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  • 04/18/13--07:54: THE CURIOUS INDEX, 4/18/2013
  • Aj-mccarron-drugs

    D.R.U.G.S. ARE A POSITIVE THING NO TRUST US IT'S AN ACRONYM WAIT-- OKAY. So that hat stands for "Do Right U Gain Success," and is part of Waka Flocka's new tour gear, and let's just save that for when Alabama loses to Texas A&M again, and we can say it stands for"Defense Rendered Useless (by) Gregarious Syrian."

    Let's also just all overlook the most incredible part of this all, and pay attention to the hat, and not talk about the mind-boggling reality of Waka Flocka Flame hanging out with A.J. McCarron like it's just your average Monday on this planet. #AJMCCARRONFORBRICKSQUAD #SQUAAAAAAD

    The next step: finding out Katherine Webb left "Splash" because she is having an affair with Gucci Mane, who can have sex while sleeping. ("It feels like Mozart's on my dick.")

    COLLEGE ATHLETICS IS IN A BAD PLACE THAT MAKES ME A LOT OF MONEY. Says Bill Snyder, who happily ground no-name opponents to powder in the name of inflating K-State's record, worked his assistants to the bone for years, and happily participated in whatever long rush to Mammon he's talking about when he talks about "that bad place." He does admit to being overpaid, the most comforting self-criticism one can ever make besides "sometimes my penis does just overwhelm people."

    TAMPA'S GRAVITATIONAL FIELD CLAIMS ANOTHER. Clint Trickett of FSU is rumored to be transferring to USF, and if he does you can look forward to precisely what you hear from most other people who move to Tampa: nothing, ever again, ever. #BlackHoleOfTampa

    BEHOLD A MACHINE AT WORK. Bill C just previewed every team in C-USA by April. What have you done with your life?

    HIT-UM-ERR-GOOD-SEEEETTTTTUTTT. The Mike Stoops megamix will haunt your waking consciousness.

    ETC: Zac Crain, a native of West, Texas, on the fertilizer plant explosion and what it destroyed in his hometown. WOOOO, GO MISSISSIPPI, HIT THAT RED AND DON'T LOOK BACK. This is worth watching for Charlamagne's description of Kevin Federline alone.


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    The Memphis Grizzlies are in the playoffs. You should support them and everything they are for the following reasons.

    1. The Grizzlies are the NBA's WitSec success story. They lived a fine, well-organized life in the shining city by the Pacific. They had a wife, and kids, and a great job and even a pet Bryant Reeves. Then they borrowed money from the wrong people, got in a little over their head and did some things. Some things they aren't proud of. Some things that got them in the Witness Protection Program. Now they beat people up for money in front of a raging crowd of strangers in Memphis, and have for over a decade now. It's not perfect, but it's better than letting the Triads catch up with you.

    2. The Grizzlies do not play ugly basketball. They play sluggish, brutal, cheekbone-shattering, spectacularly ugly basketball. The Grizzlies sit 29th out of 30 teams in pace and open the playoffs against the airshow L.A. Clippers. This happened six days ago when they last met:

    There will be seven games of Zach Randolph doing this (and worse) to Blake Griffin, and there will be no fouls called because Zach Randolph scares the living daylights out of everyone.

    3. Marc Gasol plays 35 minutes of professional basketball a night and is still kinda fat. If ever a player and Memphis deserved each other strictly from a metabolic point of view, it is Marc Gasol and Memphis, a town where several municipal buildings and county schools are built entirely of savory rib slabs. Gasol has played consistently every year in Memphis, so don't knock the postgame ham smoothie until you have tried it for yourself.

    4. Mike Conley is one of the few NBA players you can get on your debit card.

    Mike-conley-debit-card_medium

    Mike Conley's not really sure if you should be spending that much money on honey-glazed almonds.

    Conley also inspired one of the greatest one-man sustained splutters of flowing rage ever captured on the internet when he was signed to a $45 million contract extension in 2010. The Grizzlies have made the playoffs the past two years with Mike Conley playing point guard for the Grizzlies. (Note: Mr. Moore later apologized in grand fashion.)

