Phillip Rivers is an Ivy League-Looking Shitheel With an Asshole Face

So, I was considering whether or not to make this post, as it's a tad light in my sweet velour substance you've all come to know and love in my quarterly outbursts, but I decided in favor of it upon learning that Phillip Rivers had taken to yelling at the Indianapolis crowd at the conclusion of the Chargers' victory over the Colts today. Below, to support my "Phillip Rivers is an Ivy League-looking shitheel with an asshole face" argument, is a video of him trash talking the Broncos' Jay Cutler (conveniently with his helmet off, so we can see his aforementioned asshole face) towards the conclusion of the Chargers' December 24th win against the Broncos.



Look at his little asshole face... Doesn't he look like he should be telling racist jokes about the members of the campus Alpha Phi Alpha house? As evidenced by the title of my little post here, my preferred term for that look is "shitheel".

Of course, he's never jawing it up when he's just had his shit pushed in by [insert random team with a decent linebacker who can breathe his way through their sweet, buttery offensive line].

On the topic of Phillip Rivers, Professional Shitheel, remember when Eli Manning said he would refuse to sign with the Chargers if they drafted him, on account of their sucking and his opinion that playing for them wouldn't be conducive to his career? :: dies of laughter ::

P. S. - I know he didn't go to an Ivy League school, and I never claimed he did. Stop emailing me.

So It's Come To This: Mixed Martial Arts is the New Poker

Ah, back at last following my lengthy, quarter-long sabbatical. I, like the Iraqi and American Congresses, have enjoyed spending the summer doing absolutely nothing other than poking my prick around the clock. The reason I've been doing absolutely nothing other than poking my prick around the clock is two-fold: Firstly, I like to emulate the people whom my Grade-fuckin'-A public school teachers always told me were the shining stars of our society, and that, of course, would be our honorable elected leaders. Sparing no expense, I also poked my prick into some brush during this summer, lest President Rodeo Curious George Governor Bush go unemulated. The second reason for my doing nothing but poking my prick this summer (whether it be out in the open or in some brush) is teenagers. Not all teenagers, mind you, just the ones between (and including) the ages of thirteen to nineteen.

What, exactly, is the inability of said teenagers to shut the fuck up during a God damn movie? This is the primary reason why I didn't see Knocked Up or The Bourne Ultimatum, two movies that I knew would be swarmed with them. Thankfully, school's starting up again this week, which means I can finally drag my ass into a theater for Balls of Fury and Superbad, accompanied by the sound of me laughing and absolutely nothing the fuck else. To give you an idea of how shitty it is to go to the movies in the summer, here's a record of my internal monologue from Live Free or Blow Hard (I would've seen Transformers that day, but I got duped into seeing this piece of shit, which, as I expected, completely ruined the first three Die Hard movies for me), courtesy of my personal court stenographer: No, Johnny is not in this theater. No, Johnny will not meet you at the fucking Burger King after the movie. No, no one in your group wants to get up to get your drinks refilled. No, no one thinks your 50 fucking Cent/static-with-a-beat ring tone is cool. Yes, I will jam your God damn cell phone up your ass if you don't turn off the fucking backlight and the sound to your stupid fucking Tetris clone. But, I digress. On to the topic.

There used to be a time when Mixed Martial Arts (abbreviated MMA; also known as Ultimate Fighting, Cage Fighting, or the Blue Oyster Bar) was impossible to come by outside of Japan. Japan was where big, three hundred pound Americans would go to get their asses kicked by a pasty, eighty pound Nintendo rep in a headband. Chances were that if you were watching MMA back in the early 90s, you were breaking some kind of local law simply by viewing it. But then the state sporting commissions got involved, threatened to arrest participants and organizers if they didn't "clean the sport up", and hence the ballshots went the way of the Scaly Large-Cocked Dwarf Dodo of Siberia as the sport gained more and more popularity (you'd think that more ballshots would equal more ratings and visc-versa, but apparently not).

Now, MMA is fucking everywhere. For every decent MMA organization, there's one that sucks, and for every great MMA organization, there's ten that totally suck. Television is completely oversaturated with them. Bob Sapp can only floor so many fools before even he gets tired and winds up needing to drop excessive amounts of weight like his brother. As for Chuck Liddell, imagine how bad his life is: he used to cushion his fist with the teeth of those inferior to him, and now he can't even close his hand in the ring thanks to state sporting commissions. MMA's turned into the hot new thing, just like Poker, and like all hot new things, Poker included, it's going to shrivel and die because of it. The only thing we can hope is that years from now, Chuck Liddell will figuratively cushion his fist with the teeth of those inferior to him as he bluffs them out of all their money in the "Legends of Mixed Martial Arts Poker Tournament", where all proceeds will go to charities supporting the now-destitute legends of Mixed Martial Arts.

