The Greatest You Tube Clip Ever
Just sayin'.
I've always known Matt Groening to be an honest, forthright, intelligent guy. I'm glad you all agree.
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Sunday, June 10, 2007
Thursday, June 7, 2007
The HoG's Totally Uninformed NBA Finals Preview
spring summer, the Finals were once the canvas on which Jordan, Isaiah, Bird and Magic painted their masterpieces. Since Pat Riley left the Lakers and ruined basketball, however, the NBA postseason has devolved into an unwatchable scrum punctuated by occasional brilliance.
Some people still watch this stuff, though, including my dad (a seriously bandwagon Spurs fan). In the seven weeks since the conference finals concluded, I’ve tried to convince Pops that the Cleveland Cavaliers have a chance in this series. I’ve argued that LeBron just may be reaching an MJ-level plane of singular domination. That the Cleveland supporting cast is better than he thinks. That a tight, defensive style plays into the Cavs’ hands. That the Spurs are too old, and the Cavs are too hungry. It’s all bullshit, of course (except maybe for that LeBron bit). Cleveland will win one game. They can win two games. They just might win three games. But that fourth game? I can’t see a logical way to give the Cavaliers four wins, but then I am not Yahweh. I think Jesus Christ is the only man who could tip the scales in favor of the Cavs, and he is currently a free agent that can penetrate, dish and D up.
The question, though, is does Jesus Christ hate the city of Cleveland?
Cleveland has not celebrated a major sports championship since before me, LeBron, Grady Sizemore and Brady Quinn were born. In 1964 the Browns won the NFL title, and that was before Lamar Hunt’s children invented the “Super Bowl.” In fact, I’m pretty sure that was back when Jim Brown was the only black player in the National Football League.
Fans of the Browns have endured a bitter existence since then. They had to watch Dave Logan play for them, for the love of Pete. They stood there with unthrown Milk-Bones in hand as John Elway drove a stake through their hearts in 1987. They watched Earnest Byner fuck them in the ass the next year (Jeremiah Castille!). They endured Bill Belichick’s awful first coaching stint, before he turned into a wizard. Worst of all, they watched their asshole owner Art Modell move the team to Baltimore in 1996, followed by Modell’s new Ravens winning the Super Bowl after the 2000 season. Guh.
The Indians have been, basically, the biggest joke in baseball since their last World Series win in 1948. The fabulous Major League motion picture series was based on this premise, as if Cleveland winning it all could only happen with the help of Hollywood shenanigans. The Tribe advance to the Series in 1995, losing to the Braves, and again in 1997, where they led Game 7 with one out in the ninth before the Marlins rallied to win a thrilling title. The fucking Marlins, who’ve since won another ring.
The Cavaliers’ past is shorter and slightly less miserable, but everyone remembers Jordan arcing a shot over the outstretched arm of Craig Ehlo back in 1989.
Did Jesus willfully and consciously make all of these events happen to perpetuate the suffering of the Cleveland fan? Perhaps. But why would the Messiah wish to punish these folks? What have they done to deserve this plight?
I’ll certainly be pulling for LeBron and his gang, and not just to be a contrarian with my dad. I’m sick of the Spurs. They’ve had their time, but their excellence comes with no measure of artistry. Duncan whines and politics for calls, their immigrant players flop and bail all over the place, and their coach looks like a hideous burn victim. Get them off my television, Jesus, I pray to you.
At the end of the day, God still hates Cleveland—Spurs in five.
Update: It turns out the fellows over at Lion In Oil have already covered what The Lord thinks about The Finals, those smarmy bastards.
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The Quest for the Cup: Ladies and Gentlemen, The Los Angeles Ducks of Anaheim
To All the Hockey Naysayers: If you didn't even flip on the contest once think last night's game/championship celebration/post-game coverage was anything shy of phenomenal, feel free to go play in California traffic make yourself a knockwurst sandwich.
'Cause it kicked lots of Canadian ass. Let me break down just how.
The coverage: Prior to the first drop of the puck, I told Old #7 (who was feigning a mild case of enthusiasm over watching) to monitor the giant case of suck Brett Hull acquired when he made the transition from player to former player in da' boof.
To my surprise, he didn't do half bad. Jesus, he's full of himself, though. Someone must've told him that, in between Bill Clement and Ray "Chicken Parm" Ferraro, he might want to not sound like a complete moron. Ferraro, by the way, has gradually shed concussion symptoms in the three years since his retirement.
