government agents and dimwitted punks—but in the details, the throwaway lines, and, yes, the performances.

You might think that Emilio Estevez sucks, and you’d be right about that, but in “Repo Man” he found the role of his career playing the hardheaded Otto, and his on-screen partnership with Harry Dean Stanton was dynamite. Stanton is one of Hollywood ’s great forgotten men, and he gets some of the best lines: “I never met a ‘Repo Man’ didn’t do a lot of speed,” being one of my favorites. But director Alex Cox spread the verbal wealth; “Repo Man” is the film world’s most quotable movie not named “Friday.”



“You like music? You gonna love these guys. I used to party with ‘em, back in the day. Asked me to be their manager. I call ‘em, bullshit on that.” – Lite, the black Repo Man

“Let’s go do some crimes.” –Archie the Skinhead Punk

And, of course, one of the best exchanges in movie history:

“But what about our relationship?” Says girlfriend to Otto right before he climbs into the glowing, outer space-bound Nova.

“Huh?”

“What about our relationship?”

“Oh, fuck that.”

It’s a cavalcade of silliness, a celebration of the ‘80s and a commentary on nuclear war (according to Cox, who later did Sid & Nancy), all backed by the greatest punk rock movie soundtrack ever, featuring the Circle Jerks (whose own Zander Schloss played the hapless Kevin), Los Plugz, Black Flag, the Juicy Bananas and a title tune by Iggy Pop himself.

20. American History X

Bankmeister: I want to talk about how important this movie is, but I’m terribly afraid of the utmost epic fail. How. How, I ask you, do you tackle race in America without pissing somebody off? How do you analyze someone else’s take on race without ruffling any less than 16,000 feathers? You just freaking can’t, I’m afraid. I’ve never spoken to anyone that was pissed off by this film, so there’s a good start. But again, I don’t know any white supremacists, either. Ultimately though, this film is about hate. It’s about crime. It’s about black and white, right versus wrong, learned lessons, and the irony in the notion that some unlearned hatred might, via circumstances make you hate all over again. But hopefully it won’t. I want to give credit to David McKenna for writing the piece so well. Also, I don’t know if the producer or the director is responsible for assembling the cast in movies, or if there’s even a specific formula. I do know this, though: I liked about as many characters as I hated in this film.

Edward Furlong is freaking terrible. Period. He annoyed the shit out of me in this movie, but he played the role of an obnoxious, warm-can-of-piss younger brother fairly well. Beverly D’Angelo as Doris. Awful. Not to mention that having the widowed, ill-from-smoking-too-much mother of four was just a bit overkill. About the only thing that Fairuza Balk (Stacey) did well in this film was get railed by Edward Norton’s character (Derek Vinyard) and make a strong case for deserving to be tossed in a landfill. She will never, ever make the cut for even a single-A version of Hot Chicks Wednesday. Unless she “helps write” the post from beneath my desk. And gives me five grand. The character Seth played by Ethan Suplee was a very uncomfortable presence. Had to be there, but yikes. If I ever met someone that racist, I would apply mascara to his face with a pitching wedge.

Conversely, Stacy Keach did a tremendous job playing the creep Cameron Alexander. Norton delivered one of his two finest performances ever (“Fight Club”) in the film, and Louis Gossett, Jr. Avery Brooks is spot on as Dr. Sweeney, and Guy Torry as Vinyard’s prison buddy in the laundry room was impressive. I think this film should be a requirement for every inner-city and suburb high school freshman to view and write about. If that were under enforcement, maybe, just maybe



there’d be a few less teeth smashed on the curb.

19. The Matrix

Bankmeister: How do you label “The Matrix”? Science Fiction? Big Brother? A decent film with a pair of disappointing sequels? Obnoxious because of Keanu? I label it smashing. Love this movie. The idea that the world we live in and know is all an illusion being projected before our eyes by an unseen entity is nothing shy of brilliant. Before this film, I’d never heard of the Wachowski (Andy and Larry) brothers, but they wrote and directed the piece, and for that they deserve credit. There’s not a whole lot else to say about it. Amazing idea. Great visual stimulation in the form of the actual real world being a massively huge, compartmentalized storage pod of bodies asleep to reality, while generating energy for the whole project. Fascinating concept to have humans be able to learn in a flash, on the fly, via cerebral downloading. The character names – Neo, Trinity, Morpheus, Tank, Dozer, etc. – left something to be desired, but a minimal price to pay for an action film that involved shooting crap and blowing stuff up for a new, interesting reason.

The film’s best character name was probably Agent Smith, played by Hugo Weaving
And, you’ve got to give the thing some credit for the popularization of Jiu Jitsu, perhaps leading to the fad (Editor’s Note: It might be here to stay, but I’m hoping that it will pass, and real fighting, heavyweight boxing, will again become existent and awesome.) known as mixed martial arts. And the slow-mo bullet dodging, running up the wall stuff. That was new and cool. Lastly,



Carrie-Anne Moss,



and Monica Bellucci (sequels). Yes. And hell yes.