    5. The fanbase. Memphis doesn't really have a whole lot going on sports-wise, or really in any direction. The course of Memphis history runs something like this:

    • cotton
    • more cotton
    • FLOOOOOOODS
    • Elvis
    • Ribs
    • Stax records
    • that time someone killed MLK there
    • RIP Memphis Showboats
    • The Firm
    • Hustle and Flow is released
    • Three Six Mafia wins an Oscar

    Aside from John Calipari's tenure at Memphis, this is pretty much a complete timeline of the city's history. It has no other professional sports teams. Besides FedEx and the local college basketball team, Memphis doesn't really have a whole lot else going on in terms of unifying, positive local rally points besides "We're not Nashville." And remember that no matter how uninhabitable Memphis may seem, they're not the hollow cultural mortuary that is Nashville. You want to ride with the River City, if only because you'd rather have the city of Memphis as a friend rather than an enemy.

    P.S. You also have a cousin in Memphis, because everyone has a cousin in Memphis. You probably don't let them borrow money, but they're a cousin nonetheless.

    6. Zach "Zach" Randolph

    20130406_ter_ar5_090_medium

    Even Jack Nicholson -- a man who Hunter S. Thompson called a friend -- is baffled by the cryptomythical figure of Zach Randolph. He is an NBA All-Star who appears to have never picked up a weight in his life, and can barely clear a doorstep with his vertical leap. To watch Randolph play in the low post is to watch a traffic barrier with arms attempt to play the game of basketball; to watch him play against Blake Griffin is to consider that there may be different gravity settings in the NBA, and that Randolph's is turned all the way up while Griffin's has been turned off completely.

    And yet he produces, snagging rebounds and points in the paint like the meanest old man at your local Y. (He even wears the same headband.) He does all this in the city best equipped to accept him for what he is: a member of the infamous Portland Jailblazers, a man who has woken up with a cop's gun drawn on him and his female guest, a man who threatened to beat Kendrick Perkins' ass because "I don't play" and the creator of what may be the single worst possession in the history of professional basketball.

    That same man, who has not had life-altering brain surgery or a religious conversion, is leading the Grizzlies into the playoffs, and doing so brilliantly because only Memphis could be strange enough to make a player like Zach Randolph ever make sense.

    7. THEY HAD AL KAPONE PLAY WITH AN ORCHESTRA TO INTRODUCE THE TEAM ONE YEAR.

    8. The mascot is geographically incorrect. But it's appropriate in spirit if you consider the local passion for dip.


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    First off: this is not Louisville's fault. They have tried to bolster their schedule, are moving conferences, and are doing everything possible to not be where they are schedule-wise. They beat the daylights out of Florida, so we feel compelled to say that for our own selfish purposes: Louisville has a superb football team, have locked down a superb football coach for a long time, and losing to them is honorable and okay not a reason to go outside and tear a piece of your deck off and throw it into the yard. You don't need to do that at all, even if that is precisely what you did.

    Second: goddamn, Louisville's schedule in 2013 is just an awful collection of tiny miserable short stories that all end with Teddy Bridgewater throwing for 500 yards under a shower of raining panties.

    Week one: Ohio Bobcats. "This might be the best team we face all year," said Charlie Strong. Frank Solich laughed. "No, Charlie, you guys will play...oh god, Charlie, I'm so sorry." Strong held him as he wept; Solich breathed in the rich, comforting aroma of the Louisville coach. He would never feel so safe or loved again.

    Week two: East Kentucky Colonels. Danny Hope used to coach at EKU, long ago when Steve Jobs and Johnny Cash were alive. Now it is 2013 and they have no Hope, no Cash, and Steve Jobs' head in a jar of 90 proof bourbon. Don't ask, it's some weird Kentucky shit.

    Week three: Kentucky Wildcats. In the second quarter, Mark Stoops will look up at the empty stands and realize those 50K at the spring game probably were just there for the free dental clinic.

    Week four: FIU Golden Panthers. "You mind if we let Isaiah Thomas coach this game?" Charlie looked puzzled. "Why would you ever do that?""You ask why. We at FIU ask: why not?" FIU AD Pete Garcia smiled, and then rode off on his pet ostrich, Camembert.

    Week five: [open date] [still more positive impact on strength of schedule than EKU]

    Week six: Temple. Matt Rhule spelled out his name to the Papa John's security guard. "R-h-u-l-e.""What's the extra 'h' for, pal?""Hurt, as in pain." The guard let him through. "YUP THAT'S TEMPLE'S FOOTBALL COACH," said the giant talking slice of pizza labeled "SECURITAY".