I believe he's eclipsed the Steve Young bar, something the former 49ers quarterback has yet to accomplish. Man, he (Ferraro) knows his stuff, though.
The contest: All three periods yielded sheer Anaheim domination. They stormed the ice with an fierce determination and manhandled Ottawa in the first. To the Senators credit, they re-grouped and put together a decent second, albeit defenseman Chris Phillips goal in his own net didn't do the Canadian squad many favors. That said, he was pressured behind his own netminder, and, when forced to hustle, his stick got caught up in goalie Ray Emery's skate.
Nevertheless, the tally was the game-winning goal.
The third period showed few signs of a Senator surge. Daniel Alfredsson was the exception. His loose puck scoop/incredible short-handed tally under pressure should've given Ottawa some juice. Anaheim, however, wasn't having it. Less than a minute later, and still on the power play, Anaheim answered.
The proverbial nail in the coffin came via the Ducks' captain/now four-time cup winner Scott Niedermayer. He careened a puck and rifled it on net, a goal Travis Moen got credit for. It was pretty sweet to see Niedermayer, who was the only previous cup-winner, get to hoist it first, then pass it off to his brother Rob. That was not the feel-good story, though.
The feel-good story: Teemu Selanne. Period. This has consistently been, sleepy as it may be to everyone else, my favorite thing about post-season hockey over the course of the last six years. It all started of course with Operation 16W, which, you may recall, involved getting this guy a much-deserved chance at the hardware. Dominik Hasek got his the following year with Detroit, and I'm sure there was someone important on the 2003 New Jersey squad that won it for the first time.
Back to teams and players that matter, though. Dave Andreychuk got his in '04 with the Lightning, Rod Brind'amour, his with the Hurricanes last year, and Selanne was this year's recipient. Fourteen years ago, Selanne was drafted by the Winnipeg Jets, became a Duck, logged some time with the San Jose Sharks, was acquired by the Colorado Avalanche, and finally returned to Anaheim where his original jersey number (eight) will be retired.
Insert the proverbial post-season interrogation regarding whether or not this was his last year. He, naturally, couldn't say. I don't think it will be. Either way, it was damn awesome to see that man hoist the cup.
The Conn Smythe: I'm stoked that Neidermayer got it. Really I am. But, like the tendencies in other sports for such awards, I think it's bullshit how often a member of the winning team gets handed some trophy just because they're on the winning team. I would've given it to Alfredsson, the Sens captain. In my estimation, no player from any team contributed more to his squad's success. That's how the stuff should be determined, but HoG readership stopped paying attention 17 paragraphs ago.
The Post-Game Celebration: I hope someone was fired last year when they cut away from coverage like three minutes into it. This year's was 1000 times better. So, good job, you we're-not-covering-'til-January-and-even-then-it'll-only-be-like-once-a-week confounded network.
The Hatred: This is not for you clowns that diss hockey. This is for those that follow it. Or anyone in between that has an idea. Why is NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman so despised? Seems to me that any professional sports commissioning job would be very under-appreciated. I don't get it. This Web site is just a grain of sand in the beach of Bettman hatred out there. Someone please fill me in.
That's it for HoG hockey coverage for some time, I guess. I know. Boo hoo, right? Whatever.
The HoG's Totally Uninformed Baseball Draft Preview
I put in five solid minutes of Interweb research here, so I'm an authority on the subject.
After David Price goes No. 1 to the D'Rays, the Royals will have a decision. They're notoriously cheap and they traditionally shy away from Boras guys who'll demand big bonuses. ESPN's Keith Law says that under Moore, however, this may change, and they might even draft honest good players after the third round instead of taking cheap losers they can sign for a thousand bucks. They seriously did this for years, and you can see the result.
Anyway, this draft is loaded with third basemen, and it looks like the best available guy for KC will be a hot corner. Yes, they have Alex Gordon there, but with the second pick you don't quibble about position. There's no guarantee that Gordon will evolve into an All-Star, and most young 3Bs can move to first or a corner outfield spot.
Law has Josh Vitters going to the Royals. Vitters is from Anaheim and played for Cypress High. He definitely fits the mold of a guy who could move across the infield diamond, and he has it all in the batter's box--no idea if he can run or not. A no-brainer pick. A consolation prize may be Matt Dominguez, another California high school 3B from porn capital Chatsworth.