18. Hoosiers

Old No. 7: This is the only sports movie on our list, which seem odd. After all, this blog is nominally about sports, so you’d think we’d have loaded this fucker up with a bunch of jock-type cinema. Problem is, most sports movies suck. I’m a massive baseball fan, but there are only a few watchable movies that focus on the game, and all of them have big flaws. “Bull Durham” suffers from incurable Costner, “The Natural” is heavy on the schmaltz (and really, do you buy 60-year-old Redford playing big-league ball?), “A League of Their Own” has Rosie O’Donnell. Major League is probably the best and certainly the funniest, but it’s predictable and cheesy. Baseball is a hard game played by hard men, and when you take a bunch of soft Hollywood pansies to portray it inevitably they fuck it up.

Football movies are even worse (try sometime to watch The Longest Yard, I dare you). The best movies come from boxing -- it provides the most gripping action and lots of blood and cussing. But “Rocky” was well before our cutoff date, and “Cinderella Man” and “Million Dollar Baby” were good but not great. Surprisingly, cycling lends itself well to the silver screen—Breaking Away was epic, “American Flyers” was able to solve its case of the Costners and let’s not forget “Rad,” which was exactly that. And then you have a couple nice golf movies, “Caddyshack” (too early) and “Tin Cup” (again, too Costner).

Which leaves us with “Hoosiers,” an undeniably awesome movie.



You start with a coach who is blackballed for beating up kids, and I have no doubt those fucking brats deserved it. You have an assistant coach who’s a total drunk loser. You have a bunch of farm boys who hustle and scrap and never miss free throws -- although they’re all too skinny. You’re telling me there wasn’t one fat kid on that team? Every high school basketball team has a fat kid, especially in Indiana . The fat kid was the most realistic part of “Teen Wolf.” You had Jimmy Chitwood, brooding and mysterious superstar. And then you had a bunch of hayseed white boys who upset the talented but undisciplined inner-city black team, who’s coached by an idiot. Playing to stereotypes, always a crowd pleaser.

Bankmeister: Don’t get caught watchin’ the paint dry!

17. The Last of the Mohicans

Bankmeister: “The Last of the Mohicans” is my paid vacation, my peanut butter with jelly, my slider-cutter, my reach-around. I’m a giant sucker for any decent movie about Native American life, and I’m a huge fan of Daniel Day-Lewis. Michael Mann directed this film, and has since produced “Heat,” “The Aviator,” and “Hancock,” among others. Trevor Jones and Randy Edelman handled the soundtrack, which might be the best ever assembled, and not just because of this song:



I love that this story tackles the French and Indian War, one of the most misunderstood pieces of American history. I love that American colonists, settlers, are not the primary subject, and I love the gorgeous scenery, the cold-hearted hatred, the deceit, the cowardice. Day-Lewis, as in every film he’s done, demonstrates a seldom-mirrored talent, while Madeleine Stowe gives a bold display of both hunter and gatherer, with a peculiar beauty. Steven Waddington, as Col. Duncan Heyward hits a home run as a spineless, nobility lacking Brit, while the characters Chingachgook and Uncas are textbook definitions of badass. But the film wouldn’t be much of anything without Wes Studi’s portrayal of Magua, the Huron with the twisted heart.

The dialogue of the piece has its corny moments, but they are heavily outweighed by the abundance of awesome lines.

“Well, we kinda face to the north and real sudden-like turn left.” –Day-Lewis as Nathaniel Pope

“When the Grey Hair is dead, Magua will eat his heart. Before he dies, Magua will put his children under the knife, so the Grey Hair will know his seed is wiped out forever.” -Magua

“Great Spirit, Maker of All Life. A warrior goes to you swift and straight as an arrow shot into the sun. Welcome him and let him take his place at the council fire of my people. He is Uncas, my son. Tell them to be patient and ask death for speed; for they are all there but one - I, Chingachgook - Last of the Mohicans.”

I’ve probably seen this film 15 times, and each time, it’s just as moving as the first.

16. Die Hard

Cecil: “Die Hard” is awesome because things explode in it, and because Bruce Willis proved that he wasn’t just some douche with a fake blues album and a TV show with Cybill Shepherd. Alan Rickman played an evil European, which is kind of his specialty, but he did it first and best here.

How did James Cameron not make this one? He should have. For a few years there he made every huge, things-exploding movie, all of which brought in a metric tonne of cash and furthered his image as this kind of dynamic directorial superstar. Think about it: in quick succession, he did “Aliens,” “The Abyss,” “Terminator 2” -- that’s like the holy triumvirate of early blockbuster porn. But no, it was some dude named John McTiernan. I don’t know anything about John McTiernan and I’d like to keep it that way.

At least Bonnie Bedelia is in this movie.



Bedelia spent the better part of a decade or more appearing as the long -- suffering and/or kidnapped wife in huge, things-exploding movies. By movies, I mostly mean “movies of the week” on ABC, but she was in this one at least, which hopefully helped her pay off her gambling debts.

Alan Rickman dies. Sorry for the spoiler. And I still shudder a little bit when I see Willis walk shoeless across broken glass.

15. This is Spinal Tap

Cecil: Christopher Guest never again wrote a movie as good as this first “mockumentary,” a word that we pretend actually exists simply so we have some way to describe Guest’s work. Not “Best in Show,” not the stultifying “Waiting for Guffman” nor “A Mighty Wind.” Nope, “Spinal Tap” hit all the notes first and best, everything else was just wankery for the PBS crowd. That’s probably the case because Rob Reiner directed it, and Reiner knows the value of keeping an audience awake.
Everyone knows the plot. There’s no need to go into it, except to say that the improvisation which Guest famously demands of his actors is sharp. So sharp that if a time traveler from, say, 1946 showed up to see it at a midnight movie screening, he’d never guess that the dialogue was largely off-the-cuff. (He’d also probably freak out at the presence of negroes in the film-house, too, although that might not be an issue with a Guest movie.)

