I am here to help you

By Frank Randall
IT guy

Hello. My name is Frank Randall. I work in the IT department. That stands for information technology. Our job is to communicate technology information to you as clearly as possible. I heard you like sports. Do you like sports?

I want to talk about sports today. Though. The Super Bowl is upcoming. What? I’m not sure I get that. Detroit, LAN connection for local area network. Can you repeat what you just said? Matt Hasselback plays quarterback, bitmap image systems. Home for the running back, drives the Bus along the field, eats a lot, what did you just do?

I’m not sure I follow what you’re saying. City smells like burning rubber, can’t quite see why the game is there. Rains a lot in Seattle. Yeah. True. But that’s not my department. I’ll have to call Ted.

Yeah, Ted doesn’t know. League MVP playing in the game. Not sure if that was a good choice. Is that still buffering? I don’t know why you did that. Why’d you do that? Why? What?

Can you hear me? Going to be lots of blitzes. I’m sorry, that’s not my area. I haven’t heard anything about that. Let me go downstairs and check are you excited to watch the commercials this year modem?

Transfer files often complete Roethlisberger passes in the flat buzzword hello this is Frank does not compute I apologize.

Did that work? No? I don’t know what to tell you the. Did you break it? Balding quarterback, right? I have no idea why this isn’t working. Let me call Marty hear the Nickelback halftime show transporter Web development.

Fiddling apple bottom crustacean jiggle woo in middle backup floppy server connection mandates authorization requiring struggling linebacker tackle turf humdinger.

Indeed. Coach angry all the time without handheld enter the password right there. There. There. D as in ‘dog.’ Not fixed still, fragment, I’ll have to call Steve when he gets back in town in three weeks, access privileges denied fly swatter mashup.

Everything better? Lamp state of the endzone celebration linkup hotkey.

Something not working still not following the jingly cutbacks between the hash marks. No you don't want to do that. Never do that. Because I said so. If time out occurs, end transmission for access field in dock schwerve lats pulldown swelling ankle jpeg.

Good, nice. Hope you enjoy the Super Bowl, everyone. Don’t forget the chips and salsa resolution file path class D Ford Field buzzer USB port keyword.

Vanilla tastes bland

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

White people.

Sure, they may be commonplace in suburban restaurants or various levels of government or the state of Wisconsin, but when I was younger, I remember when there was one place they were not allowed. And that place is in the running for college basketball’s Naismith Award, bestowed to the best player in college basketball each year.

But J.J. Redick and Adam Morrison are both very white. Pasty white. Dead-of-winter white. "Full House" white. And that just grizzles my grizzle.

Gonzaga’s Morrison leads the nation with 29.0 points per game, and Redick follows closely after at No. 2 with 27.8 a game. The poetry reader makes 44 percent of his three-point attempts but more distressingly makes 50.7 percent of his shots. Casper seldom misses, which is precisely why everyone hates him and throws Jack Sikma Starting Lineup figures at him when they attend Duke games.

The Zaggy makes 52.4 percent of his shots, which is better, and what’s worse is that the bastard is a junior. He could be back next year, spreading his whiteness all over courts in the Pacific Northwest. And his mustache makes him look like Alex Trebek, after being hit by a bus.

It’s bad enough that a Croat-Australian (who now lives with his anglo bretheren in Wisconsin) won the damn award last year, but this is becoming a trend. Back when college basketball was pure, the award would go to the likes of Ralph Sampson, Michael Jordan, Patrick Ewing, Johnny Dawkins, David Robinson and Danny Manning. Then Larry Johnson, Glenn Robinson, Marcus Camby, Antawn Jamison, Tim Duncan, Elton Brand, Kenyon Martin and Shane Battier. They brought us into the new millennium, when things started just fine with Jason Williams, T.J. Ford and Jameer Nelson.

Did someone in the peanut gallery just say Christian Laettner? Go to hell.

I don’t mind if that pretty-boy-who-reads-poetry-while-banging-coeds-in-Carolina makes a ton of outside shots. I don’t mind if Dirty Sanchez in the Pacific Northwest is busy drawing comparisons to Larry Bird (who was not white), but I get a little nervous when both of them go for 40 points on the same day, the way they did Saturday. This is America. This isn’t Macedonia.

At this rate, the James Naismith will go to one of these two pale-skinners, and the winner will then deliver an eloquent speech thanking everyone (including God, who is a damn huge fan of college ball) and go on to make millions of dollars to observe NBA games from the bench. Back when the world was right and kids weren’t running around having babies and the cell was someplace you went you got a little too liquored up at Mancino’s on a Friday night and picked a fight with the nearest jukebox, the black athlete was ruling the roost of college basketball. It’s just what was. To go back on that ... well that’s just plain racism.

There are things I’ve grown to expect in this life. One is that you’re never too old to give that damn jukebox a piece of your mind. Another is that no matter what you say, the missus will hate you for it. Third, the best player in college basketball is a 6-foot-something-nice black man who can dribble, shoot the three and slam it home on your face. What’s next? White defensive backs in the NFL? How about white goaltenders? White bowlers? Please.

I want to be like Kobe

By Dakota Brezinski
Six-year-old

Kobe doesn't share. Why should I have to share?

Daddy says that Kobe Bryant scored 81 points a few nights ago because he doesn't ever share. But everyone loves Kobe. That man with the twitchy eye talks about him all the time on SportsCenter and calls him a player hater, which my friend Tanner says is the best kind of player. He sure must be great if people always talk about him.

So I'm not going to share anymore, either. I don't care what Mrs. Thigpen says in art class. Mrs. Thigpen smells like cat anyway. And also, like bananas that have turned brown and yucky.

Sharing is not caring.

Cindy Margolies wanted me to share the book I was reading during reading time but I said I was still looking at it. She said I had been looking at it for a long time and I told her to step off, player. I told her Kobe never shares but she didn't know who Kobe was. She started crying, so I hit her with the book. They called Daddy.

Andy with the long and stupid last name wanted to play with my basketball at recess. I said I had to keep shooting until I got 81 points. He said that it wasn't fair because there was only one basketball, but I told him he could have it when he was Kobe Bryant. He said I was dumb. I kicked him in the privates. I don't understand ... why would people want to share with me? Nobody wants to share with Kobe.

I decided I would no longer be sharing my coat rack with the other six kids nearby. So I put all their coats on the hallway floor. I decided I didn't want to share my table with Bobby Pelkofer and McKenna Zander anymore during art time. I put gum on their chairs to let them know. I decided I no longer wanted to share my circle at all during circle time. So I stood in the middle and danced and sang you and me baby aint nothing but mammals until everyone moved away. They called Daddy.

I don't know why they got so mad. I wanted to inspire them to be better. I wanted to step up and be the one people relied on when it was all on the line. I guess they just wanted to hear the story Mrs. Thomas was reading. It was about Charlie the Choo-Choo. I think Charlie dies in the end.

Someday, I will be like Kobe, and I will score 81 points in a game. I will buy my wife a big giant ring after I get in trouble for doing something naughty, and then I will take a game winning shot and everyone will cheer! But I will never, ever, ever share. Daddy says it's the golden rule of Kobe. And I want to obey the golden rule. Mrs. Thomas said so.

