We Are (still, as a matter of fact) Hot Chicks Wednesday: Don't Call It A Comeback

Hello, HoGnation, and welcome to another fine installment of WAHCW. We know, we know. It's Thursday and well, we've been...eh, we're not exactly sure where we've been. That is, we kind of do: Cecil has officially fallen off the face of the planet, likely inebriated in a Denver bar talking to a random man about how the Broncos' season could've gone better. Old No. 7 has devoted every spare second he has to getting this clown



elected to the U.S. presidency. And Bankmeister? Frankly, I've no excuse for myself beyond sheer laziness. That said, however, we're back. We're just in time to squeeze in a January post, and just as soon as it stops being so damn frickin' freezing, we plan on being back with a vengeance. In the meantime, we ask that our blessed readership bare with us while we officially kiss 2008 hello. Again. Check out our grand scheme with one swift click...

As we've mentioned, it's witch's tit cold. We're trying not to think about it. In fact, we're looking ahead to warmer days where football drafts happen and baseball season kicks in and Stanley Cup playoffs are around the corner. Here's how we're managing such a difficult task.





















I know. Not even a single caption, right? Just a slice of evidence on how lazy us HoGsters have become. But hey...



...don't tell. It's how we've always rolled. Honest.

(All photos courtesy of those magicians over yonder at Gorilla Mask.)
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Open Letter to the Lord Our Savior

Dear God:

Please. I beg of you: make me a bird so I can fly far, far away from this place. If these are our Offensive Coordinator candidates,





I don't think I could go on living life as a human/football fan.

Why, O father of Christ, you might wonder, would I wish for something so permanent? Well, after the jump, I will tell you precisely why the re-definition of "pain" and of "suffering" would be brutally unleashed upon the middle west if the Kansas City Chiefs were to ink a deal with any of these men.

You see, the truth of the matter is that none of these esteemed gentlemen suck any less than the rest. Nor do they suck more. But ultimately, they just plain suck.

No, wait -- please here me out. I don't want Paul Hackett or even Mike Shula (that would just be too much good ol' boy to handle). I want someone new. Someone fresh. And someone good. Is that too much to ask?

I really don't think it is. If I'm wrong, however, I'd like to be an albatross. Thanks for listening. Read more

Oh. Okay. Well, That Makes Things Much Better.

Yeah. I don't know about you folks, but after a nice, long, grueling 4-12 campaign, nothing soothes the aching wounds like firing all of your offensive coaches and signing a kicker you've brought in for at least three workouts (but never signed). Mm-hmm. That's what I call progress, Chiefs fans.

Now, don't go callin' it official, 'cause it ain't. Let's just say an inside source has clued the HoG into the notion that the Chiefs have signed former Cowboy/Packer/Buccaneer/Saint/Falcon place kicker Billy Cundiff.

Whew. Now, that's a resume, boys and girls. I can smell the playoffs already. Don't worry, though. If things don't pan out...

...we can always look forward to a stellar late-June excursion to Des Moines. Good times, I tell ya'. Good. Times.

Wonder what'll be next. Shall we bring in Keyshawn? Joey Galloway? Maybe even Ron Dayne?
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It's A Happy HoG New Year After All...Maybe

Please. Allow me. On behalf of the HoG staff, we really do hope the calendar keeps bringing happy holidays to you. And now, now that we're back from our international holiday travels (Editor's Note: Cecil and I didn't actually go anywhere; we just work and drink too much. And are lazy.), we can get back to those things that are really important here on the good ol' CyberNets. (Note: We hope Seven will join us when he returns from his I-must-snuggle-with-the-tundra-once-traversed-by-Viggo-Mortensen-induced jaunt).

Nevertheless, let me convey, precious readers, the events that signify badassery that have already occurred in this fair span of time we will heretofore refer to as Two Thousand Eight.

One)

This spectacle was indeed so incredible, that naming it won't do any justice. I will, however, set the scene: New Year's Day; gusts of wind and snow, 73,000 strong; national television; Ralph Wilson Stadium; two of hockey's most up-and-coming teams in today's NHL; overtime; a five-hole Sydney Crosby game-winning goal...it was incredible.