    Week seven: Rutgers. There is no funny story here because this is a Thursday night game against Rutgers, and that there is no fucking way Louisville is not blowing a flawless season against an easy schedule by not flipping this particular biscuit into the shitpile. IT'S WHAT RUTGERS IS THERE FOR.

    /Rutgers loses Pinstripe Bowl

    Week eight: UCF. Week eight: It was unseasonably warm that night. Teddy glanced to the opposite sideline. What was the coach mouthing? It looked like...well, it looked like "drown puppies." The heat had to be playing trick on Teddy's eyes.

    Week nine: USF. A lonely BJ Daniels just sits outside the stadium just trying to throw empties into a garbage can, only to overthrow them directly into the arms of a sunburned homeless man playing safety.

    Week ten: [open date] [Teddy Bridgewater gets 400 yards passing doing absolutely nothing]

    Week eleven: UConn. UConn somehow wins this game despite having only 32 yards of passing and only the advantage of pure unadulterated horror:

    Screen_shot_2013-04-18_at_4

    (via Holly)

    Week twelve: Houston Cougars. Things were pretty quiet these days at the switchboard, but people still called Information, and Roy was still going to provide them with it. His light flashed - an incoming call. "Yes, I'm just wondering what time the game against Houston kicks off." Roy smiled to himself. "Well, ma'am, this isn't that sort of information line, but I can tell y-" Ninety straight seconds of fart noise from the other end drowned out the rest of his response.

    Week thirteen: Memphis. "As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into Memphis football." Franz Kafka frowned at the page. "No, no, too frightening. Let's go with cockroach instead."

    Week fourteen: [bye week] [Charlie Strong gets five pounds stronger on the bench press without even working out once]

    Week fifteen: Cincinnati Bearcats. Y, en diciendo esto, y encomendándose de todo corazón a su señora Dulcinea, pidiéndole que en tal trance le socorriese, bien cubierto de su rodela, con la lanza en el ristre, arremetió a todo el galope de Rocinante y embistió con el primero molino que estaba delante.


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    "Being gay won’t do nothing for you," Turner said. "If I knew I was lining up in front of somebody that was gay, I’m going to pancake him and sit on him just like I would on anybody else."

    --Trai Turner, LSU lineman and great American

    We know LSU's Alfred Blue says some very stupid things about the possibility of having a gay teammate in that article. He is young, and probably hasn't learned a lot of the hard lessons of adulthood: about understanding differences, and that gas station coffee, while often bad, is sometimes entirely necessary. Someone at LSU will have a discussion about this, perhaps even Les Miles.

    (You want a recording of Les Miles discussing the mechanics of homosexuality. You NEED this conversation more than you have ever needed anything in your life.)

    Instead of focusing on the negative, please take the example of Trai Turner, again proving why offensive linemen are our greatest American. You can be gay. You can be straight. You can be white, you can be black, you could be any ethnicity. You could be short, fat, tall, thin, handicapped, fully abled, gluten-intolerant, vegan, Republican, Democrat, libertarian, plushy, what have you.

    Whoever you are doesn't matter: you will be pancaked, and then you will be sat on just like the rest. Being an offensive lineman is an ethos of liberty, hard work, and freedom, dammit. Cue the swelling Lee Greenwood music: enter UGA's own Watts Dantzler threatening tornadoes with a shotgun. Linemen, our finest humans: blocking the way to equality for the rest of us, and then waiting for us to hit the hole and get upfield.

    They will get no credit, of course. Then, they will sit on you.

    C14_medium


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    Don't get too excited when your eyes land on the final name in this sample of names the NFL Network will be using as correspondents on draft day:

    2c. The NFL Network will have reporters at multiple locations including Michelle Beisner (Cardinals on Thursday and Seahawks on Friday and Saturday); Albert Breer (Eagles); Stacey Dales (Bears); Jeff Darlington (Rams); Alex Flanagan (49ers); Rich Hollenberg (Giants); Kimberly Jones (Jets); Aditi Kinkhabwala (Ravens); Randy Moss (Cowboys);

    Sadly, this name means "Randy Moss, NFL network correspondent and veteran media type." This is a minor tragedy, since draft day with the OTHER Randy Moss ends with Jerry Jones and Randy playing gin rummy for the JerryDome, and Randy walking away with the deed. If you do need him, the other Randy Moss may be reached at Currently Napping in a Bass Boat, West Virginia.