The genius of "Tap" isn’t complicated: rock and roll stars are truly dumbasses, so we have no problem making the leap from Paul Stanley to Nigel Tufnel, from Richie Sambora to David St. Hubbins. Their enablers really are mealy-mouthed second-stringers like Tony Hendra -- who is also a child-molesting scumbag in real life -- and record execs are all really Fran Drescher.



There are probably websites devoted entirely to arguing about the best lines. For my money you can’t beat when they are arguing over whether or not to make the album cover art a naked woman, leashed and on all fours with a man’s hand shoving a glove in her face, and Drescher’s character says that it’s sexist. Tufnel replies “what’s wrong with being sexy?”

14. Forrest Gump

Bankmeister: “Life,” according to John Lennon, “is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. “Life,” as we know from Forrest Gump, “is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.” I cannot believe that this movie is 15 years old. It seems like only yesterday that I was wiping the teary snot on my sleeve in the theater as Forrest spoke to Jenny at her grave. Director Robert Zemeckis took a common concept, the life of a less-than-intelligent man, and tells one of the greatest stories the world has ever heard. Gump lives his so-called ordinary life, a life that runs the gamut of pop culture and American history, and nobody notices, nobody cares. He accomplishes more in one-quarter of the film than most do in their whole lives. And he has love, too. He gives it, unconditionally, but just can’t get it in return, until he ultimately does, and the source of it dies.

I’ve always had tremendous respect for Sally Field, ever since “Sybil” and “Places in the Heart.” She’s a great actress, and she’s adorable. Robin Wright Penn and Hanna Hall were excellent as Jenny, and I will go to my grave thinking of Gary Sinise as Lieutenant Dan.

But of course the big factor is Mr. Tom Hanks, the best actor of our generation. How one man can continue to deliver one dynamic performance after another is inconceivable. His facial expressions, his cadence, and his gait as Gump truly capture human emotion. If you’re a dude, and you think this is mushy, and you can tell me that you weren’t shaken when he said, “I’m not a smart man…but I know what love is,” then you are missing something from your internal inventory. If the line, “She tasted like cigarettes,” didn’t make you empathize and laugh at the same time, you might not be wired right.

Cinema is not an easy thing to write about, largely because of the subjectivity in viewing it. Is there a universal formula for what makes a good movie? If there is, I’ve yet to discover it. One thing I know for certain is that “Forrest Gump” is one of the best movies I’ve ever seen, and I’m thrilled that it – be it intentional or “accidental-like on a breeze” – was made.

13. Unforgiven

Cecil: This is one of my favorite movies of all time. I’m a huge Eastwood fanboy to start with, and this is one of his really, truly impressive movies -- no lazy self-ripoff like “Pale Rider” or silly monkey-assisted hooraw like “Any Which Way But Loose,” more on the lines of “High Plains Drifter” (another of my all-time favorite films) or “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.”

Unlike those last two, though, Clint directed Unforgiven. It was lauded by the critical types when it came out as “the last Western” or whatever, which is ridiculous, but still made some sense in context. This was a movie without heroes or true villains, there was no binary conflict between good and evil with good winning out in a hail of gunfire at the end. Eastwood played an old farmer out to make some money, money that he badly needed, and some whores were going to pay it to him to kill some guys he had no beef with to do it. He was a bad guy (or at least, had been one), the guys he killed were bad guys, the sheriff (Gene Hackman in a tour de force) was a bad guy -- but even though all of them lived by a kind of justifiable code of conduct, no one wore the white hat in this film.

Except maybe Morgan Freeman, who ended up tortured to death. Eastwood has never been better -- the end scene always gets me, when, after killing everyone in the bar, he walks out and screams at the terrified, cowardly townsfolk. “You all better bury Ned right! Or not otherwise cut up or harm no whores…or I’ll come back. Kill every one of you sons of bitches. Kill your families. Burn your goddamn house down.” Wow.

Bankmeister: Right turn, Clyde.

12: Friday

Bankmeister: I cannot recall an occasion in which I have ever wished that I, for many years, did not smoke a gazillion pounds of reefer. It would be nice, however, to have that uncannabinolled lucidity in order to discuss the movie “Friday.” Actually, forget that. I can imagine it just fine: “Friday” is an incredibly awesome movie, one that the Iron Triangle watched over and over again in the office of The Independent in the College Union Building of THE Fort Lewis College. Mind you, the repeated viewing of the film often delayed putting the paper to bed, which delayed pretending to study for actual classes, which delayed our crucial time drunk in the bars. And the only reason we got to watch it so many times was because we were constantly too high to a) remember, or b) care enough to return our loaner A/V cart w/TV. Weed is definitely a focal point to the movie, but you don’t have to be a stoner to enjoy it. Of that I’m certain. The humor, courtesy of writers Ice Cube and DJ Pooh, of the plot, the dialogue, and the characters’ mentality outwits the cinematic humor of most anything that was going on circa 1995 when the film was released. You’ve got an all-star case with Cube, John Witherspoon, Tiny Lister, and of course, Chris Tucker.