Tell me why I can’t wave my penis at that referee

By Trent Bonner
Systems analyst

This is a frustrating game to watch. I come here and pay my money just like everyone else, and I have to sit through this? Well, this is just totally unacceptable. These seats were expensive, those nachos were expensive, my beer was expensive and this is the way I’m treated?

First, you want me to just sit idly by and act like it’s OK that these players are running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. Well, it’s not OK, darnit! I’m a paying customer and I have my rights. And then, not only is this team playing like a thousand crudbuckets, the referees are completely blind out there. They don’t have a stinking clue! Hey baldy, have you ever heard of over-and-back? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

And I feel like I should be able to express my displeasure. But you want to stifle my rights as a paying customer, nay, as an American. I didn’t come here to take this guff so easily. Tell me why I deserve this. Tell me why I should have to sit here and take this treatment.

Tell me why I can’t wave my penis at that referee.

What better way to express my disappointment with this putrid mockery of a sporting event? Oh, loosen up, you old bat. You know you were looking at it from across the aisle. It’s a perfectly acceptable penis; it’s very well-suited for waving at blind and stupid referees. And don’t act like you’ve never seen one before. I bet you were a real tramp back in your hey day. Any 65-year-old woman who wears that much rouge is surely one of the whore’s ilk.

Oh, you’re only 47? Ha! Your face looks like my scrotum.

Which you just saw, by the way, thanks to the ineptness of that idiotic referee down there on the wing. No traveling? Well, my compadre, if you’re not going to watch the game, then take a good look at THIS!

It's happening again. My creativity has been squelched ever since I was a child. My grade school teachers repeatedly told me that I couldn’t get upset with poor grades and remove all my clothes, put my socks on my hands, stand on a chair and loudly recite the alphabet. Well, how else do you expect a nine-year-old to cope with life? And my high school art teachers always called my drawings "tacky," "inappropriate" and "extremely obscene." I guess there’s a reason those schmucks are limited to teaching public school art.

I am the true artist. While the rest of the 23,381 in attendance here today show their emotions via foam fingers and socially-acceptable clapping, I opt for the more demonstrative choice. And that choice is to wave my penis at this officiating crew.

Oh, security. Yup, here they come. That's real original. I expected this. A good paying customer tries to speak his mind and express himself, and they’re coming to take me away. Where are you going to take me, you fascist oppressors of freedom and liberty? To jail? It’s just a penis, folks. Both of you guys have one, though this tubby guy here may not have seen his in a while.

Well then, good sir, if that’s the case, I’ve got a treat for you!

The best Super Bowl EVER!

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind sock

Get out the nachos! The pizza! The football squares thing at work (I HAVE SEVEN AND THREE!!)! The commercial-watching! The spectacular halftime spectacular that’s spectacular! It’s SUPER BOWL XTRA-LARGE STYLE.

Wow, I’m psyched. Seriously. This could be the greatest Super Bowl of all-time, given that it’s like David against Goliath. The Steelers, the Curtain, the Bradshaw-to-Swan and the Immaculate Reception and the spitting head coach and the fierce and rough and tumble Bubby Brister all bringing us to present day vs. a team that’s never been there before, the Hawks from the SEA. Awwww yeah I’m turned on. The heartthrob against the bald guy, the MVP against the Wheels on the Bus Bus Bus, Steve Hutchinson against Clark Haggans!

First of all, these are the teams I wanted there in the first place. I said to everyone, right after the brackets came out, watch out for the Steelers, I really think they can win three games in a row on the road and make history and they did and I have a terrible towel or whatever they’re called in my basement for the big game! On the other hand, you’ve got Mike Holmgren, ten years after he leads the Pack to the promised tundra, with a new gunslinger and a new team and fifty more pounds! They were definitely my pick to win the NFC, and then I had the Panthers and Redskins and Bears. And in the AFC, I was pretty sure it was gonna be the Broncos if it wasn’t the Steel, and maybe the Colts. STEEL CITY STEELERS.

Let’s talk defenses. TROY POLAMALU has hair that could make a grown man cry. I don’t know why. I’m growing out a Super Bowl haircut to honor Troy Polamalu, I’m going to have flowing locks by the time the big game rolls around. The man flies all over the field, literally, like Flash Gordon or Batman or Dracula or something! You know what they say ... once you go Samoan, you never go black. But on the other side, you have another USC alum (the TROJANS, who I loved before this year ... best team in the NATION last year, I wrote Pete Carroll and he sent me an autographed picture of me that I sent) in Lofa Tatupu. Oh my god! USC once had a Polamalu and a Tatupu on the same team. THAT’S SO SAMOAN! They’re going to be fierce when they face each other on the field. You know, through transference or whatever cuz both defenses aren’t on the field at the same time. I’m cheering for DEFENSE all the way, it’s going to be a 13-3 game.

But who wins? The HAWKS FROM SEA, of course, they’re like way too fantastic to miss out. Hasselbeck to Alexander or Jerramy Stevens or Darrell Jackson up the middle for a touchdown and then two field goals by their kicker Jeff something and then the other Jeff something gets one for the Steelers because LOFA TATUPU is too impossible to stop. Awww it’s gonna be the most exciting ever. I’ll be at West Side’s if you’re out there, cheering for the HAWKS FROM SEA and sometimes the Steel Curtain, baby. The Super Bowl is right around the corner and I’m ready to rumble!!!!!!

I'll be the Queen of Baltimore

Anna Benson
Professional Hussy

So let me just formally announce how happy I am that Kris and I are new Baltimorians ... uh Baltimoraniums … whatever. I have no doubt that this city will provide plenty of entertainment and opportunities.

For example, have you seen Kyle Boller? He’s pretty hot, right? And he went to Berkeley, so that means he probably knows how to party. Maybe he can show me a good strip club or two.

And then there’s Cal Ripken. I know he’s a little older, but he’s pretty famous. He even has his own column in one of the local papers. Not that I read or anything, but that’s a pretty big deal, right? What I wouldn’t give to be caught in a back alley with his tongue in my throat.

And then there’s Johns Hopkins. The college, I mean. I don’t know if Mr. Hopkins himself is still alive, but if he was, I’d probably let him hit it too. If he’s not, though, I’m sure young, overworked, future millionaire doctors are easy targets. Maybe a couple of them will agree to tag team me in a lab somewhere. God, I’m getting all hot just thinking about it.

Oh, and I went to the Baltimore Sports Legends museum at Camden Yards for some ideas. There’s Babe Ruth, Johnny Unitas, Brooks Robinson ... maybe they had some hot kids or something. Hey, I’m stretching here. It is Baltimore, after all. It’s not like New York where all I have to do is stumble into the foyer of an Upper West Side condominium and I end up giving a big shot lawyer or filmmaker a hummer on a dining room table with a view.

Two quarterbacks with beards. I approve.

By Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Thoughts from a guy watching the Pittsburgh vs. Denver game with a bottle of Wild Turkey, his dog and no pants.