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    Bulldog-on-a-treadmill

    Starkville, if you have never been there, is a charming college town of small stature and, um...an efficiently trim list of entertainment options. There aren't many dining options, and by that we mean it's a big deal that a Chick-Fil-A opened a while back. There isn't a whole lot of traffic, and by that we mean that a golf cart is a reasonable road transportation from campus into town.

    There aren't that many options for nightlife, either, and by that we mean you pretty much have to go to the same three or four places in town for social beering. One of those is Cowbells, a campus bar not included on various traffic-whorin' lists of best campus bars, and the very institution that denied Anthony Dixon, Mississippi State alum and 49ers running back, entry on Saturday night following the Maroon and White spring game.

    Dixon then tweeted or retweeted others no fewer than one hundred times between Saturday and this morning about a.) getting denied entry to Cowbells or b.) about how he was going to open his own bar in Starkville or c.) how unjust this all was. We stopped counting at one hundred, actually.

    The besieged Cowbells did reply to Dixon:

    And then this happened:

    THIS IS EXACTLY LIKE TURNING AWAY JERRY RICE. Particularly the part where Jerry Rice has to go to Applebees instead, receives horrendous service, and then openly wonders if this is why Ole Miss is doing so well in recruiting. That same Applebees received this extremely thorough review from a Google user:

    Screen_shot_2013-04-22_at_11

    Someone please open another bar in Starkville, and then never, ever deny Anthony Dixon entry for any reason. Drag a table out to the street if you have to, or simply knock down a wall and pronounce your new impromptu patio open for drinking. Do it before someone gets killed on Twitter, or at least has to resort to going to Applebees again.

    (HT: Ragin' Cajun Rebel)


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    No one ever liked the Big Ten's division names for a lot of reasons. The divisions were not totally geographically aligned, they were hard to remember, and they were strive-y management-speak in a place where "East" and "West" would have done just fine. "Leaders and Legends" are rooms at a country club, or maybe the name of a collection of expensive pens. They are not football divisions, and now never will be again.

    No one liked them from the start, a development that surprised only conference commissioner Jim Delany when the Big Ten unveiled the rebrand in 2010. Not that Delany was going to yank the names immediately, or not give them a chance to survive:

    "We want to breathe a little bit," Delany said. "I don't think you make a judgment in 48 hours or 72 hours. Eventually we're going to have to address the issue of whether or not it's sustainable, but I don't think that's an issue for today."

    Bad news traditionally waits until late Friday to break, but the Big Ten may have set a new standard for the entire practice of newsdumping as we know it this past Friday. The Big Ten decided last week that the "Leaders and Legends" debacle had run its course, and waited to leak the news not only late on a Friday, but did so about a half hour after the capture of Dzokhar Tsarnaev in Watertown, Massachusetts.

    You know: a moment when the entire country was glued to the television watching the biggest American manhunt in recent history. That's when the Big Ten let people know they were changing their mind. Coincidental or not, that is a truly legendary burial of the message, Jim Delany: miles down the mineshaft, and interred so deeply it probably got the bends when it finally reached the surface.

    More from SB Nation:

    Lightning recaps for every April 20 spring game

    Ole Miss wins (?) recruiting wars

    Kentucky, football state: SB Nation visits the Cardinals and Wildcats

    Spring game attendance rankings

    National recruiting coverage

    Today’s college football news headlines


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    Florida-pregnancy-and-std-prevention-methods

    You give us the STD rates for an entire state, and you're damn right we'll match them up by fanbase. The really dark blue spots on the map are the worst for STD rates in the state, and Florida State is officially ahead of Florida by a wide margin by home county. The rest is pretty random, but what we really want you to see is that Florida State is a way easier place to catch gonorrhea, chlamydia, and syphilis than even the University of Florida. (And by the numbers it's really, really easy to do at the University of Florida.)

    Syph_2520map_jpg_medium

    1. Levy County. In the state they're only 15th in STD rates, but we gave them Clemson because 8-Ball's eye looked best here. Levy County was one end of a railway linking the ports of Cedar Key and Fernandina, so that syphilis is probably some strong bulletproof maritime legacy shit that laughs at your "antibiotics". 8-Ball is also a reminder that many people with STI's don't even know it or don't report it, because fuck man I just know that's my boss calling I haven't shown up to a shift in WEEKS

    2. Polk County, ostensibly UCF territory, sits low in STI rates because UCF fans don't even know how to sex right.(George O'Leary rubs his penis on an ottoman for 45 minutes)

    3. Duval! Number five in the state, and presumably Tennessee territory because Jacksonville is going to draft Tyler Bray to save the franchise. Given his propensity for spraying it all over the field, it appears he'll fit in just fine with the empirically careless locals.