Now, I never saw any of the sequels. I might one of these days, if I happen upon one being on, but Tucker went the way of Disney after the original, and for my money, has never played as funny a role since. All of the “Rush Hour”s are on basic cable all of the time, and those aren’t bad movies, but when I watch them, I want to channel Tucker to tell him that he was so much better as Smokey. Although, he was pretty damn good as Ruby Rhod in “The Fifth Element.”

But the dialogue. It’s a bit foolish to drop a few “Friday” quotes since there are so many good ones, but it’d be even foolisher to not leave a few. That said, you gotta give props to:

“Remember it. Write it down. Take a picture. I don’t give a fuck!”

“Borrow my car? Most people wanna borrow some sugar. Man, hell no!”

“Stealin’ boxes? Man what you tryin’ to do? Build a clubhouse?”

“Next thing I know, I was locked up in Deebo chicken coop. Only person could get me out my mama. That’s why I be like, ‘Fuck Hector.’” and

“You got knocked the fuck out!”

There are literally dozens more. In fact, there’s not a bad line in the movie.

11. The Big Lebowski

Old No. 7: A thinking man’s comedy, “Lebowski” is not only the best bowling movie ever made (sorry Kingpin), it’s also the best of the million or so films logged by the Bridges family (Jeff, Beau, Lloyd). You could make the argument that the Bridgeses are wildly underrated, while the Sheen/Estevez posse and the Baldwins are completely overrated.

Riddle me this: are John Goodman and Steve Buscemi great actors, or do both simply fill a niche caricature very effectively? Goodman was phenomenal in “Raising Arizona,” “Barton Fink,” “Lebowski” and “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?” But those are all Coen Brothers movies, and the Coen Brothers are simply the best filmmakers of all time, so I think we should look at the rest of his resume. Which blows. His big starring roles were as historical figures, Huey Long and Babe Ruth. Unwatchable. He’s got a bunch of supporting stuff, and his best acting job was pretending that he’d willingly fuck Roseanne Barr. I say Goodman’s basically a hack.

Buscemi’s best work was also with the Coens (“Miller’s Crossing,” “Fink,” “Hudsucker Proxy,” “Lebowski,” and especially “Fargo”). But he had funny roles in all of the good Adam Sandler movies and the most bad-ass part in “Reservoir Dogs” (Mr. Pink). I’m willing to overlook his shitty, mailed-in arc on “The Sopranos” that destroyed the fourth season, because he also directed some of my favorite earlier episodes of that show. At the end of the day, Buscemi is a killer actor but just short of Cooperstown as a leading man.

In closing, what the fuck are you talking about? The Chinaman is not the issue here, Dude. I’m talking about drawing a line in the sand, Dude. Across this line, you do not…also, Dude, Chinaman is not the preferred nomenclature. Asian-American, please.

There you go, ladies and gents. Come back tomorrow for the top 10.
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Saturday Studmuffins: Pittsburgh Steelers Head Coach Mike Tomlin

Were in not for the Iron Triangle's obsession with the professional football clubs in both Kansas City and Denver, Mike Tomlin might very well have taken up a giant amount of cyber column inches here in the House of Georges. And I'll tell you why. We love football. Some of us get erect for some college football action. Some of us flip through the channels while the various games are on. All of us love the NFL. We have said countless times in here that it's far and above -- and I think most of American sports fans would agree -- the best professional sports league around. Has been for years. On the occasions that our teams are eliminated from, or in some cases don't qualify for, post-season contention, we watch the other games pretty religiously. They're exciting, educational, and sometimes offer bandwagon opportunities. Sometimes they're very painful.

For example, last week's Chargers/Steelers contest was an ugly one for Old No. 7, and I would imagine for Cecil, too. They both have very recent reason to loathe both clubs. They hate the Whale's Vagina, and they don't take kindly to Terrible Towel wavers that invade their stadium and win, especially if it's for a conference championship. Now, I found myself in creep mode from late season up until midway through the post-season: I wanted teams I didn't like to knock off teams I hated, then for the teams I didn't like to lose in the next round. Well, now we're down to teams I don't really have much of an opinion on. I'll elaborate:

1) I'm pulling for the Buzzsaw. This franchise might've turned things around, but for decades, they've shown us that they never will. It's quite possible they'll never get another shot if they don't do it now.

2) I've been a bandwagon fan of Philly teams for about ten years. I'm done rooting for the Eagles, though. As far as I'm concerned, they're up their with the early-90s Bills. There should be a picture of their logo next to "mediocre" in the dictionary. Just fucking lose and go home, already.

3) If there's one team I hate the most in the final four, it's Baltimore. I think it has to do with Art Modell and Brian Billick. Frankly, I think those are two of the biggest pricks in the NFL in my lifetime, and by that I don't mean to say that I've stood at the urinals next to theirs. Plus, as much as I've always admired their defense, their offense has almost always been a joke. You know, I get that you want to build a championship defense, but tilt the equation the tiniest bit so that you can be half a notch above managing the game when you have the ball. Plus, I really thought Tennessee was going to win last week. My bet is that the Steelers absolutely smoke the Ravens.

4) This brings me to my point. When Old No. 7 wrote this post, it was kind of defining yet kind of a shame.