2:31: I can't seem to find my dog anywhere. I know he was here last night, because I remember yelling at him when Stuart Scott did a poetry slam on Sportscenter, but now he seems to have run off. Come back, William Randolph.

2:33: Just tore into some venison that was sitting in the ice chest. A bit cold, but it's a good pregame meal.

2:35: Why is Jerome Bettis still called The Bus? There's nothing endearing about a 560-pound NFL running back. I propose that we call him The Meatball. Speaking of meatballs, I need to head to the bathroom.

2:36: Taking a shit.

2:57: OK. Almost gametime. I have to say, Jake Plummer's hair and beard look fantastic. What a man. I heard that someone told him after last week's win, "Hey, you look a lot like Marv Blackstone." Jake replied, "That crazy old bastard?" I knew he'd remember me.

2:58: Bad news. The dog is dead. Turns out that instead of "yelling at him" after Stu's poetry slam last night, I shot him four times with my shotgun. God damn it. What a mess. On the bright side, I found my pants.

3:00: Rolling a blunt.

3:02: I missed the very beginning of the pregame because I was distracted by "The Coneheads" on FX. That's some messed-up shit, man.

3:04: It appears Phil Simms will be broadcasting today while his son gets his ass kicked by some Florida high school kids.

3:06: I've decided to enhance by day with a drinking game. Here are the rules:

Jake Plummer incompletion - 1 drink
Jake Plummer interception - 2 drinks
Meatball touchdown - 3 drinks
Roethlisberger gets sacked - 3 drinks
Plummer rushes for a touchdown and makes out with a cheerleader - 8 drinks
Ron Dayne touches the football - 3 drinks
Jason Elam field goal from 75+ yards - 10 drinks

3:10: Bonnie Berstein weighs in from the sidelines to tell us that the Meatball really wants to play in the Super Bowl. No shit, Bonnie. Oh, but the things I'd do to you, honey.

3:14: Bill Cowher looks pissed. That's worth three drinks. And Plummer throws his first incompletion. Hell yes. Denver punts.

3:17: Roethlisberger starts off hot. Nantz says that he idolized John Elway growing up and that's why he wear No. 7. Elway is shown on TV and he still looks like that horse down the road.

3:18: Big, huge fart.

3:20: Willie Parker fumbles. That's worth one swig of the Dub Turkey.

3:25: Overturned. That's worth two drinks.

3:27: Steelers stall out and Jeff Reed kicks a field goal. I'm already bored.

3:30: Bill Cowher just punched a referee in the mouth and then spit in his face. OK, fine, only the second part is true.

3:35: Plummer fumbles, much to my dismay, and Jim Nantz will not stop talking about how beautiful the weather in Denver is. Two drinks.

3:38: The Meatball is in the game and he's fat. They show his parents and they're not. I don't get it.

3:45: I went outside to pee, and it smelled like chicken noodle soup out there. Anyone else ever have that happen? Should I be worried? When I came back in, the Steelers had scored somehow.

3:50: I saw a commercial for Subway and decided I wanted my own sandwich, so I made a sub out of what I had in my fridge: Sliced pickles, two pieces of bologna and mustard. Pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.

3:56: Joey Porter made a few nice plays on the Broncos' latest drive, but Denver scored anyway. It's probably a conspiracy.

4:04: This sandwich is damn good. It goes well with my Keystone, now that the Wild Turkey is all gone.

4:05: Roethlisberger is really good. 10-for-13 at this point for 160 yards. Jessica Alba is already calling, I think.

4:08: Why would Pittsburgh ever run? Why do we have a Phil Sim-ulator? Why is Denver blitzing so much? Again, why did my urine smell like chicken noodle soup? I need answers!

4:10: Curtis just called to tell me he would Favre Ben's Roethlisberger any day of the week. He wanted me to tell you that.

4:16: The Meatball scores. I shotgun two beers. And it's 17-3, Pittsburgh. I'm sure there will be a nice parade in Detroit when The Meatball plays in the Super Bowl there, with him being from that tropical paradise and all. The last time I went home to Helena, they had fireworks, although I found out later it was gun fire. And the gun fire was mine. Funny how I forget things like that.

4:28: Halftime. Jakes Plummer needss a beerr. I thinks I needs some more toio.

4:45: Hey, fuckers! Its the second half and somehow Pittsburgh is wining by 21 points and i've been spending the halftime drinking a little bitmore. I think I've had 69 dirnks so far and it's stil early in the aftenroon. but it's OKay because i'm enjoying the football.

4:46: I just ralized there was a small typo in the above statemmnet. I haven't had 69 drinks. I've had two. Just two.

4:47: How am I supposed to entertain you guys with a game like this? this is carnage. And Piuhl Simm's adivce tot he Broncons is to keep doing exactly what they've been doing to win the football game./ He must have money on the Steelrs or soethign.

4:49: Bonnie on the sideliens says that Cowher is trying to brainswash his team or something like that. I'd brainwsah her body. Yeah baby.,

4:52: Pittsburhg is just marching donwfield. Hello, Denver defense? Yoooooo hoooooo!! Wherea re you?

4:53: Meatball dorps a pass from Roethlisberger and the Steelers are forced to punt. I bet if that woudl have been a ham hock that Big Ben was throwing, Meatball wouldn't have dropped it. Haha. Can you picture Big Ben throiwng a ham hock out inot the flat? That'd be some great television.

5:00: I jusr rewalized that I';m completely nude. I have no idea how that happened.

5:04: The Steelers down a punt inside the five yeardline yet again. I haven'ty seen Jake Plummer ins weeks. Oh, but iit looks like the Broncos are goingto challenege the play.

5:08: They're playing "The Waiting is the Hardest Part" by Tom Petty during the challenege at Mile High Stadium. This reminds me that I partied with Tom Petty in Des Moines, Iowa once. He remains, to this day, the the ugliest woman I have ever seen.

5:12: Whoa! Troy Polamalu's hair!

5:16: Touchdown pass to some dude named AShley. I can't feell my right foot.

5:26: The Meatball's feet were just refernced, so I have to take thrreee drinks.

5:27: Oh God. Roethlisberger is sacked, so there is foru more drnks. I'm going bldin.

5:31: Plummer thorws his frst inteception of the game. Three more dirnks. Sweet Jesus. THis is getigtnbg bafd.

5:37:

I feel like shouting!!

5:40: I just remembered that I met a woman in Pottsburg when I was coeiftng a Pirats game again sthe Knicks. her named was Wanda and she was really, really tall. Like six foot nine or something. BUt I was intirgued by this giantess and I took her back to my hotel room for some drinks and htne we ended up getting a little physcial and all that good stuff. So the enxt morning Iw ake up and Wanda is gone. and so is my wallet and my keys and my pants and my suitcase and everthing esle that i own. the only thing left in my entire hotel room is a pair of handcuffs annd a bottle of mouthwash int he abthroom. Wanda sure could sneak around for a giantess.

5:45: I gonna sing for you now, Flotsamammamers.

There are people in this country who work hard every day.
Not for fame or fortune do they strive.
But the fruits of their labor are worth more than their pay.
And it's time a few of them were recognized.