    4. Palm Beach County. Northwestern territory because a.) trust funds and b.) they didn't count Darren Rovell as an STD, thus skewing the data. P.S. Darren Rovell is an STD in the virtual reality world depicted in The Lawnmower Man.

    5. Okaloosa County. Texas Tech Territory because Kliff Kingsbury popped his collar once there at Red Bar, swooning a gaggle of your drunk mothers. He has nothing to do with the middling STD rates because the Air Raid is all about protecting the quarterback, nod nod wink wink it's a metaphor about dicks.

    6. Taylor County: Stanford territory, since its population of 19,000 is about as many people as you'll ever get at a Stanford game, and because five Stanford grads could buy it (and its modest STD rates) and have money left over for lunch. Like Stanford, low STD numbers because no one has ever caught gonorrhea playing WoW.*

    *Stats do not include those working off toxic Russian servers

    7. Collier County, like its counterpart Ohio in football, can't get any respect in the Florida STD ranking because it's not a traditional power. But the upper crust of Naples has diseases you've never even heard of, like "amethyst shaft" and "putter's crust."

    8. Liberty County: diehard Delaware fans, mostly because of the large population of Delaware child support warrant exiles living there. 15th in the state in STDs, so the little blue hen that could of Florida's STD tournament. (Blue chickens are that color because they have chicken AIDS.)

    9. Leon County. Number two in STD rates in the state of Florida. Florida State's back, and needs to have an uncomfortable but necessary conversation with you. And your brother. And your aunt. Like, especially your aunt.

    10. Alachua County. Fourth in the state. First in your heart. Third in line that night, and that's the last time you ever do that in Gadsden County. (WHAT IN THE CLAPPY HELL IS GOING ON IN GADSDEN COUNTY, FLORIDA?)

    (HT: Janie.)


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    We're running behind this morning--DAMN YOU GRIZZLIES--so here's something for the ladies in the form of Kliff Kingsbury, Wes Welker, and an adorable puppy. One of them isn't housetrained, and Bill Belichick says it's not the one you might think it is. EDSBS: a safe place for women, puppies, and the periodically incontinent but adorable men they love. (via)


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    The only interesting thing about DJ Fluker's Twitter feed producing an admission of taking money from agents is the reaction from Alabama fans contrasted with the reaction of Auburn fans.

    Auburn, one of the most sanctioned division one football programs ever with seven major violation cases, the only program we know of whose head coach was caught on tape offering cash money to a recruit, a program who had a coach leave under cover of night, a school that recruited Charles Barkley with "titties," (per one Charles Barkley,) a football team that most agree totally had Cam Newton's dad paid for his son's services, a program that has for the better part of its history has lived with a siege mentality and pirate tactics across the board, this program...

    ...This is the program that actually wants you to respect them, or something like it, and has conducted internal investigations using influential members of the Waffle House family or something, and totally not laugh about the fact they've cheated as hard or harder under the insane rules of college football as any program ever, and have done so poorly and shambolically all in the name of keeping pace with the evil empire to the north.

    No one will listen to this, because indeed no one really cares, particularly when a coach goes on the radio to brag about "doing things the right way" when he was paying a private security firm to check on his players as recently as November of 2012. No one should listen, either. The reputation Auburn wants to protect never existed in the first place anywhere, and certainly won't come into being with the injection of even more television money into the college football black market.

    Now please contrast this with Alabama. Alabama fans see this--or any other hint that their highly successful football program might be giving players something above and beyond the stated dollar amount--is silence mixed with perhaps a few "hey, I bet that was hacked, and, um, look over there." Alabama fans do not protest the violation of the program's innocence. They do not stand up for olde Tuscaloosa, or for the sainted student-athlete you just slandered, or for the coach they just fired.

    No, they're throwing that coach in a trash compactor for winning eight games, and not giving a five-assed rat what you think about the program. There are no illusions about what the University of Alabama and its relationship to the football program are. Catch them on the down stroke, and prove it, and Alabama fans still won't care because Alabama is the professional football team of the state, and would be happy to set up an open payroll the minute they NCAA falls to splinters. This is Alabama, forever: It's not cheating until you catch us on the down stroke.