It was defining in that the very first suggestion of his was to make this blog the black coaches blog. We probably recognized how scarce material would be, and moved on. It was kind of a shame because his piece The Ten Worst Black Coaches In NFL History was a priceless gem. It was original in thought, and funny, in that side-splitting kind of way. The best part about it was that it was based on facts, absent of racism. He now calls the piece "hopelessly outdated." I disagree.

There were names in this post, some of which included Tony Dungy, Art Shell, Dennis Green, Herman Edwards, perhaps even Lovie Smith and Marvin Lewis were on there. I don't remember all 10 names, and the fact that this thing vanished into the black hole of some fantasy-baseball message board really pisses me off. It doesn't matter, though. I can't really say what the author's point (if anything beyond humor) was in writing it. I had one as a reader, and it was this: For every ounce of criticism thrust upon football for not having enough black coaches, for every minority-candidate regulation the league creates because of said criticism, there are 100 ounces of evidence showing that, for the most part, black coaches are pretty darn bad.

Hang on a minute. I know what you're going to do. You're firing up your Power Point presentation on the Bloach Bukkake that was the Lovie/Dungy Super Bowl. I'm asking you to sit tight. The NFL was formed in 1920. Now, I don't know who to deem the official first African-American head coach in the NFL. If it's Fritz Pollard, then he became such in 1921. One could say that it's Art Shell, and probably have a better argument. In 1989, Shell was hired, and a few short years later, Green was on the scene. Both those guys, despite stigmas attached to them in recent years, were pretty darn successful. Shell made the playoffs in three of his seven years coaching. Green made it eight of 13 times. Green also made it his first three consecutive years, appearing in two conference championships to Shell's one.

Fast forward to 2006. Expect ludicracy and accusations.

I think the hype over Super Bowl XLI was really unfortunate. Prior to that year, no bloach had ever made the Super Bowl, or obviously won one. But cue grand ol' 2006, and lo and behold, there's one representing each conference, a guaranteed winner, a day to remember for centuries to come. Not only have we never commemorated any other fill-in-the-blank American for being the first of his heritage to make the Super Bowl, we never will, and that's a problem, but not one I'm going to explore today, or probably ever. But God in heaven shower this racist land with fiery bolts of torture if we don't mention the AA factor a solid 1700 times minimum. My point, though, is that those two guys, just because they made the big game, aren't necessarily the best bloaches ever. They are in fact, pretty darn choketacular when it comes to huge games.

Let's have a look at that post-season:

AFC
On the last Sunday of the regular season, Kansas City had to win at home, they needed Tennessee to lose at home to New England, the Steelers to beat the Bengals in Cincinnati, and they needed the 49ers to beat the Broncos in Denver. They also needed six point three winning Lotto tickets, nine rabbits feet, and a bowl of Lucky Charms with chocolate milk in it. They got it, and the Chiefs travel to Indy to face the Colts. This is basically Herman Edwards, in his first year in KC, backing in to the post-season with Dick Vermeil's team, and he, in true Gannon-Grbac fashion, ruins any chance of winning by benching the hot hand, and starting the still-woozy-from-concussion Trent Green. Not only do the Chiefs -- who netted eight points in that game -- not get a first down until the third quarter is halfway over, but Edwards, Dungy, and Smith are spotted dining with one another the previous evening. Heard from a neighboring table at that restaurant was, "After tomorrow, you gon' owe me one, Tony."

I might've made that up, but plug Denver or Tennessee into that contest, and you've got a better team and a better coach, making the road a much different one for the Colts. A week later they travel to Baltimore and face a Ravens team that actually manages to score fewer points than the Chiefs did against the Colts. In the conference championship, the Colts finally have a worthy opponent in Tom Brady and the New England Patriots, a quarterback and a club that had historically owned Peyton Manning and the Colts. In an amazing game, Dungy's club gets the edge by four, and advances.

NFC
In the Nobody Freakin' Cares side of things, the Saints knock off the (as mentioned) always choketastic Eagles by a field goal in the Wildcard round, while the Seahawks, courtesy of the infamous Romo blunder, advance past Dallas to face the Bears, only to lose by a field goal. The Bears of course make easy work of New Orleans, bringing us to the championship Bloachfest known as the Dungy-Smith showdown. Obviously, there are unique circumstances in every game, especially in the post-season. I'm of the opinion that the road paved by destiny for that Super Bowl was one of bizarre fate and circumstance, leaving an asterisk on the legend of the black-coach page in history's annals. And I wrote all of that to say this:

Mike Tomlin is the real deal.

The Pittsburgh Steelers are the most well-rounded, tough, physical team the NFL playoffs have seen in a long, long time, and I seriously doubt that any of these three other teams left could stop them if they faced them head to head. For this, I give Tomlin all of the credit.

Of course he inherited a great Bill Cowher-coached team, but he has followed that course of success and created a monster. Old No. 7 once said that Tony Dungy is one of the best Monday-Saturday coaches in the history of the game, but come Sunday he's somewhere beneath mediocre. Seven is also steadfast in the theory that an excellent quarterback is crucial to winning championships, and I don't disagree with him there. Thus, with Manning under center -- which all but makes an offensive coordinator obsolete -- Dungy appears to be great. Naturally, numbers don't lie, and Dungy's record is beyond impressive. Between Tampa and Indianapolis, he made the playoffs 11 of 13 times, won six division championships and a Super Bowl. He retired with a 139-69 record, though a 9-10 post-season record.