I realize that my colleagues, along with 99% of the HoG readership, don't give two squirts about hockey/think it's a joke/honestly believe that NASCAR and televised poker are more exciting. And that's fine. The game is better without their ignorance. But one has to appreciate the magnitude of this event. The organ music was blasting, prompting the masses to bellow "Let's go, Buffalo!" while Mike Emery, Darren Pang and Ed Olyck produced a flawless display of commentary and game-calling. Suffice it to say, that if you missed it, you really, really missed it.

Alright. So that one-man circle jerk left the Bankmeister happy. And on that same day, perhaps even as Crosby was beating Ryan Miller, one of Crosby's biggest fans/quite the HoG presence since its invocation, was getting stocking filled with an oft-desired holiday gift.

Two)

Yep. The Lone Reader is the man of whom I speak, and his fulfilled wish came in this form. I won't support the decision, but I certainly won't bash it either. Something had to give. And by something, I mean a lot of shit. Never in my 27 years of watching Chiefs football, have I experienced a season as miserable as this past one. And there've been some really bad ones (Note: see the entire '80s). Anyway, football season is officially over for the HoGers, but we'll secretly watch every moment of every playoff game, and probably prop ourselves up in front of a television when that Super Bowl thing hits the air waves.

Personally, I'm pulling for the five seed in the AFC and the six seed in the Nobody Freaking Cares. Mm-hmm. Jags/'Skins. That'd be a cool Bud Bowl. You know. 'Cause Jack Del Rio's club is pretty rad, and you've got to rally around Joe Gibbs, the memory of the Meast, and long-time Chiefs backup QB Todd Collins. Oh, and of course death and destruction to the Fetus and SmegmaBoy.

Anyhoo. May the new year bring health and happiness to the HoGnation. And by "health and happiness to the HoGnation," I mean enough traffic to this here IntraWebs locale that we can quit our jobs. Finally.

Oh. And the maybe part of the headline to this post is this: If the Chiefs (Herm) continue their ultra-unsuccessful, decades-long, good ol' boys hiring/re-hiring circle, and bring Paul Fucking Hackett back as O.C., I quit. For real. And forever. I will fucking nuke One Arrowhead Drive, so help me Christ.

Just sayin'.

Cheerio. Read more

Mitch Slapped!

Man, I can’t even begin to describe how sick I am of steroid talk. I’d rather change George Mitchell’s bedpan than listen to another minute of this crap, but one little nugget has emerged in the past 24 hours that I need to vent about:

Roger Clemens is not going to Cooperstown.

Buster Olney, who’s one of my favorite writers ever and a Hall of Fame voter, went on the radio this morning and stated his belief that Rocket will get shut out. The old assholes, Olney’s brethren on the Baseball Writers Association of America, will make an example out of Rocket and pass him by.

(Ed. note: I saw it after I wrote this post, but check out Buster's blog from a couple days ago. Reasonable, rational, lucid...pretty much the opposite of every other hack that votes on baseball awards and honors. The way to save baseball would be to replace Bud Selig--a small-minded, reactionary weasel--with Buster Olney.)

I hate Clemens. If he decided to fall down a well tomorrow I’d throw a party. But I’ll be God damned if he’s not the greatest pitcher I’ve ever seen, better than Nolan Ryan. Doc Gooden and Pedro Martinez may have been better for stretches, but Roger Clemens is hands down the greatest pitcher of the last 50 years. And now he will take his seat alongside Shoeless Joe Jackson, Pete Rose, Mark McGwire and Barry Bonds—outcasts sitting on a bench outside the gates of baseball’s hallowed Hall.

I’m not crying for Rocket, but this whole thing is a joke. You can’t penalize players who were named in the Mitchell Report, because it’s alarmingly incomplete and unsubstantiated. Sammy Sosa’s name appears nowhere within it. Does that mean he gets in to the Hall now, baseball writers?