At No. 8 sit your Colorado Rockies. The franchise has taken a pitcher in the first round every year of their existence save for four: 1B Todd Helton in '95 (that worked out), 3B Ian Stewart in '03 (he's supposed to be the jewel of the farm system and a future megastar), SS Chris Nelson in '04 (no clue), and Troy Tulowitski in '05 (already up with the big club and looking great). Last year they went back to the mound and took Stanford product Greg Reynolds.
Who might fall to the Rox is anybody's guess, as the baseball draft is a huge riddle due to signability issues. There's a kid named Phillipe Aumont on the radar, but he's projected to go earlier. Plus, they already took a Canadian pitcher in the first-round once (Jeff Francis in '02), and even though he and Larry Walker have worked out we don't need any more of those guys in Colorado. In fact, we should be sending unsavory Coloradoans to Canada with more regularity.
Other possibilities include Daniel Moskos, a hard-throwing lefty closer from Clemson who projects as a starter in pro ball. Mike Moustakas is a current shortstop and HS teammate of Dominguez in Chatsworth. He may be my favorite, as he could possibly convert to catcher. I love guys with that kind of versatility. He also pitches and brings 93-97 mph heat. Awesome. I don't know why so many of these guys have Greek surnames, but if they are as good as Kevin Youkilis of Kevin Kouzmanoff I'll take it.
I've been hearing great things about this kid Jason Heyward, a high school centerfielder from Georgia. That's who Law projects for the Rockies. He's not quite a five-tool guy, as he doesn't have blazing speed, but he seems like a hard worker. Someone on XM Home Plate last week said that he's tremendously mature for a rural kid, which seems like a sweet description. Go get him.
I may post updates, or a may watch some porn from Chatsworth. We'll see.
Update: KC threw everyone a curve and took my boy Moustakas. Awfully high for a guy without a clear-cut position or big power, but hey, they're the Royals. The Cubs ended up with Vitters at 3, while the Rockies just took Price's Vanderbilt teammate Casey Weathers at 8. ESPN says he's the most major-league-ready reliever in the draft and could easily be up later this year, but ESPN is a bunch of fucking liars and you can't trust 'em. The French Canadian kid is still on the board, thank heavens. This draft is much, much faster than the NFL version.
Second update: Five minutes a pick. Brilliant. I'm not watching, as I'm at work, but I hav been following the excellent Baseball Prospectus live blog--those guys know their shit.
Third update: The Canadian, Aumont, went to Seattle, which is virtually in Canada. We can all rest easy now. The Red Sox don't pick in the first round, but I have no idea why. You can't trade draft picks in baseball, but you give yours up if you sign other teams' free agents, and they have "sandwich" picks that come from somewhere, and it's all a bunch of gibberish.
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Baseball In The Daytime: 6-7-07
Batting leadoff are the KC Royals and Cleveland Indians, with Sweeney & Co. looking for a surprising series win following their victory last night. KC brings Open Faced Roast Beef Sandwich Odalis Perez to the party, which is hosted by Fausto Carmona. Gotta love Fausto. I'm thinking perfect game. This one is butt-early, 10:05 Mountain, on XM 180 and DTV 734.
At 10:37 up in Canada, the D'Rays and B'Jays resume their (Field)Turf war. Former Dodgers can't-miss prospect Edwin Jackson starts for Tampa against Toronto's AJ Burnett, who once threw a no-hitter in which he walked nine guys. That's hard to do. There's no TV info on this game, but you can listen to the world's worst baseball radio crew (Jerry Howarth and "colour" commentator Alan Ashby) on XM 182.
Allow me to digress for just a minute and rip on Canada. Why in the fuck does every Jays home game start at something-oh-seven? Today it's 12:37 Eastern, night games are 7:07 Eastern, it really bugs me. I know that the White Sox sold their start times (?) to 7 Eleven this year, which is just pathetic but harmless. If someone can explain the Blue Jays thing with Seven I'd like to hear it, because I have trademarked the word and demand recompense. Also, congratulations to America for once again handing it to Canada in their chosen sport. I'm pretty sure the last Canadian team to win the Cup was Montreal in '93, but I refuse to confirm that. I hope we can keep the streak alive for the rest of my life, or at least until Canada takes her rightful place as the 51st United State.