Through five years, Lovie Smith is 45-35, with two division titles and a conference championship. He is on pace -- were he to coach as long as Dungy -- to win fewer games and lose 30 percent more than Dungy. Tomlin has been a head coach for two seasons. He is 22-10, and batting 1.000 at division championships. He's on pace to shatter Dungy's record of what you might call the winningest black coach in NFL history. He has all the makings of an excellent coach: an impressive record, a balanced team, talent, sideline poise and enthusiasm, plus gameday smarts mixed with situational intelligence. I posit that no black coach to date has matched that arsenal.

Like I said, though, I'm pulling for Arizona, since they're the sleeper/Cinderella, and I appreciate how tough their defense has played through two rounds of playoff football. Should something besides a Steeler championship occur, I won't feel bad for Tomlin. I have a hunch he'll be around for a long while, and go down in the books as the best bloach in our lifetime.
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Feel Free, If You Wish, To Call It A Comeback

On Tuesday night, I watched Barack Obama become President of the United States of America on the same barstool in the same bar where I watched John Elway beat the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl XXXII. That was pretty cool.

Last night, I watched a double-chinned diabetic perform some come-from behind magic of his own in Cleveland, from the same couch in my living room where I typically yell curses at Bronco failures. That, I suppose, was also pretty cool.

What wasn't cool was the oppressive hand of the white devil once again imposing its intolerance. Brandon Stokley, you might as well be Strom Thurmond. Here you are, practicing alongside your black brothers, acting as if you're down all these years. Hell, you probably even bought a Lil Wayne record and an Obama bumper sticker just to sell it. But under the bright lights in Cleveland last night, your KKK roots finally showed.

Very disappointing, 14. We already have one card-carrying white supremacist in the House of Georges, and Banky does not need company.

I'm just fuckin with you guys, of course. Brandon Marshall is an egomaniac who needs to start making political statements about as much as I need to start performing orthopedic surgery. To be honest, I didn't have the slightest idea what the fuck was going on with that little episode at the time--my wife kept saying something about Marshall pulling something out of his pants and I thought she was high. And since she's pregnant, getting high is strictly forbidden, unless she shares with the rest of the class.

It was only in that epic postgame interview that the full extent of the plot--the plot that I'm sure has the Sean Hannitys of the world screaming I TOLD YOU SO WHITE AMERICA--was revealed. It wasn't dastardly or evil, what Marshall was looking for, just another loudmouth receiver trying to top all the rest. I doubt Marshall has any idea of the full relevance of the 1968 Mexico City protest, but then again I'm sure I don't either.

So, I assume we can all agree to leave the politics in the District of Columbia and the football on the gridiron. Now that this election is over, I think it's time to focus on what matters the most. The still-first-place and still-completely-awful Denver Broncos. The historically inept Kansas City Chiefs. Manny Being A Dillhole. The WNBA. And croquet. Lots and lots of croquet.
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Baseball In The Daytime: 5-16-07

So the rainout on the South Side of Chicago last night has resulted in an unexpected treasure: day baseball! Sure, it's the Yankees, but still. The New York Americans will face off against the Pale Hose at noon-oh-five Mountain time.

The pitching matchup is Mike Mussina versus John Danks, the rook Chicago acquired from Texas in the Brandon McCarthy deal. Looks like a mismatch, even if Moose is a purported bigot. The Yankees stand at 17-19, eight games back of the Red Sox in the AL East, while the 18-16 White Sox are four games south of the Tigers in the Central.

As for the broadcast info, XM Radio subscribers can tune in to channel 176. 176 is the first of many MLB play-by-play stations, and the Yankees always seem to get the prime slot there. If you have Extra Innings on DirecTV, I think the game will be on channel 743--their guide hasn't updated with the rescheduled game, and that's the channel the night game of the doubleheader is on. I assume you can also catch it on YES, channel 622 as well. No word as to whether DirecTV will put the game on in hi-def on either 95 or 731.

Or, you can always catch the game on the MLB.TV subscription service. If you haven't signed up yet but enjoy to space out at your desk for hours at a time, a few tips: One, don't get the Premium package. It promises higher-resolution video but to my eyes there's no difference. Two, I've experienced really spotty streaming video on wireless connections. That may be the 700k "Premium" bandwidth issue, but when I've plugged in it's better. Three, there is a "Boss Button," similar to the one that appeared on CBS' online NCAA Tournament coverage (this one's a mock letter, while CBS had a generic spreadsheet). I think these things are fucking hilarious, and I'm sure they'll eventually be litigated out of existence. Perhaps we can add one to the HoG, so y'all can blow off more productive work time.

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Scores, Fores, and Bores

What a day to be a Spartan. Capturing their third Frozen Four Championship in Michigan State University history, the Spartans served Boston College a healthy serving of misery, as the Eagles fell in the championship game for the second (not quite as bad as four) year in a row. After a period and-a-half of scoreless hockey, BC struck first, only to see MSU equalize things halfway through the third. Just as overtime seemed certain, MSU broke the tie with less than 20 seconds to play in the game. The Spartans would add an empty-net tally to seal their 3-1 victory, but North Dakota's Ryan Duncan would take home a piece of hardware all his own. Duncan became only the second Fighting Sioux to win college hockey's MVP, and only the third sophomore to ever claim the award. North Dakota fell to the Eagles 6-4 Thursday night, a match in which Duncan was held without a point.