:: sigh :: Well, there's still football.

Scout.com - NFL Rule changes for 2006: "If possible, rushing defenders must make a conscious effort to avoid low hits on the quarterback. Previously, defenders were not compelled to make a conscious effort to avoid low hits if momentum was a factor. Penalty: Roughing the passer, loss of 15 yards.
"Reason for the change: Player safety."

... Fuck.

Lenny Owns You

For those of you who don't know who Lenny is, he's the guy who owns the appropriately-named "Lenny's", where I've been eating since I was three. Founded in the late eighties on West 84th Street in Manhattan, Lenny's makes sandwiches that piss all over any other sandwich ever made. The reason for this is because Lenny is a fanatical sandwich maker who is to sandwich makers what suicide bombers are to Muslims, and understands that an important part of a solid sandwich, aside from the taste itself, is that it's aesthetically pleasing. Because of this, he has a sort of "sandwich school", where aspiring sandwich makers learn why you need to put something between roast beef and fresh turkey on a sandwich, and other nitpicking specifics regarding the making of sandwiches that border on psychotic.

Because the Gods both smile upon and fear Lenny, Lenny has ten well-established restaurants in Manhattan (a place where the average restaurant lasts three months) and intends to have another ten within three and a half years, as well as a hundred restaurants in South Korea (the proud country blessed enough to have produced the one known as "Lenny"), the American Northeast (obviously excluding Manhattan, you schmuck), and the American Mid-Atlantic.

As if all this isn't enough, Lenny has recently caught on to his status as an emerging, popular new God, and is rumored to soon declare Manhattan the Mecca of Sandwiches, encouraging all sandwich lovers (and people who enjoy eating food for sustenance in general) to make a yearly pilgrimage to the City of New York, so that they may partake in holy experiences such as the stoning of the idols, which are ninety-foot high statues of pre-packaged 7/11 sandwiches with no condiments of any kind. Thousands are expected to be trampled in the proud and beautiful name of Lenny the Almighty, Sandwich God to all the Sandwich Kings, Lord of All the Cold Cuts of the Earth and Smoked Salmon of the Sea, Conquerer of Zeus on Mount Olympus and Ruler of All the Olympians in General, and Equal in Power to the Titans of Earth and Kronos in Particular.

http://www.lennysnyc.com/

P. S. - You're going to need some sides with that. Make sure to check out the roasted red potatoes and the macaroni and cheese; they're the fucking bomb.

P. P. S. - You're going to need some soup with that, too! The chicken noodle's pretty fucking good.

What is Sport?

Being someone who follows a number of sports, I hear (okay, fine, I think I hear) numerous arguments between people who can't decide on what a "sport" is. Merriam Webster OnLine defined "sport" in several inexplicably useless ways, so as such, dictionary.com defines it as "physical activity that is governed by a set of rules or customs and often engaged in competitively". This immediately eliminates Golf as a sport. If you think that standing, moving your torso once every five minutes, and then walking a few hundred yards is a sport, you might be a pig, a cripple, or a sitting Vice President.

In my mind, what defines something as a "sport" is being a rigorously physical, competetive activity governed by a set of rules which allow your opponent to affect your performance. Since "rigorously physical" is subjective, I have to take that term out of my definition (in reality, it was just a scheme to eliminate Baseball as a sport, but alas, I have to relent and accept Baseball's admission as a "sport"). In other words, if your opponents in Golf stood five yards in front of you with metal shields, trying to block your drive, Golf would be a sport.

Additionally, the type of injuries that occur in a competetive game are a good indicator of whether or not the game is a sport. Once again, this eliminates Golf, as the only truly troublesome injury anyone ever got related to the play of Golf was cirrhosis of the liver (live viewers hit on the head with balls and flying clubs don't count). Water polo, on the other hand, despite not being very exciting to look at, is a good example of how injuries can indicate whether or not something's a sport, as the injuries its players get range from broken noses to, well, death by drowning. When looking at the types of injuries that polo (the kind played on horseback on dry or sometimes dewy land) players get, it's probably a safe bet that it's a sport on account of all the broken necks. As for football, virtually everything indicates that football is a sport, from the fiercly competative play often described as a "battle" to the broken necks and the legs split like toothpicks (I'm lookin' at you, Theisman!).