Hello Pittsburgh steel mill workers,
let me thank you for your time.
You work a forty hour week for a livin'
just to send it on down the line.

5:49: I sort of like that Jeb Putzier ... JEb Putzkier ... JEb Putzir ... Jeb Putzier ... Jeb Putier ... Jebb Putzier ... jeb putzier character. Seems gritty.

5:50: People are dancing on chauirs ina comericlal and Charlie Sheen is lookign in my winwdow. What is happnegin?

5:52: I sut sofund some runm under my couch. At leasti think that is'ts rumn,

5:55: Plummer fumbles and this one is about ovber. THere's only like 4 seconds left and Pitssburg is winning 105-2.

5:58: I am feelign veyr etierd and i'm tnos sur whsat'd going o so I thing that ia neda bnpa. eeeeeeeeeeeeee.

6:01: Ih ope a had goods timmes and wenojy the games here toayd, toa and ai will talkg with you folskd alte ron. tabhanks for reading,,.s

When two people love each other very much, they share it in a very special way

By Dakota Brezinski
Six-year-old

Sometimes Mommy and Daddy fight, but I never get too worried. Tanner says what happens next is "predictable," where Mommy moves in with Gramma for a couple days, Daddy takes me to school late and I miss the first five minutes of morning reading, and then Mommy comes back and says she’s sorry and Daddy says he’s sorry and five weeks later, it starts again.

But first, Mommy and Daddy wrestle.

I don’t know if the guys from the Boston Red Sox, Larry Lucchino and Theo Epstein, will wrestle, but it sure does seem like the same thing as Mommy and Daddy. Larry said Theo leaving has brought them closer together and they will never, ever fight again. But Mommy and Daddy always say that, and I think Theo Epstein will someday get angry and cry and throw the vase I made in art class at Larry and then stomp out. But he will be back. It’s predictable.

Look at what Theo said in the paper! "Larry and I like each other. As with any other working relationship there are complexities, there are ups and downs." I think this happens right before they wrestle.

The Red Sox are so much like my Mommy and Daddy. One day Mommy got a purse at St. Vinny DePaul’s and she really liked it even though it was an ugly red and smelled like Uncle David’s house. I think other people had used it first, but she loved that purse. Then, one day, I was painting pretty pictures, and I spilled the black paint on it. There were stripes all over it and Mommy was so mad at me. She said it was her favorite purse in the whole world even though it was not her purse for very long, and she was mad for a long time at me. She wouldn’t let me watch SpongeBob for three days.

This is what the Red Sox people are like after Johnny Damon left. He wasn’t theirs since forever, but they thought he was the bestest, and then he got stripes all over him and people were mad.

Then, one day Daddy spent waaaaaaaaayyyy too much money on a new speedy-bike, which made Mommy get mad and she left for a while. The bike broke. Daddy said if he had read the consumer report magazine, he would have seen that the bike was not very good in the first place. This is like what happened when the Red Sox spent 3 million for one year on Guillermo Mota, who does not have pretty hair like Bronson Arroyo.

Now, Larry and Theo are having a fight, but now they’re happy for a few more days. Tanner says this will help the Red Sox "go all the way again." Which is also what Daddy says happens when Mommy comes home.

Love-Love

Agatha Moonfry
Flotsam staff

Despite reports to the contrary, Maria Sharapova and Andy Roddick have denied that they are ravenously in love, but it's easy for people to draw their own conclusions. The two hideously attractive robots have been seen together at various social events in Australia, namely when Sharapova went to see Roddick play poker. Fortunately, watching poker is only slightly more awful than watching tennis, though at least there's less screaming. Except when I play.

Of course, they are together. And so blessed.

Yet two people in the public eye cannot possibly stay together. The same thing happened to that raven-haired slut Amy Lee of Evanescence -- we knew her affair with dreamy, albeit strung out Shaun Morgan of Seether would not last long, and it didn't. Sonny and Cher, Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley, Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love and Yoko Ono and John Lennon were all naturally doomed to fail, although Lennon getting shot and Cobain discovering just how much is seventeen times too much didn't help. Stevie Nicks and Lindsay Buckingham were never meant to last either, mainly because they had to go to work every day and sing horrible songs as members of Fleetwood Mac.

When I broke up with Brad last year, I thought I did a pretty good job of expressing my feelings by FedExing him a dead possum. Buckingham wrote "Go Your Own Way" and it became a smash so Stevie had to sing it at every show. Buckingham wins.

That pseduo-Russian princess makes me vomit. She traipses around in her shorty-short skirts and then steals the heart of that all-American varsity metro taking volleys on the neighboring court. In the real world, it takes far more effort to get the attention of one you desire, sometimes as much as paying $100 for the adequate amount of cat's intestine to administer the proper spell.

Americans have a fascination with uninteresting, absurdly beautiful people who happen to be excellent at a sport designed for punch-sipping rich homosexuals. They found it thrilling when Andre Agassi and his flowing hair that can only be reminiscient of Motley Crue's Vince Neal ...

I just lapsed into a coma. Refreshingly, I was revived by the faint stench of All-American perspiration.

Anyway, people fawned at Agassi and his marriage to Suddenly Susan, then again when Agassi started having married relations with Steffi Graf, and they spawned. Anna Kournikova and her various Russian hockey players garnered constant attention, as did the love lives of Lleyton Hewitt and those Williams sisters, even though it's pretty clear that they're together, not unlike the siblings of White Stripes.

But honestly, what do I care? Go forth and prosper and make tennis-savvy babies, Maria and Andy, and hopefully everyone will love you for it. Just be aware that the next possum I slay is coming to your mailbox.

Hey everyone, come see how smart I am

By Skip Bayless
Observational Genius

January 13, 2006
Vince Young is the next Michael Jordan. Don’t believe me? Why don’t you go download yourself a copy of the Rose Bowl on iTunes and get back to me. The man’s equal parts Randall Cunningham, Joe Montana, Michael Vick and Red Grange. He is the alpha and the omega. A guaranteed hall-of-famer. If the Texans don’t select him No. 1 overall, they will never, EVER forget it.

June 18, 1984
Everyone knows about Houston’s super stud center, Akeem Olajuwon, but does anyone really know who the real deal is in this year’s NBA draft?

I do. And I have to tell you, it will be a shame-of-the-century moment if the Rockets don’t select the masterful Samuel Paul Bowie with the first pick.

Have you seen Bowie play? If you’ve got a pulse and you enjoy basketball, you probably should. Bum legs notwithstanding, Bowie is undoubtedly one of the finest basketball products of the Keystone State. A consensus first-team All-America selection in 1981, Bowie has time and again displayed the kind of court vision and savvy you’d expect to find in a point guard, not in a 7-foot-1 center.

Houston management would be foolish not to take this combination of size and smarts and pure athletic prowess with the first pick. This is a Hall-of-Fame-caliber player we’re talking about here. It’s all about Bowie, and if Houston management liked the production of a fella named Bill Walton (who was drafted by Portland, who just happens to have the second pick), they’d do well to make sure Sam’s number 31 is hanging in the rafters someday. Just get some BenGay or something for those legs. He’ll be fine. I promise.