    The worst part is that you could be having so much more fun with this, Auburn. Shambolic cheating is one thing, but you've attracted equally inept opponents. (See: Selena Roberts, the NCAA, etc.) You could be making the case that doing the right thing--paying players, for instance--requires doing something against the rules. You could just dare the world to find anything, go about your business, and go on doing what you've been doing anyway, but without the trouble of paying lip service.

    You could just own the pirate reputation, fly the skull-and-bones, and pillage until the very temporary end comes. One of these is significantly more entertaining than the other, and with results not too dissimilar than what you've been doing already. Own it before it owns you. The worst that could happen is that people would think you were another Southern school bending the rules in the name of football and the demented ambitions of a few arsenic-treated plywood millionaires with too much cash and free time on their hands.

    Rephrased: they would think exactly what they do now no matter what you say. Just be the SEC's charming, Ponzi-scheming uncle with a few ex-wives and bankruptcies under their belt. You're so much more fun that way.

    Signed,

    Someone whose team never beat Brandon Goddamn Cox, and whose team once paid players using fake jobs at a chicken plant a few miles outside of town, and who also happens to love going to Auburn, but really wishes you would come out of the bunker and letting Jay Jacobs talk about THA FAMILY HURRRR. The Medicis were a family, too.

    P.S. This is college football. There is no right way of doing things, only laughable and varying shades of wrongness.

    P.P.S. Kentucky is the weird alcoholic shut-in aunt who has a vivid and active fantasy life online. She plays a game called "Basketball," and is a level 99 mage in it.


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  • 04/24/13--07:15: THE CURIOUS INDEX, 4/24/2013
  • Binrcmlcyaalxj9

    NO, DON'T STOP, YOU'RE GETTING BETTER AT THIS WE SWEAR. The office was dark. Florida offensive coordinator Brent Pease had not slept in 28 hours. His floor was littered with cans of Red Bull. "Potter. BUT WILL THEY BUY IT?"He hit send. Like all geniuses, he was sure of his craft, and unsure anyone would be listening. Sure, they'd see the Harry Potter, and the hashtag made of clouds. But would they see his soul outlined beneath it?

    TEAM VAGINA LOGO. There's no way the Golden Vagina logo can't be the next symbol of college football's impending playoff. Vote early. Vote often. Vote Golden Vagina.

    TAMPA HAD AN IMPRESSIVE PACKAGE. The playoff's first finale will be played in the JerryDome, because when you think college football, you think Jerry Jones, $50 standing seats, and a building-sized Jumbotron that Jerry Jones most definitely has NOT watched The Story of O on all by himself late one Sunday night. Nope. Never, ever, ever happened.

    ABOUT THAT PLAYOFF. More of a truce, per an unusually fiery AP editorial, than a steady state.

    THE ACC STILL LOVES YOU, FSU. The benefits of being in the ACC aren't just the obvious ones, sir. Oh, and the ACC is settled for a while, conference realignment is done for them, at least, and Jim Delany can go call Utah State or whomever while the rest of laugh. Oh, how we'll laugh.

    POUR IT UP, K-STATE. Serving Manhattans in the stands would be a bit obvious, though seriously how completely blackout drunk could a rural Kansan get on 16 ounce Manhattans wait no don't think about that because it ends in flames, tears, and probably a revenge horseback raid into Missouri.

    ETC: I have a sword, and your chapstick, and your license plate. Surrender to the Samurai Bishop now. If you're not riding with CVS Bangers, you have no idea what life really is.


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    The run-up to the NFL draft features the annual anonymous pillorying of select college prospects by NFL scouts, who are long overdue for their own time beneath the merciless eye of the scouting report.

    Todd McShay: Just as good or bad as Mel Kiper, statistically speaking. Narrowest shoulders I've ever seen on a human being ever. I base this on seeing him ahead of me on the same flight out of Atlanta once. McShay might be twenty inches across at the shoulder, slight enough to wear a Betsey Johnson evening dress with ease, and slim enough to deliver beneath a door like an unwanted flyer reading "I had Jimmy Clausen as the fourth pick in the NFL Draft." He has the beautiful slender fingers of a freshly manicured elf.

    Sources tell us: McShay has not eaten a solid meal in years, is confused about what constitutes "food." His desk is kept clean, as any object in arm's reach is considered a choking hazard.