Let’s take another example, Clemens’ old Astro teammate Craig Biggio. He was left out of the report as well, and to my knowledge has never been implicated in any steroid controversy. But he’s been a Major League Baseball Player for the last two decades, so let’s just assume he’s been on the juice.

In five years, when both Biggio and Rocket are eligible for induction, Biggio will get in and Rocket--ten times the player--will not. Because no one ratted on Biggio. Nice system.

The easy answer for any of these fucks is don’t do drugs. The odds that someone would say you were cheating if you weren’t is slim. But to think that we’re any closer to solving baseball’s issue with steroids after the Mitchell Report came out, or to placing the Steroid Era in some sort of historical context, that’s preposterous.

I would like to induct any writers who keep Barry or Rocket—the two greatest players of my generation—out of Cooperstown into another Hall. My personal Hall of Fuck You You’re Stupid.
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Minding The Stove: Your Daily K-Fuk Update

Following the Cubs' landmark signing of K-Sucky Fuck-You-Do-May, the Rangers decided to not be left out of the jersey market for adolescent stoners. They've got their own K-Fuk, the suave reliever Kazuo Fukumori. Or, Casual Fuck You More, I. The guys at The Dugout have to be dead of heart attacks right now.

Update: They've survived their cardiac arrest.

Second Update: Via Deadspin, here's a name that got both members of the K-Fuk club beat. Man, I love Asia. First gunpowder, now Suck Some Wong.

I have nothing more to add, so don't click on the "Read More" button unless you're a huge fan of wasting time. Read more

The Chiefs Prefer Playing From Behind

Back in November, the Broncos traveled to Arrowhead and smoothly took care of the Chiefs. Later that week Mike Vick reported to prison. I imagine that shortly before he showed up he had himself a nice conjugal visit with a sweet young lady, whom he smoothly took care of as well.

This week the Broncos faced Kansas City again, this time in the Colorado chill, and Vick learned that he'll be a guest of the government for quite some time. If November Chief- and prison-sex was sweet and tender, the December variety is decidedly forced and painful. Both Mike Vick and Herman Edwards were repeatedly bent over and violated by a man named Elvis. Good times, if you're into that sort of gross shit.

We could talk about the long-term ramifications of this sodomy, but I just heard that the Broncos play a game tonight. And it's on NFL Network, which pisses me off to no end. Because I have the NFL Network, and I'll be forced to watch this team play yet another game. At least Bryant Gumbel is on the injured list, and slightly less annoying play-by-play man Tom Hammond is on the mic. Tommy just informed us that "Serge" Rosenfels will start at QB for Houston tonight, which is great. Because "Serge" is even shittier than his brother Sage. Or, if you prefer, Dr. Rosenpenis.

First, a pick. The Broncos are favored by three, which is probably bullshit. Even with Serge dangling his digits under center, the Texans just might be a better team. So take the home club and the points. The Pick: Texans +3

Looking around the AFC West, the two clubs in the cellar may have to deal with some coaching shenanigans. Adam Schefter just reported that UCLA is looking at Coach Herman and Lane Kiffin to possibly replace the fired Karl Dorrell. That sound you just heard is Bankmeister screaming with semen-soaked joy. In all fairness, Herman might be a great college coach. They don't let you challenge calls there, the clock stops after first downs, and you can flake on your job any time the going gets rough.

Denver sits two games back of the Chargers, so if they win out and San Diego loses this week against...fuck, who are we kidding? I did get a little wood this week in hearing about the latest Shawne Merriman controversy.

Seems Lights Out gave Vince Young a bit of a shot, and several Titans took exception and spent the rest of the game trying to blow out his steroid-weakened knees instead of holding on to a 14-point fourth-quarter lead. I for one support any and all efforts to injure, maim and shut the vagina-shaped mouth of Merriman. Dear Shawne/Shawn/Shane/Sean/Douche: until you've actually won something, why don't you stick a fucking sock in it. You and your whiny QB, your zit-riddled coach, your petulant, asshole, refuses-to-ever-be-injured RB, your bumbling GM, your buttwipe owner and your casually ball-licking fans, feel free to casually lick my balls.
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