June 16, 1976
I’m so tired of hearing about how great Michael Jackson is. All these years he’s been the "front man" for the Jackson 5 (excuse me, The Jacksons; sorry Motown Records), but anyone who knows anything about music will tell you the real talent in the family has been Jermaine.

Since JoJo (as I call him) left the kids behind to start a solo career with Motown, he’s already got one hit under his belt – the sublime 1972 cover of Shep and the Limelites’ "Daddy’s Home." And I can guarantee that under the steady tutelage of Motown boss Berry Gordy (whose daughter Jermaine married; way to go, JoJo! That’s called career security!), Jermaine will continue to chart huge hits and make everyone forget about all those other squeaky clean Jackson kids.

June 24, 1876
I don’t know much about war, but I do know this: If the glorious American army doesn’t emerge from Little Bighorn victorious over the savages of the Lakota and Northern Cheyenne, I’ll eat my hat. This leathery one here, festooned with feathers off the headdresses of Injuns who’ve fallen before the army of these United States.

By now I’m sure everyone’s familiar with E.C. Watkins’ report of 9 November, Eighteen hundred and seventy-five, in which the Indian Inspector declared the hostile intentions of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse and their band of brutes. But what the inferior Indian cabal didn’t bet on when it incited the mighty fury of this vengeful nation was the vastly superior firepower of Lt. Col. George Custer’s cavalry and the brilliant strategy of Major Marcus Reno and Brig. Gen. Alfred Terry, who will be on the scene to steer these American heroes into the breach.

And I have it on good authority that the bluffs and geographic makeup of the area surrounding the Little Bighorn River plays directly into the hands of the American army. All the 7th Cavalry will have to do is crest a hill here, flank some Redskins there, and this thing will be a done deal. You can bank on it.

August, 480 BC
History will look kindly on the Persians.

This weekend, the Persian army, as willed by His Magnificent Majesty, King Xerxes I, will storm right into Sparta through Thermopylae. How do I know this? The Persian army is five million strong. It drinks rivers. It eats cities. It’s going to out-maneuver and out muscle whatever puny resistance the Greeks can put up.

Scouts say there are a couple hundred Spartans doing naked calisthenics and combing each other’s hair in the mountain pass they’ve selected for the "battle." And these are warriors? I don’t mean to sound homophobic or anything, but how are the Spartans even going to raise their swords? They’re too busy doing nude jumping jacks and sniffing each other’s scalps. Maybe they’ll want to do makeovers on the Persian soldiers. I don’t know; I’m not a Spartan general. But look for the Persians to win big and solidify their dominance in the greater Aegean. I’ll be supremely surprised if the Spartans provide even as much resistance as a warm summer breeze.

I don't feel very sparkly today

By Curtis Woodward
Fabulous

It’s a sad day here, jellybeans. And I feel like I should just lay it out there on the line for you. For Curtis is sad today because he has lost a friend. His best friend, one could even say.

Rubies, my cat, is dead.

Woe is me! *sob*

On Sunday, while I was watching that little powder keg Steve Smith play his tootsie off against the Bears, I was playing with Rubies on the carpet. Rubies and I would always roll around on the carpet and giggle together, just sharing in our friendship. Of course the other cats in the house (Jangles, Beatrice, Bumblebee, Harry, Kiwi and Roy G. Biv) would all get jealous of the attention Rubies got, but I didn’t care. He was my favoritest.

So, after we were playing with some toys, he made a beeline for the door and meowed and scratched at it, wanting to go outside. So I cracked open the door and he slunk out, all cute-like, and then loped through the front yard, across the sidewalk, leaped over the flower beds by the street, sidestepped a trash can and was then immediately drilled by a 2004 Dodge Ram. All I saw was a puff of white fur.

Well, you can only imagine the state I was in. This, of course, coming just a day after Thomas Brady was knocked from the playoffs. I tried everything to feel better. I made up a special-occasion quiche for myself; I had Ben and Jerry’s ice cream straight from the tub; I took four bubble baths in one day; I even tried to watch Notting Hill, but not even Hugh Grant’s befuddling charm could cheer me up.

So I write to you all as a sad man. A sad man wearing red sweatpants.

But I have a job to do, and Rubies would have wanted me to do it. So here are my picks for this week’s upcoming NFL games.

Carolina at Seattle
Isn’t Clinton Portis funny? He always dresses up like wacky characters during his press conferences and entertains the media. He’s a very funny guy. Did you see the time he dressed up like George Clinton from the P Funk All Stars? I have that album! I get down to it every now and then when I feel like dancing in my living room. But that was very hilarious, Mr. Portis. Then a few weeks ago, he dressed up as a coach named Janky Spanky! And he wore little tight shorts that showed off those big, powerful, strong thighs of his. I could have just melted, and I guess I sort of did. Thank you, Clinton for making my day.

And what does Clinton Portis have to do with this game? Well, actually nothing. But I didn’t want to write about Jake Delhomme, because I think he’s a slut.
Carolina 24, Seattle 14

Pittsburgh at Denver
I just don’t know what to make of this game. It will feature an obese running back, a safety with craaaazy hair, two quarterbacks with beards (Curtis is not a fan of beards, people. I hate the scratchiness), a man named Ashley and a coach who apparently spits all the time. Sissy.
Denver 17, Pittsburgh 13

Honey, would you please wash these fucking dishes?

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

I’m bored with the NFL playoffs.

At least going into this weekend, I knew what was going on. Tony Dungy was going to lead his team to the Super Bowl and instantly sell the story rights to CBS for a made-for-TV docudrama starring Don Cheadle (as Dungy), James Van Der Beek (as Peyton Manning), and now probably Kenneth Branagh (as Mike Vanderjagt). I was really cheering for Tony Dungy, because of the tragedy surrounding him and his team, and now I don’t even know who to cheer for!

What the FUCK?

I can’t cheer for Denver because their quarterback looks like that dirty Ron Jeremy from the VH1 series about loving the eighties (and don’t think I don’t know what his DAYJOB is!) and their coach looks all crabby and reminds me of Balky from Perfect Strangers. I don’t really know why. And I can’t cheer for Carolina because I’ve never really liked that shade of blue, not since my daughter spilled ketchup sauce all over this gorgeous blouse of that color that my husband got me for Mother’s Day. And I can’t cheer for whatever fourth team is left in the playoffs.

All my husband wanted to do today is see replays of the same crap while I had to tape Desperate Housewives and Grey’s Anatomy on TiVO ... what’s the fucking point? The field goal misses every time. Sorry, I don’t mean to get potty-mouthed, but there’s only so much you can take when Sean Salisbury is talking about who he thinks is going to win the Super Bowl in the Coors Light Six Pack or the Budweiser Hot Seat or the Miller Lite Plays of the Day (where that appalling fat man makes various noises without actually telling us what’s going on ... someone should really put him out of his misery).

Without the Colts, I can’t even pretend to care what’s going on anymore in the NFL. But I still know next Sunday will be dedicated to watching the remaining teams fight it out for some meaningless title that carries no interesting backstory. Well screw that shit, I’m going shopping.