In other news, a bunch of dudes walked around this piece of Georgia real estate all weekend looking for a jacket. It was said to be an ethnically diverse group of men, many of whom are suprisingly married to attractive women. HoG's own oNs (a.k.a. Onus) delivered to our lone reader a variety of excruciating stimuli in the form of a slew of posts covering the Masters Invitational, a fantasy golf tournament he drubbed up years ago. Let me tell you, following this annual bucket of orgasm is nothing shy of stellar. It remains impossible to match the levels of exuberance attained on the three -- and by three I mean six -- days the invitational spans. I, for the first year in tourney history, was not invited to play, an oversight I can only attribute to some horrid virtual glitch that the Hootster must alleviate prior to next year's outing. Perhaps the most exhilirating and newsworthy bit to surface from the invitational was that the Irish leapfrogged Blacks (Tiger Woods, y'all), Hispanics, and Asians (Tiger Tiger Woods, y'all) on Hoot's list of races he -- how shall I say this -- despises. I had my money on Polynesians making the top five, but there's always next year.

In still other news, soccer's slated to start soon. Yay. That should be about as exciting as attending the Easter Vigil mass. There's nothing I enjoy more than taking a chore of an hour, stretching it into more than double its length, and looking at your watch every 36 seconds in hopes that at least 15 minutes have gone by. And just when you think you're out of the hole, there's stoppage time. Stoppage time embodies euphoria. It's like that part of church where the service has ended (for the love of Pete, the priest has even said so), but you sing one more song and wait for his Holiness, the altar servers and all the pews in front of you to make their way for the door before you can leave. For real though, soccer's pretty brutal. There're two things I like about soccer a lot. The first, and clearly most important, is the fans. I have tremendous admiration for those across the globe that show support for their club with fantastic fervor and decor. The second thing I really like about soccer falls something along the lines of when it's not on, as in, the off-season. That kicks ass. Now World Cup soccer is pretty cool. The whole world gets into the sport for a month or so, and all 17 American soccer fans talk about how they're gonna get out of bed at crazy-ass hours to watch the games. That's downright devotion. You gotta love that. Just don't talk to me about it. And please, I beg you, don't do the now-overdone Hispanic "Gooooooooooooooolllllllllllllll" shout. I've had plenty already. Read more

Uppin' The Bloatient

Long ago, when the idea for this blog was still a tiny sperm in the throat testicle of the Blizzard, I wrote a piece called The Ten Worst Black Coaches In NFL History. That essay has disappeared, and was hopelessly outdated anyway—what with the historical badness of Art Shell and the unprecedented success of Dungy and Lovie.

So here at the HoG, we’re going to revisit the subject of the black coach, or as I like to say, the Bloach. Last night saw several Bloach developments, as Eddie Robinson died and C. Vivian Stringer lost. What, you don’t know Stringer? The gorgeous coach of Rutgers’ “ladies’” hoops team? Man, that game was thrilling. If you missed it you are not a true sports fan.

Speaking of the ladies, I would be remiss to not mention Pokey Chatman, or as I like to say, Blunch.

Robinson was significant in the history of football, winning 408 games at Grambling and giving us such NFL products as Doug Williams, who may or may not have lit up a Broncos team in the 80s. Williams succeeded Robinson as coach of his alma mater and has been tremendously successful at giving hilarious mumbling quotes in his smooth syrupy drawl.

The NFL has seen a little transition in its Bloach quotient, or Bloatient, as Shell and Denny Green got canned and the Steelers hired that dude who was in the boxing movie with Meg Ryan. We're also in the midst of the glorious Herman Era in KC. Perhaps the winning ways of the two dudes who made the Super Bowl (and why, WHY, did the Bloach angle not get more press?) will give us a higher Bloatient. We shall see. Anything that can get Terry Robiskie and Jimmy Raye back in the game is a good thing.
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Golf is rad.

For the next five days this site is going to turn into something our Administrator will hate. We're going to focus on the splendid goings-on at Augusta National Golf Club. The renowned Masters Invitational pool will set up shop with scoring updates and info. If your in the Invitational and are visiting this blog for the first time, welcome. Feel free to look around, and if you wish to comment you'll need to register. Remember, club policy dictates that only men are allowed, and we tend to value some level of anonymity around here.

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Bitchin' in the Kitchen

Real quick—all apologies for my inexcusable absence. I’ve been traveling and scouting, preparing the distended mound of awesome that is my 2007 National League Preview. While I finish that opus, I need to quickly call out a few offenders for pissing me off:

DENVER BRONCOS I can’t believe you extended the contract of Dre Bly. The beauty of that pickup was contained in Bly’s lame duck contract status. If he sucked this year, you could wash your hands of him. If he was average, you could negotiate, and if he was excellent you could franchise his ass. Now your stuck with him, at $16 million guaranteed, and I predict awful ramifications.

UNCLE CECIL Since we have apparently picked up an actual reader, it must be explained that Cecil is the most talented writer (link NSFW) here at the HoG. If you think Bly’s contract is measty you should see the compensation awarded to Mr. Superstar Spotlight Editor Guy. I’m happy to work for the league minimum, but as a teammate to this prima donna I’m getting mildly irked at his lack of output. Let’s see it, Unc.