Back to our National Pastime. At 11:05 the Pirates take the field in our Nation's Capital, with Ian Snell hurling for the visitors and Matt Chico for the home club. XM 184 and DTV 735 are your frequencies.
Here in the actual Mountain Time Zone, the Colorado Rockies continue their march to mediocrity with a home game against the Astros at 1:05. Roy Oswalt grabs the ball for Houston, where he faces Taylor Buchholz. Buchholz, if you'll remember, was an Astro before coming to Denver in the Jason Jennings trade. I wish he were a better pitcher, but then I also wish my coffee cup was filled with beer. Life's a bitch. If you can find 850 KOA or Fox Sports Rocky Mountain where you live knock yourself out, but everyone else can find this game on XM 188 and DTV 736.
Finally, my Red Sox try to avoid a series sweep at the hand of the God damned Oakland A's today at 1:35. Curt Schilling and Joe Blanton are your starters. I don't know what's happened to the bats in the last week, and spare me your bullshit about the excellence of the Yankees' and Athletics' pitching. Dan Haren, I'll buy that. But the boys are not working counts as much and seem lifeless. A slump like this is a lot more palatable with a huge division lead, but come on--let's tighten up. XM 177 and DTV 737.
Update: Indeed, it is Josh Fogg starting for the Rockies today. That's the last time I blindly trust ESPN's MLB schedule for probable pitchers or broadcasts. As for the grumpy comments, I politely refuse to stoop to the level of angry children who throw a fit when someone rips on things they like. Oh, and fuck Canada.
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Preview This
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.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
We Are Hot Chicks Wednesday: Cat Scratch Fever
I'm going to start today's installment with a disclaimer. Don't skim it. Just hang tight.
On occasion, women do things other than barely cover their nips and hoo-has -- like sing a crazy ditty, or surprise you with a form of sexy you didn't know existed, or tell you her product isn't for white people -- that will arouse men more so than the usual T & A. When I say arouse, I don't necessarily mean give him the means to deliver the pump fake just before threading the tire swing with oval-shaped leather baring Roger Goodell's name. Wait. Scratch that. Yes I do. Women are totally responsible for digging it when you air out the long ball. That's why they dig it. That's the kind of thing women are into: shit they, in some skewed way, had a hand in orchestrating.
That being said, we're not going to ogle bodacious ta-tas and lovely lady lumps today. Okay. We might just a little. If it's not enough for you though, you can always get your fix here or here. (Ed: Note that those links are in fact SFW, however, where your hot little hand navigates you from there may very well not be.)
What we are going to examine today is a little collection of women that have, be it recently or not, influenced modern music. Let's begin, shall we?
Liz Phair
Miss Fuck-and-Run re-defined the phrase "cut to the chase." As an adolescent who seldom never had impure thoughts, I can honestly say that Ms. Lizzie had a heavy hand in my corruption. When Exile from Guyville came out, all of the other bullshit women had sang about up until that point, mattered no more. Gone were the days of twisting the meaning of the most innocent lyrics into something that ultimately translated into a possible deciphering of the desire for penetration.
Liz was like, "Huh-uh. I like cock. I'm here to tell you I get my healthy dose of it, but I still think dudes are 'tards and I don't have the time to put up with their shenanigans. That's what I'ma sing about. Oh. I also play guitar better than that slack-ass, coked-up Keith Richards. So take that, bitches. And guys."
Sheryl Crow
Around the same time Liz Phair came on the scene (I said around. Back off), us music/babe-diggin' dudes were blessed with the album Tuesday Night Music Club. Yeah. I owned it. Wanna fight about it? She could sing and be sexy in that more traditional, delicate way we're accustomed to, thus, a perfect counterpart to Phair.
She also did really cool things like let Eric Clapton and Lance Armstrong nail her, which to us sophisticated male creatures means, "Sweet. She bangs." Plus she knocked out a pretty badass halftime-show performance of "Soak up the Sun" during one of the NFL's 2002 playoff games, which, if I remember correctly, was in Pittsburgh. Suffice it to say she looked chilly and hot at the same time. She-zam!
Ladybug
Digable Planets were fucking incredible. Every year or so, I hear rumors of them putting out another album that actually has new material on it. But they don't. They have joined some music circuit festivals here and there, but for the most part, they remain under the radar.