Hook 'er, horny: The Vince Young debate

Skip Bayless called him the next Michael Jordan. Lee Corso shrieked that he's the greatest college quarterback of all-time. Chris Berman (who ain't dead yet, people) said that Reggie Bush is going to be nothing but, well, flotsam in the 2006 NFL draft. All riled up, our panel of columnists discuss the issue of whom the Houston Texans should select, as if it might affect their franchise in any meaningful way.


Bandwagon Burt
Do you know what I love about Vince Young? EVERYTHING. But also his attitude! Did you see the way he just marched into the end zone and totally blew USC out of the water? He just kinda stared into space saying, "Yeah, that’s right, I just scored the biggest touchdown in the history of college football!" HOOK 'EM HORNS! I want a guy like that on my NFL team, no doubt. I kind of want like a miracle, ya know, and have him fall to the Patriots but honestly, I'm gonna cheer for him no matter who drafts him. Go get Vince Young, Houston! The Texans are going to be a team to watch in 2006, you mark my words!


Agatha Moonfry
Like the way Screaming Trees never quite made a name for themselves despite being the most artistically savvy band of the early 1990s grunge movement, or the way Sugar Ray never quite translated onto rock radio after one ill-placed single gave fans the wrong idea, or the way Blind Mellon entirely lost the momentum of their early work once Shannon Hoon went to the big coke party in the sky, Vince Young is a passing fancy, my serpents. He has some skills, but so do The Killers, and we all know perfectly well that The Killers will be dead in a few years. I'll see to it. How one game can make the entire population of that sticky, arid southern state want him over a potential Hall of Famer escapes me. As Reznor once sang, "I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel," the Texans should not continue this masochistic exercise of dabbling in suck. They need to go with the initial instinct and take Reggie Bush.


Curtis Woodward
You loyal, lovely readers out there know that I just love football. I watch it all the time, because there's just soo much testosterone and pent-up tension from these men on the field, and I'm always thinking of ways to relieve tension (winks!). But it has been a long, long time since I've seen as sexy of a football player as Reggie Bush. He's like Clark Kent, only when Clark Kent is turned into Superman. He's always leaping and dancing and prancing into the end zone! Ohhhhh, it's amazing! Texans, you must draft him. Because while Vince Young may be a tall piece of lean beef himself capable of sending me into the occasional conniption, that doesn't change the fact that he also throws like me.


Dakota Brezinski
Yesterday, I really wanted the banana fruit snacks Mommy packed in my lunch. I have had them for many days in a row, and they are soooooo good, and probably the best part of my day, except for the time when we get to sing songs for the Holiday Program in Mrs. Washington's class (she yells at us if we call it "Christmas" because she says the hair-ticks don't want Jesus in the classroom). Before I could eat my fruit snacks, McKenna Mitchell said she would give me her glass of chocolate milk if I gave her my snacks. This was a dilemma. Sometimes, when I have to think about an important decision, I go to the bathroom, because Daddy says he does his best thinking on the throne. But I had to choose right away, because McKenna had a better offer from Jordan Mulroney, who had a can of PEPSI! So I rushed the decision and made the trade, and boy was I sad. Afterward, I cried, because I did not have the lingering flavor of banana on my tongue. Instead, I had chocolate milk, which had little chunks of powder not stirred good. Vince Young is like the uneven chocolate milk and Reggie Bush is the banana snacks. Why would you go for something that looks good and rush your decision and not use your throne properly, when you could have the reliable banana fruit snacks? It's one of life's great mysteries. I have to pee.


Marv Blackstone
I've got a shotgun shell ready for the next bastard who says that Reggie Bush is Sam Bowie. With Portland being the closest NBA team to my home, I tend to rise and fall with the success of the team. And Portland's selection of Bowie sent me into a six-year tailspin of heavier-than-normal-drinking, bank robbing, bar fights, drug use, arson, indecent exposure, tax fraud, mail fraud, embezzlement, cannibalism, conspiracy, manslaughter, grand theft auto, vehicular assault, stalking and criminal use of a firearm. The man only averaged 10 points per game in college. That's it. Reggie Bush set the world on fire in college, so we're not talking about Sam Bowie here. And one good game by Vince Young doesn't change who Reggie Bush is. Think logically and rationally here. Cause if you don't, I'll shoot you in your damn face.


Bandwagon Burt
Look, you know, I've been thinking about it, and Houston would be CRAZY to draft Vince Young. I mean, yeah, he was good and all that, but REGGIE BUSH is like the next OJ SIMPSON or WALTER PAYTON. Everyone says so, even the guys on SportsCenter. So I have to think Houston will not beat around the Bush (haha!) and go for Reg-gie Reg-gie Reg-gie with the first overall pick in the draft. People say I impersonate the commissioner David Tagliabue really well. "With the first overall pick in the NFL draft, the Houston Texans select ... REGGIE BUSH from sunny Soooo-Cal!" Awww yeah. This is gonna be the Texans' year, I can feel it!

God I love my teams

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind sock

San Antonio doesn't get any respect folks, admit it, you don't even really know who Tim Duncan is. You do? Okay, forget it, but they're awesome! I love San Antonio! They're like my favorite team in the NBA and they're so sweet all the time! They have those weird colors on the floor ... pink and turquoise or something and Tim Duncan reminds me of the late great David Robinson! They don't have those colors anymore? David Robinson is still alive? But he's not playing anymore, right? San Antonio is the best team in the NBA, and they're going to win the NBA title again and I will dance in the streets and you will be jealous. SAN ANTONIO!

If I had to cheer for a team in the Eastern Conference it would be the Detroit Pistons because they're like a bunch of hard asses. Rasheed Wallace and Ben Wallace have the best hair around, I don't even know why I like them I just do. I have a cousin that lives in Detroit. Well, actually Holland, Mich., but I think that's somewhere near Detroit. Pistons power! Did you know they only have like five losses? They're going to set all kinds of records with the number of wins they have this year. Maybe just one record -— you know, the one with the most wins. Ben Wallace is such a badass! If the Pistons ever played San Antonio, I'd probably cheer for the Pistons, but it'd be REALLY close. FIVE LOSSES is all the Pistons have! And Rasheed is like a rebounding machine.

My third favorite team is the HEAT from MIAMI, they're like this up and coming team with a ninja master coach named Pat Riley. D-WADE is the sweetest player in the NBA and they also have Shaq of course, who averages something like 25 points and 16 rebounds a game. I think. And D-WADE, I saw him cut to the basket on SportsCenter the other day and he totally jammed it in some scrub's face. If the Heat ever played the Pistons or San Antonio, I'd probably cheer for the Heat but it'd be REALLY close, I'd probably have to pick someone with the flip of a coin. Or a three-sided thing, cuz I guess we're talking about three teams here. SHAQ! He's the best player in the NBA and has been since the merger. And I like it when he doesn't answer reporters but tells them to have a Merry Christmas. That guy is like a beast with a funny accent. He's like 7-foot-4 and 280 pounds of bulk and wisdom.