Virtually no form of racing is a sport because you typically aren't allowed to compromise your opponent's position in anyway other then passing them (or cutting them off, but even then, it can't be too sudden; we wouldn't want these assholes to have to touch their brakes). Hell, in NASCAR you can't even bump into the asshole or spin him out. However, there are, in theory, forms of racing that would be considered sport. Mario Kart, for instance, would be a sport if it were real, since you can shoot shells and what have you at your opponents to knock them off the course, sometimes into lava or, more entertainly, an endless void.

ESPN, which stands for the Entertainment and Sports Programming Network (despite having long ago having started showing non-entertaining non-sports), was promoting the "World Series Of Darts" last summer. Darts is not a sport. Nothing that you have to get drunk in order to get excited about doing is a sport. I don't care if your opponent has to stand in front of the dartboard and you have to attempt to throw the dart through or around him. It's not a God damn sport. As for the "World Series Of Poker" (which you know gives ESPN a hard-on because it literally requires them to do almost no work and devise no thoughtful analysis regarding it), well, if you think Poker is a sport on any level, you are an idiot. I don't mean your normal drink-the-stuff-under-the-sink idiot, although I am impressed you've survived long enough to read this. I mean a full-fledged, non-voting, neo-conversvative, Golf fan IDIOT.

As for hunting, well, this is a bit more complicated. Hunting is a sport in certain circumstances. If you're going toe-to-toe with an animal who can move eight times faster and quieter then you (SEE: Cougar) armed only with a spear and a cross, it's a sport. On the other hand, if you're hunting birds with anything that has a scope on it, you're a jackass (and this also isn't a sport because you have to be drunk to want to shoot at birds, and you have to be even drunker to need a scope to shoot at them). As for hunting Cougars and other large, magician-eating felines, while a firearm does level the playing field, certain firearms tip the scales grossly in your favor (SEE: the Smith & Wesson Model 500 Revolver*) by giving you five quick shots that can be easily reloaded. The only appropriate gun for hunting creatures that might as well have the ability to teleport is a double-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun, the kind that takes you as long to reload as it takes the beast you're engaging in a duel with to eat a Gazelle (HINT: Keep lots of spare Gazelle on-hand to cut loose as a distraction in case you need to reload). Still and still, a true sportsman uses nothing more then a crossbow.

As a public service, I will be keeping a running log of what, by my moral standards, are and aren't sports, which can be found at the following link: [link not yet available]

*I do not have any particular gripes with the Model 500 Revolver--In fact, it occurs to me as a fantastic weapon to kill people of terrorist descent with (see: that ugly Park Avenue bitch who got a modeling gig solely by being bin Laden's neice)--I just don't think it's appropriate for hunting large wild life with, which Smith & Wesson claimed it was designed for.

Upcoming Movies I'm Not Going To See

Live Free or Die Hard - The fourth entry in the Die Hard franchise, Live Free focuses on John McClane's attempts to bring down some kind of internet hacker/terrorist group (I don't know about you, but I've just been dying to see that particular mid-90's cliché plottline recycled) amongst a littany of insultingly rediculous stunts, alongside that swarmy little cunt who plays Mac in Apple's Mac/PC series of commercials. With a little luck, McClane will finally die hard, like the old guy in Clerks. Step one: get stiffy. Step two: shoot self in face.

Spider-Man 3 - Remember that scene in Spider-Man 2 where a three-year-old pulls Peter Parker, a fully-grown man, up out of a pit of fire? So... Yeah.

Pirates of the Carribean: At World's End - It only took a single one of those Pirates of the Carribean-obsessed teenage girls to turn me off to the entire franchise before I had even seen the first one. I actually heard the second one was so bad that it reminded John McCain of a nightmare he had WHILE HE WAS STILL IN A VIETNAMESE FUCKING PRISON!

Fantastic Four Two - Since it's probably not a sequel to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, I'm probably not going to see it. Besides, I liked Jessica Alba better when she wasn't making enough money to eat or live in general. I loved Sin City, but I bet she was on the brink of death from starvation when Robert Rodriguez called her up. Fuck. And, for those of you saying that because James Cameron, who has all that Titanic money, made Dark Angel, which had starred Jessica Alba, that somehow that means Jessica Alba has a lot of money from Dark Angel, well, just a hint for all of you: it takes a lot of money to find a common, ancient grave and convince idiots that it's the tomb of someone who probably didn't exist in the first place*.