Nevertheless, Ladybug was the butter in Doodlebug's roux, the milk in Butterfly's bechamel. She had style, flow rhythm and tits. That's a hip-hop recipe any novice chef can dig on.
Ladybug's voice was like the fan you need to fall asleep to, the jerk in the shower to set your day straight. She made dudes like Snoop and Dre be like, "Damn, I gotta press some new wax that's hot and smooth like hers." The original female flymaster of hip hop, however, does not have any pictures of her in a bathing suit, or underwear, or nothing, circulating CyberSpace, much to my chagrin.
Janet Jackson
Michael's sister has had more successful sculptings done to her body than most furniture, and most dudes (myself included) don't even care. She just continues to look good.
Sure. We all saw her 40-year-old nipple on prime time. Big deal. She still look good.
She can bring her 40-year-old booty to my Super Bowl party any time she wants. Trouble is, I never have Super Bowl parties. Super Bowl parties blow. I'd rather just get hammered at the bar on the couch with my hand wedged in the wasteline of my pants and relax.
Wait. What I just described is a party. Nevermind. It's cool, Janet, Miss Jackson if you're nasty. Come on over. Hell, bring Dick in a Box if you must. Yeah. That's how I roll.
Gwen Stefani
I don't care what y'all say. She can, on occasion, look goofy. She can also look hot as hell.
Like in this picture, where she looks like she's begging to be the official House of Georges logo (with some non-incriminating help from PhotoShop, of course).
No Doubt her latest hit adds to her sexiness.
That shit just drives me B. A-N-A...well, you get it.
Let's move on before I include any more horribly unfunny jokes.
Lauryn Hill
The Fugees were hot. Wyclef, not so much. Lauryn Hill? You'd better believe it.
Aside from the utter awesomeness that Blunted on Reality and The Score represented, Miss Hill's solo effort, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, knocked the world out faster than Bernard Ackah did Johnnie Morton.
That album easily landed itself on the Top 100 of All-Time, wherever that is. Her voice is sexy, the beats incredible, the issues the lyrics tackle worldly, and it was all packaged by, well, a nice little package.
The HoG hopes beyond its blunted reality that it hasn't seen the last of Miss Hill.
Hell, we haven't even seen her topless yet. Drum roll, please.
Lil' Kim
I know. We seen her titty, too. But we were just talkin' about hot sisters with stellar singing careers. Were we not?
Last time I checked, wasn't nothin' little about Kim. At least not up yonder in the treasure chest.
Holler.
Fergie
Sometimes the lone female Black Eyed Pea doesn't look that great.
Like, you know, when she pisses herself on stage, tries to deny it, and eventually admits it.
Sounds a little like some of the guys that work under the shield, as one of our favorite bloaches likes to say.
Bottom line: rockin' pipes, stellar outfit to sing for, and a pretty damn fine piece of meast, all said.
With the right assortment of non-urine-tainted rubs and oils, Fergie makes any tailgating package complete.
Especially those early season games where kickoff weather would allow for her to come to the park dressed like this.
Alright, guys. No hits below the belt. Well, unless you feel like it.
Kylie Minogue
I'm such a fan of this package, I'm gonna hit you precious readers up with two versions of it and a YouTube clip.
No two-hit wonder has ever excited the species of men like little miss re-make.
What I love about her is that she flaunts that unadulterated bag of sex God graced her with like Noah's packin' the ark tomorrow and leaving everyone but his damn self behind.
That, and the "dude" that runs my fantasy baseball league has the same first name as her. What cruel parents he must have. I reckon that's the kind of karma you get for cheering for a shitbag team like the Yankees. Anyway.
Yes. It's true. I can't get you out of my head either, Miss Minogue. Nor that wicked car you drive. Nor that bitchin' collection of clothes you call a wardrobe.
I wouldn't care if no new piece of music were ever written again.
Not as long as Miss Minogue kept re-making previously unsexy numbers into porn soundtrack candidates.
Her grill looks a bit goofy from time to time, but hey. Her ass more than makes up for it. As does her mid-section.
And the wardrobe again.
La, la, la. La, la, la, la, la, yo.
That does it for this week, boys and occasional girl. If it wasn't extreme enough for you, feel free to remember Madonna here in this NSFW piece of photography. I'm pretty sure she wrote some music at some point, too.
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