    Nolan Nawrocki: A former linebacker for Illinois, and therefore like many scouts has never played football. Projects to middle linebacker due to his talent for funneling coded racist traffic from scouts through the A gap and into his reports. An attention to detail as seen here:

    Excessively sweats and has needed IV’s at times to control condition.

    Sources tell us: Nawrocki still writes his scouting reports in Microsoft Word.

    Russ Lande: Still working the haircut that made New Jersey great in 1992. A safe, checkdown kind of pundit who won't overreach. The Brad Johnson of draftniks. I know he is careful, judicious, and studious as a scout because I sat behind him at the NFL draft one year and watched him eat a sandwich. He worked his way thoughtfully through it while working, one steady bite at a time. No glory boy behavior or ill-advised shots down field. He moved the chains on that sandwich, and that's all you can ask of a pro in a man's league.

    Sources tell us: he once reduced Dick Vermeil to tears with a scouting report on the French silent classic L'Atalante.

    Mike Mayock.Ass-obsessed human Adderall drip. Unparalleled endurance and length (via word count on conference calls.) Unquestioned toughness (via enduring every dreadful NFL Thursday Night Game as color commentator.) Sizeist philistine (via not accepting unconventional body types and embracing different, non-hurtful standards of beauty.)

    Sources tell us: Mike Mayock is not a miserable human being and covers the NFL draft for a living, so therefore has to have some kind of hidden character issues.

    Gil Brandt: Veteran draftnik who built decades worth of Cowboys teams under Tom Landry. At eighty, is probably too old to be a four down player, but never underestimate a carefully administered dose of old man strength applied at the right point. Cannot bench due to "an ice fishin' shoulder." His manner is Wisconsin grandfatherly; his metaphors, fruity.

    Incidentally, that seems to be a trend in this draft class; I haven't run into any bad apples yet.

    Also:

    EDIT: May really overrate importance of giant freaky thick cactus trunk fingers.

    Sources tell us: Held a position of power in the state of Texas for almost thirty years, so he probably totally killed someone.

    Mel Kiper. The delicate, diaphanously white ankles of your grandmother. A pioneer at the position. Hardworking; years in the film room have left him devoid of pigment. Contact with direct sunlight will turn him into forty-two pounds of ashes topped by an adamantine black helmet of shellacked hair. Is incapable of pronouncing the word "strength," and has an abysmal hang clean. May actually hate Todd McShay, and thus unlike McShay is human and capable of real emotion because hate counts, too.

    Sources tell us: All Kipers reproduce by spores.

    Clean all surfaces following a Kiper appearance or risk an infestation.


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    20130420_tjg_bs1_013

    The only thing you should remember from reading the entirety of the FBI's affidavit covering their investigation of Pilot and Flying J's corporate practices is this: if you work as an executive at Pilot, you don't even have to shower every day.

    CHS-2: You guys all work out of your house, right? I mean your physical house.

    CHS-2:Yeah, I'm working out of my Mom's and I was thinking about maybe going back to the house.

    RALENKOTTER: Always have. Working out of the house for almost 25 years.

    MOSHER: I get the best office attire known to man, a pair shorts and at-shirt

    RALENKOTTER: Sometimes on Fridays it's no shower until lunch day

    MOSHER: Oh yeah many days I don't shower.

    GO VOLS. The entire thing is here if you don't have anything to do for the rest of the afternoon, but in short: Pilot and Flying J, run by frequent donor to the university Jimmy Haslam, are alleged to have defrauded gas station owners via shortchanged rebates. One tier of the alleged fraud targeted Hispanic gas station owners, and was referred to by Pilot employees as the "Manual" plan in part because it sounded like the name "Manuel."

    The transcripts quote Pilot's director of sales for the east region, Kevin Hanscomb, as saying, "They're not stupid, there is a language barrier. So you can get away with a little bit more because they know that they are not going to understand everything that you say."

    Fiesta! The relevant college football details: the Haslams are one of the largest donors to the University of Tennessee in general, and to the athletic department specifically. (The Pilot logo is right there on the Neyland Stadium video board.) It should be emphasized that Haslam, while implicated in the affidavit by a Pilot employee as knowing about the scheme, has not been charged with anything. Nor will Tennessee as a football program suffer any immediate financial difficulties as a result of the investigation into Haslam and Pilot.