If I'm not watching pro basketball, I'm definitely cheering for Duke. My wife bought me tickets to Cameron Indoor to see them play Elkhorn State and Duke totally scrubbed the floor with those scrubs. I've loved Duke ever since I was a little boy, and I cheered for them in the down years when they made the Final Four all those times but didn't win it all. Mike Kshashefsky is the greatest coach in college basketball history, and you know it's true, so don't even argue. COACH K IS GOD. And they're ranked No. 1 in the nation, and your team completely sucks compared to Duke. They're probably going to win the ACC this year. If Duke played San Antonio or Detroit or Miami, I'd probably cheer for Duke, but it'd be REALLY close.

I want Chris Berman dead

By Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

I'm a simple man. I like my chili spicy, my steaks bloody rare, and my gay cowboys straight. Straight, I said. Save that Brokeback Mountin' stuff for the California hippies.

I pretty much keep to myself here in Montana, except for the occasional fauna that wander onto the property. They're nice and peaceful to look at, but they also get all up in my rutabagas. "Get out of my rutabagas!" I'll scream. I usually get rid of them pretty quickly with a shotgun blast or nine, and I'll sometimes even get dinner from it if the gun doesn't misfire. Nothing like some tender venison when I sit down to watch baseball games on warm summer nights.

Those are the things I love. That's not too absurd, is it? I don't ask for much, but I will ask for one thing.

I want Chris Berman dead.

Yeah, you heard me. Every Sunday night I'll sit down, excited to watch the highlights of that day’s NFL games. And because of that blow to the head I took from a state trooper back in 1988, my memory isn’t too great –- so each and every week, I forget who hosts the ESPN highlight show.

It's Berman. So when that show comes on, I discover all over again that Berman will be narrating my highlights, just whoopin' and sweating and not making any damn sense. A talking penguin as a top play of the day? This is football, damnit! Most of you readers out there just live with that lingering knowledge in the back of your head, but not me. Every Sunday night, I find out anew that Berman is the host and it's like someone hooked a car battery to my testes. I can’t take it anymore.

So I want one of you to fix it. Just take care of him. I don't care how you do it, though I have some ideas for you if you want help.

That fat, loud man just ruins all that is good journalism. Oh sure, laugh at me, you smug little pricks. I know I've had my share of journalistic improprieties. Like that time I fabricated a story about the mayor of Boise sleeping with three rugged truckers and then smuggling coke across the Canadian border using the bodies of dead hookers. Anyone can get a source wrong. Or yeah, there was that time I filled my managing editor's coffee thermos with two quarts of my own urine after he rewrote one of my leads just because it had an "ethnic slur" in it.

Poppycock, I say.

I get what I want. And like I said, I want Chris Berman dead.

When I was nine years old, I used to watch Bugs Bunny cartoons. Most children did. However, I soon realized that Elmer Fudd looked an awful lot like my uncle, Merv Blackstone. Funny shaped head and always wearing a hat –- hell, they even talked a little bit alike. And seeing that damn rabbit messing with my uncle day after day after day just set me off. It traumatized me. So what did I do? I made it my mission to kill every rabbit that came near our house. That summer I killed more than 284 rabbits with my pellet gun. It was all I did. Pop pop pop! Pop! Pop pop rat tat tat! Haha! And then when I was done teaching those rabbits a lesson, I buried them all in the backyard under a big elm tree. And then I set the elm tree on fire and danced as it burned.

Maybe I was obsessed. But I don't care. It's the same thing now. I have to sit there in my cabin, getting Berman's smug, frosting-covered face beamed into my TV by my big satellite. My satellite isn't supposed to bring me these bad things. It's supposed to bring me televised sports and provide a venue for nude sunbathing. Anything else is unwarranted, uncalled for and inspires my rage.

So do it however you need to. I’ll ship 25 pounds of tender venison to the person who takes care of it, too.

Thanks in advance.

Marcus Vick!

By Dakota Brezinski
Six-year-old

Daddy says Marcus Vick is a poopyhead, but he doesn't say poopy.

He says that you are given lots of chances when you have athletic ability, which is also why he tells me that I better do things right on the first try. He likes cheering for the Virginia Tech, and he is angry that Marcus Vick has failed to live to potential, just like my older sister Kaitlin. He says Marcus Vick could have been the greatest thing ever, but because he is a poopyhead, the Virginia Tech lost to Bobby Bowden, who reminds my daddy of when grandpa has too many drinks. I think that makes daddy sad. My daddy's name is Dave and he works in selling stuff.

I like Marcus Vick. Sometimes, Timmy Williamson from the back of the bus throws spitwads at me and calls me names, and I'm too little to really give him the business like my friend Tanner says he will do someday. So I imagine I am Marcus Vick, who can step on Timmy Williamson's leg in the middle of the bus and make him cry. Sometimes I imagine pulling a gun on Timmy and his friends and seeing if they like me THEN, and make them cry. I know if I really did those things, I would probably get grounded, but Marcus Vick lives without rules. Nobody wants to ground him.

When I am Marcus Vick, I imagine I can throw for 19 touchdowns in 24 games and rush for six more. When I am Marcus Vick, I can eat and drink whatever I want, and the only vegetables are beans named Jim. When I am Marcus Vick, I can do something called "have sex with a 15-year-old." I don't really know what that means, but Tanner says it's naughty.

Except, Daddy says Marcus Vick's chances are all gone, so maybe he doesn't really have these powers after all. That makes me sad. But Daddy says Marcus will still make a bajillion trillion dollars in the NFL, because "the league doesn't care what a poopyhead you are if you can make plays." He doesn't say poopy, but he does say that Vick is a Dick a lot. I don't know who Dick is.

Marcus Vick, I love you! When things are bad, I think of you and you make me believe in myself. I want you to make the NFL, because you can make plays and give linebackers that look like Timmy Williamson the business. I don't think you're a poopyhead.

Why doesn't anyone pay attention to my touchdown celebrations?

By Jesse Adams
White Receiver

I don't get it. I've enjoyed a solid start to my NFL career. I came out of college as a lightly-regarded prospect and I bullied my way into a starting gig by sheer will and hard work. I run crisp, clean routes and I have good hands. Because of extra time spent in the weight room, I've become physical enough to get past most jams at the line of scrimmage. And since I stand 6-foot-5, I'm one of the league's more dangerous red zone threats.

So with that said, I have to ask: Why doesn't anyone pay attention to my touchdown celebrations?

Take two weeks ago, for example. We had the ball on the opponent's 15 yard line and were threatening to score. With the snap, I shimmied off the line and shirked the cornerback. I ran straight out precisely nine yards, juked right and then snapped off left to the corner of the end zone. A perfect fade route, bitches. I turned and saw the ball halfway to me and I jumped up, battled the safety and took what was rightfully mine. Touchdown.

I then put the ball in between my feet and stood on my hands, walking on them back and forth across the end zone for a few seconds. When I came down, I looked around for someone to celebrate with, and no one was there. Not a soul. Everyone was already back on the sidelines, hamming it up with the quarterback.

That night I made sure to watch ESPN, figuring that I'd be on there with a display like that. And I was. But just my catch. After they showed the grab, they immediately cut to a shot of our quarterback jumping into the air to celebrate.