LENDALE WHITE The Titans, after letting Travis Henry go, are expecting big things from the ex-Trojan. Concerns about his gut and character caused him to drop to the second round, and it appears that may have been generous. Lendale showed up for an offseason conditioning program weighing a svelte 260 pounds. I think we’ve solved the dilemma of that missing D-tackle the Broncos were trying to acquire from the Dolphins, Lendale ate him.

THE ONE READER Listen, dude. I’m happy that you read the blog, and I respect your hatred of Red Sox Nation. It’s true, we have a lousy and entirely well-deserved rep. I myself am not a Masshole and have never lived in New England, but I can imagine it’s overbearing and annoying. But here’s my point: KC fans are always bitching that the fans of other teams, in other cities, are mean and lame. Fine. But how do you appear to out-of-town fans that move to Kansas City? What’s that? No one willingly moves to Kansas City? I see. Apparently, your city and your teams are so fantastic that everyone leaves them, moves to actual desirable places to live and then bitches about the hometown fans. Classy.

MICHAEL RAY RICHARDSON Michael Ray is not, apparently, down with the John Amaechis and (Insert prominent Jewish basketball star)s of the world. I don’t take offense with what he said (as I’m neither Jewish nor gay) but I’m very disappointed with his lame, lame apology. Mike, that shit will get you nowhere. Have we not learned anything from Pete Rose, Tim Hardaway, Dan Issel, Janet Jackson, Kramer, etc., etc.? Notice that none of those people have jobs. The half-ass, “if I offended anyone” apology is always more offensive than whatever you said, because it means you really don’t give a shit. Own up, and say that you’re a bigot, or a degenerate gambler, or a crackhead, or a serial boob-flasher, and America will forgive you. By the way, Michael Ray was a very talented hoops star back in the day. Do you know why he is so familiar with the Tel Aviv airport? Because he had to play overseas for decades after getting banned from the NBA. For being a crackhead. Nice life.

INSOMNIA Never again will you fuck with me. I have found the cure, and it's not a pill, it's not a leafy green smokeable, it's not a distilled spirit, nor is it a good jerk into the sleeve of Mike's long-sleeve t-shirt. It's the HoG's hockey coverage. Man, that's some strong sedative. I'm getting sleepy just thinking about it. Good times.

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I hate WRs (white receivers)

My Denver Broncos took the entirely unwelcome step of signing Brandon Stokely today, a move that will be heralded by the mainstream press as "smart." That's because the mainstream press knows about as much about winning football as the gum on my shoe (Juicy Fruit, by the viscosity).

At one point I was a fan of the white receiver. Not that I was one of these a-holes that would cheer just a bit louder when Steve Watson or Ed McCaffrey made a play--those guys are racist pricks. Rather, I was truly color-blind when it came to one of the NFL's most traditionally "black" positions. If a kid could play, he could play. Race had nothing to do with it.

But in the hypercompetitive world of salary-cap-dictated football, white receivers are the kiss of death. Because of their higher-than-justified profile among the aforementioned racist prick fan base, they demand higher-than-justified salaries, mucking up the competitive stew on their respective teams.

Scouts Inc. provided this list of the 2007 free agent class. You need to be an Insider of the four-letter network to see their grades, but I'll give you the pertinent info. The best WRs were listed as Donte' Stallworth (70 out of 100), Drew Bennett (68), Kevin Curtis (67), Antonio Bryant (66), Joe Horn (65), Eric Moulds (63), and Wes Welker (63). This is not a good class, and none of these guys are going to make a huge impact in terms of winning games for their teams. But the pattern of their signings indicates an overreliance on pale-faced pass-catchers, and these multi-million-dollar mistakes will hurt teams years into the future.

Stallworth, the troubled yet talented ex-Eagle and -Saint, got $3.6 million guaranteed from the Patriots. Welker, the diminutive erstwhile Dolphin, signed a contract guaranteeing him $9 million. Now I know that Welker is a force in the return game and Stallworth is a lazy pothead, but the dark receiver is three times the receiver that the light one is, yet Whitey gets three times the cash.

Likewise, Drew Bennett got $10 mil guaranteed from the Rams while the Eagles gave Kevin Curtis 9.5. Joe Horn inked a contract with the Falcons guaranteeing him $7.5 million. Bennett and Curtis are of the caucasian variety, while Horn is of African descent. Again, when you look at on-field performance, Horn is head and shoulders above his white brothers.

Unfortunately, the root cause of this travesty is the fan. Just as the overwhelmingly white fan bases of NBA teams simply adore their John Barrys, Fred Hoibergs and Tim Leglers, NFL fans are big on their white receivers with absoultely no justification. How do these cats help you win games? If they're getting paid the league minimum that's one thing, but the money Welker, Curtis and Bennett are bringing in is legitimate dough that could go to actual players.

Which all brings us to Stokely. I do not hate him per se, I'm sure he's nice to his mom and all. But there's no room on this team for him. We've already got one fragile return specialist in Quincy Morgan, one honky overachiever in David Kircus, and one aging pizza salesman in Rod Smith. Signing Stokely is nothing more than throwing a bone to the racist prick fan, and he's still satisfied that we got rid of Ray Rhodes. Brandon Stokely, you're not welcome in Colorado.

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