Evan Almighty - Whoo-hoo, another Jim Carrey-less sequel! With the guy from The 40 Year Old Virgin, no less! You know, the one from The Daily Show who couldn't even play more then one type of satirical news correspondent! This is going to be great. I'm going to wear my Son of the Mask t-shirt and my Dumb and Dumberer haircut/missing tooth combo, and get a big thing of popcorn and just PIG OUT! Pass.

The Brazilian Job - Is justification even needed for not seeing this?

April 31st, 2007 Edit: Shrek 3 - Justin Timberlake.**

In conclusion, here's a random plug for a podcast I have nothing to do with about movies, television, and Hollywood in general:
A Fistful of Reviews.com - Podcasts

*Hell, considering he didn't exist, why did his bones have to rise to heaven? Why couldn't they have flown to Outworld to do battle with Shao Kahn? That would be far cooler than any of that omnipotence shit. Just a thought.

**End of April 31st, 2007 edit.

Grand Theft Auto IV

The Grand Theft Auto IV trailer came out on Friday. Whoop-de-fuckin'-doo. I was told that GTA4 would be a new evolution in the series. My achin' ass. Evolution, in terms of GTA, is not graphical, and it's not even in the variety of ways you can maim and murder people. It is two things. Firstly, it is the size of the world. Secondly, and more importantly, it is the variety of the people you maim and murder, and I simply didn't see much more variety in the trailer then what was in GTA:SA. GTA4 is not true evolution. True evolution in terms of the GTA series would have been children and retards. If I can't throw a grenade in a baby carriage or run into a Wal-Mart and blow away a couple of 'tards and fat chicks, well, it just isn't an evolution for GTA.

Another question I have: where are all the fucking cripples? GTA4 will simply not be a complete gaming experience if I can't knock some schmuck in a wheelchair on his back with a well-placed shotgun blast. Bloodlust aside, having babies (in their carriages) in the game would be a definite plus, as it would allow Rockstar to blatantly steal yet another cinematic crime drama staple: the climactic scene from The Untouchables. Sure, stealing the entire premise and various plot shifts from Scarface was great, but God damn it, I want to be forced to make the moral decision between saving a baby in a carriage that's rolling down the steps of a train station, continuing to shoot the cocksucker across from me, or taking the high road and shooting the mother.

Now, all this talk of mothers and babies brings up another quip I have with the game: no pregnant women. This is definitely something that GTA4 will need to have. And not just women ready to burst. I mean women in eight different stages of pregnancy, so if you run over a woman who isn't visibly pregnant yet, you get credit for two kills, but you only get in trouble for one! Think of how much fun it would be to wander around hunting for pregnant women with just a tiny, little, barely noticable bump!*

I suppose the overall point I'm trying to make here is that GTA4 desperately needs Rain Man taking one between the eyes. Well, that and infanticide. Lots and lots of it.

P. S. - If we get my wish for pregnant women in GTA4, perhaps we could get some really cool, deformable physics.

P. P. S. - Some people have told me that this article is completely over-the-top, but I'm just acting in everyone's best interests: we all want to see more compelling gameplay.

*Be certain to back up over her to make sure she's dead!

Rachel Ray, Regis Philbin, and Kelly Ripa: The Three Faces of Evil Starring in the Orgy of Filth Known as ABC Morning Television

I was in my doctor's office one morning well over a month ago, and they had ABC playing on a ten inch television in the corner of a room that was thirty feet across. Now, because I go HIP, this was the waiting room for people going into surgery, podiatry, opthamology, or neurology. I guess they decided to make people with brain problems, eye problems, foot problems, and problems that require surgical reconciliation of any kind wait together in a room for some reason. I guess that reason would be, "Well, why the fuck not?" The problem at hand here is not that they had people with issues pertaining to three completely unrelated fields of medicine and people with issues pertaining to one extremely general field of medicine waiting in a room together. The problem at hand is that they had people in pain waiting in a room with ABC morning television playing on the television. I can imagine how the meeting went now: "Hmm, how can we make people sitting around in pain for hours on end (because we've booked each doctor's appointment slot with four appointments instead of one) more comfortable? I know! Inflict more pain on them! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

So, I come into the waiting room at the tail end of Live with Regis and Kelly, and they have on the Senior Editor (or some shit) from Wired magazine, who's showing off a bunch of dogshit phones with needless features and horrendous prices. Regis plays up the whole "I'm an old fogey and I don't like this here technology!" thing while Kelly listens to music playing through headphones connected via Bluetooth to a cell phone with an mp3 player in it, all the while doing a dance that just reeks of "I'm not actually listening to any music", and the idiotic crowd thinks it's fucking hilarious. After this, some chick from American Idol who can't sing, named Alice McGhee or something, comes on and sings. In a move of mercy, the show cuts out before she finishes.