That night's Sportscenter had clips of Steve Smith making snow angels in the end zone, Plaxico Burress faux-riding a horse and Santana Moss making out with Clinton Portis after a score. But no love for me.

So what gives?

I'm well-liked by all of my teammates. I'm widely known as a good clubhouse presence and a leader in the community. People around the league describe my game by using such terms as "steady," "consistent" and "reliable." Sports Illustrated's Peter King wrote, "Jesse Adams isn't flashy, but he just goes out there and does a good job."

Not flashy? Excuse me? He must not have seen the time I scored on a post pattern against the Ravens and then did the chicken dance for nearly 45 uninterrupted seconds. Or the time that I slipped up the middle against the Seahawks for six, tied the football to the goalpost with some twine and played tetherball with myself. I'm sorry, but that's just pure genius. But no, what was on Sportscenter that night? Just another shot of Chad Johnson dipping his balls in nacho cheese and serving them, along with tortilla chips, to T.J. Houshmandzadeh.

Bullshit, I say.

My donning-a-mullet-wig-and-playing-slap-bass-on-a-four-stringer- and-amplifier-that-I-pulled-out-from-under-the-goalpost celebration was way better than that. But the cameras didn’t even catch me. They showed our running back holding one finger up in the air toward the crowd. Oh yeah, that's real original.

I guess I'll just have to up the ante next time. And there will be a next time, because you can’t stop Jesse Adams.

Book it.

Every day is exactly the same

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

I begin with a quote from the man-god Trent Reznor:

"Every day is exactly the same. Every day is exactly the same. There is no love here and there is no pain. Every day is exactly the same."

What genius. It speaks to me on virtually every level imaginable, including how I look at the college basketball scene on days like yesterday, Jan. 7. Everyone is ravaged with glee when a slew of upsets befall the top 25, going as far as calling it "Upset Saturday," as if the day will be remembered as one in infamy the same way we remember the day Dimebag Darrell was ...

I couldn't finish that sentence and just took a 20 minute break. It's not that I even respected Pantera (or Damageplan) as a major artistic centerpiece to the metal/rock scene, but damn, that was some twisted, obscene bullshit, wasn't it?

Upset Saturday...my nipple ring. This happens every year, especially early in the season when teams are still sorting through academic ineligibilities, players leaving the team for "personal reasons" (which is additional bullshit. In high school, I quit the cheerleading squad for "personal reasons." These guys are leaving their teams because of an addiction to something fabulous, an inability to stop bitch-slapping the ones they love, or the simple fact that everyone on their team hates them.) and general "chemistry," which is my favorite sports term.

The landscape of college basketball is one of parity. We all know it. Trent sings about it. Bucknell beat Kansas last year in the first round of the NCAA Tournament, and few people even recall that as a major upset...to make waves in March as an underdog, you have to actually get to the Sweet 16. These upsets happen every week, every day (is exactly the same), and I don't understand why everyone is shocked to see several happen in one day.

Iowa, in their third game back with Jeff Horner running the point, put it all together to beat No. 6 Illinois. Dick Bennett, who adorably flipped off the Washington students the last time his Washington State team played in Seattle, guided his team to a road win over No. 10 Huskies. No. 25 North Carolina destroyed No. 12 N.C. State. No. 12 Maryland lost by 14 to Miami on the road (probably because Nik Caner-Medley has been with the Terps since "The Downward Spiral" was vogue). Nebraska beat No. 14 Oklahoma on a last-second three. Kansas (the ones that lost to Bucknell) trashed an increasingly-miserable No. 19 Kentucky team. And No. 2 Connecticut nearly lost its second in a row, winning at home by one point over LSU. I know it's juvenile, but I giggle every time I hear the name "Rudy Gay." I'm going to start a band called Rudy Gay.

This is how the world is, my charming lovelies. I recognize that typically at the top, you have one or two true dominating forces, such as North Carolina last year or Metallica after The Black Album tour (and then all your talent leaves for the NBA or gets sucked into some vortex of doom, such as this year's North Carolina or "St. Anger.") I appeal to all of you to stop being such freaks about it and live in the present, where no team will go without major hiccups in their schedule.

I can feel the opening chords of "Sad But True" washing over my body. Like a tidal flow of some kind.

Five things that I'm feeling right now

By Curtis Woodward
Fabulous

1. Ooooh, Patriots!
They sure did come through yesterday against the Jaguars. I've always been a big fan of the boys in blue and silver (and not the Cowboys!), ever since Thomas took over behind center Dan Koppen (a real beefcake from Boston College!). They're just irresistible to watch, and I can't help but root, root, root for them to win! And nothing is better than blowouts like yesterday, where we get to see plenty of shots of Thomas standing on the sidelines with his trademark, boyish grin on display. Mmm, mmm. He knows all about the Super Bowl, and I know all about the Super Blow. Toot toot! I think we're a match made in heaven.

2. Speaking of heaven, I had the opportunity to watch the Minnesota Timberwolves the other night on TNT. Aside from the giggles that Sir Charles Barkley provides me every time I tune in, I got to watch some good, ol' fashioned roundball action. While the cameras seemed awful concerned with the dunking-the-basketball-antics of Kevin Garnett, I found myself completely drawn to sharpshooting guard Wally Sczerbiak. He scored 24 points, most of them coming from a beautiful, smooth, slick mid-range stroke. He has enjoyed a career year up in the Land of 1,000 Lakes in 2005, and I only hope it continues for him.

3. Special delivery! Tonight is the second slate of the NFL's first round of playoff games –- and it features none of than my favorite NFL running back, Tiki Barber! I can't wait to curl up in the Curtis Cave tonight with my favorite blanket and a big bowl of kettle corn to watch him come out of the backfield. First of all, that name is just a joy to say (and scream!) whenever I'm speaking or thinking about him. And second, he just has the nicest brown eyes of anyone I have ever had the pleasure of watching. Too bad that he has to wear that darn safety bar across his helmet (insert angry face here!), which covers up his best features. Well, maybe not his BEST feature! Hey now!

4. Earth to Manny Ramirez: Hey slugger, make up your mind! I love your fun hair and crazy personality, but this scribe thinks it's time you either put up or shut up. First you say you want to be traded, then you say you don’t want to be traded. Then you want to play out on the West Coast (who can blame you?!) and then you say Boston is the place for you. Then you tell me to call you sometime, and then you don’t answer any of my calls! Which way are you going to go? Grrrrrr ...

5. Is it just me, or has the national media overreacted to the college football championships? It gets so much coverage, but no one ever remembers who wins each of these bowls. I mean, who won last year's FedEx Bowl? Bet you have to go and look it up! I must say that I did watch some of the games, because I can never turn down a good sports match. I was sad to see my two favorite signal-callers, Matt Leinhart and Brady Quinn (this column is about the Brady bunch, eh?!) lose their big games. Though I don't understand all the attention paid to Brady's sister dating that lineback from The Ohio State University. The camera was on her 24-7 and she is not even that cute. I think someone I know could give her a few makeup tips –- because honey, your face is not a barn door, so don’t cover it like one. Zap!

That’s all for now, my readers. Until next time, stay saucy!