(Does anyone, like me, remember when Wired was a legitimate technology magazine, and not just another run-of-the-mill, unpaid advertisement for overly small, inaccessible objects you don't need? No? Just me? Alright, moving on.)

To the people who are curious as to how I've failed to see ABC morning television up until this point, go back in the article and read the part where my health insurance comes in the form of an HMO, and consider that because the state of health care in this country is, as Lewis Black would say, "a fruitful fucking waster", I'm only allowed to have one hundred medical appointments of any kind each year, not excluding any recurring appointments such as physical therapy or the intense, daily psychology that I so desperately need.

So, on comes Felicity Huffman, and as she comes out to an over-exaggerated applause from a suspiciously all-female crowd clad entirely in dogshit emo glasses, the camera shows an incubus a young woman with fake blonde hair and a bullshit perm that cost enough to feed all the starving children in the world three times over gasping "I LOVE HER!" What about her is it that you love, exactly? Is it her wooden portrayal of an insensitive, air-headed adulterer who's not happy that she "has" to stay home alone for eight hours out of the day and live the high-life, so she works out her frustrations by having kinky sex on a ladder with the only kind of man she's attracted to: an illegal immigrant from Mexico who's landscaping her fucking attrium?

As my HMO-employed doctor called me in after waiting somewhere in the area of thirty-three hours, I recapped what I had seen on ABC over the period of time I was waiting, and could only pray that the pain my doctor inflicted on me would be physical, and not mental. My mind could take no more. I was John McCain on the final plane out of Vietnam. The only thought that came to my mind after recapping what I had seen was a wish for the same thing to happen to Regis Philbin, Kelly Ripa, Rachel Ray, and Felicity Huffman as Bill Hicks once wished would happen to drivers who are the first in line at the red light and the last to see the light turn to green: "Finally, the guy snaps, 'Oh, shit!' and putters through the yellow, and I'm sitting here stuck at the same light. I'm thinking, 'I hope that guy dies on his way home. I hope he gets cut in two by a train in front of his kids. Those kids can watch their moron daddy wiggle on the hot pavement like a worm cut in half. You're too fucking stupid to drive, you should've been a blowjob!"

It occured to me a moment ago that I would be in the unfortunate position of being unable to knock ABC as a whole because Day Break was quality entertainment, but then I remembered that ABC fucking cancelled it! Day Break and Lost are perfect examples of everything I hate about the two-faced American viewing public. When it comes to Day Break, the response is, "What, plot devices? No! Why God, why must I be forced to use expend a tiny amount of my neural energy to follow a plotline?" Yet, when a show like Lost comes on, people exclaim "Ooh, plot devices! How unique and interesting!" completely ignoring the fact that Lost doesn't have a single plot device, it just has hundreds (literally, hundreds) of unsolved problems. Plot devices are used to fix seemingly unfixable problems, not create them!

I didn't put up the preceding rant the day said events occured because I had some shit to do (SEE: Recovering via an IV drip of grain whisky directly into my temples, as well as mechnical and visual stimulation in the form of Knuckles the Enchinda in Sonic the Hedgehog), so I decided I would reward you for reading this far and thus proving yourself more patient than the average American public by inflicting further pain on myself: I was going to provide you with an account of an intentional follow-up viewing of ABC morning television. Unfortunately, I turned it on a few minutes late, so I was forced to throw something large enough at my television to destroy it completely with a single blow when I saw that I was just in time for the obligatory low-angle shot of Rachel Ray from behind. When Dr. Phil talks about apples and pears, he isn't fucking around.

P. S. - This is already a month and a half past, but Brett Favre refused to retire yet again. Maybe the additional season of play for him will allow football commentators to finally make their insane commentaries sound cohrent on how it's the open receivers' fault when Brett Favre overthrows a pass to them by thirty yards.

P. P. S. - In the future, expect postscripts. Lots of them.

P. P. P. S. - Beware the Ides of March. Always.