    What should be emphasized here? That the company most closely aligned with the University of Tennessee has executives who don't shower that often and who disdain pants. We started this post with a mind towards making fun of this, but as a blogger we have nothing but begrudging respect for the chillwave lifestyle of Pilot execs. Obviously not the fraud, mind you, but the low-maintenance, likely cargo short-heavy lifestyle? With shower-optional days built into the calendar? Quoth Holly: "The river's right there, man."


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  • 04/24/13--14:19: RUTGERS STOP BEING SO SEXY
  • 20120922_jla_sc5_114

    Biplu9fcuaa0vgp_medium

    We may bemoan the state of Florida photoshop, but then right there on time there's Rutgers coming to the rescue. Bro you want to come to Rutgers. You want to see these pecs. You want to share bronzer and compare poses. We have so many blenders and won't have to wait turns while mixing protein shakes. We only joined the Big Ten because it is also the name of our ten pack.

    Oh? You say ten abs aren't possible?

    AT RUTGERS TEN ABS IS JUST A START.

    (Via)


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  • 04/25/13--07:11: THE CURIOUS INDEX, 4/25/2013
  • Floyd_mallet

    GONNA KEEP THAT THANK YOU. Only one man in the recent anecdotal history of the New York Stock Exchange has taken the gavel he rang the markets open with as a souvenir, and that man is a gigantic defensive tackle from the University of Florida. Be grateful it was Sharrif Floyd, since "Matt Elam with a hammer" is a terrifying graphic novel currently being commissioned by EDSBS publishing due to come out in early 2014.

    HMMM. The College Football Playoff could have looked something like this if it was in place last year, and damn, that Alabama/Florida game would have been ugly. (Ditto for NIU/TAMU.)

    NO REALLY IT WOULD HAVE BEEN THE SLOWEST TEMPO'D GAME EVER. Because there are numbers supporting the notion that Alabama and Florida are among the slowest teams in college football in terms of tempo. You call it blocking the left lane, and Nick Saban in his six-four calls it a slow jam you cannot resist. [hits hydraulics] [crushes Gene Chizik repeatedly]

    THIS MORNING'S FRESH INSANITY.

    You can question whether recruits have even heard of Pac-Man, but a.) the Far Cry 3 photoshop made for this morning was rejected for being far too graphic for family use, and b.) this is really just Joker hitting on noted Gator fan and Pac-Man enthusiast Khia. (sort of NSFW, though you're spared personal bits.)

    IF MICHIGAN DID THIS: It would be spectacular.

    BAN THE DRAFT. Recruiting pro-style is fine as long as the fax machine gets nowhere near this.

    CAN MEATLOAF MAKE YOU SEE GOD? Well, probably if someone from Louisiana is making it, but we won't say WHICH god you'll be seeing afterwards. (Probably one with a pitchfork and a go cup in hand.)

    ETC: The only Harlem Shake necessary, ever. Tommy Tomlinson on the last roll at Toomer's. WHY AREN'T YOU READING BRIAN PHILLIPS ON THE IDITAROD RIGHT NOW YOU IDIOT.


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  • 04/25/13--13:38: THE ALEX JONES MOCK DRAFT
  • Jones5

    Radio host Alex Jones is a deranged conspiracy theorist, and thus likely a football fan like the rest of us. Here is his mock draft.

    1. WITH MY FIRST DRAFT PICK I SELECT ROBOT PEDOPHILE ARMY. UNSTOPPABLE AND SENT BY THE GOVERNMENT. BALTIMORE FANS WILL SAY THIS IS CODE FOR STEELERS FANS. STEELERS FANS WILL SAY THIS IS CODE FOR BALTIMORE FANS. THE SECRET IS THAT IT MEANS BOTH AND THEY HAVE CHEMICAL WEAPONS THEY ARE GOING TO SET OFF IN YOUR COLON SOMETIME IN THE NEXT TWO WEEKS!

    2. WITH THE SECOND PICK I TAKE MANTI TE'O. HE WAS SMEARED BY THE NEW WORLD ORDER TO PREVENT THE MORMO-CATHOLIC AXIS FROM USING THEIR GOLD RESERVES HIDDEN IN THEIR HELMETS TO STALL THE COLLAPSE OF THE IRAQI GOLD MARKET. HIS REAL NAME IS ALGON IPSWICH AND HE IS JUST A WEIRD-LOOKING JEWISH GUY!

    3. WITH MY THIRD PICK I TAKE LUKE JOECKEL. HE'S JUST A GOOD PLAYER AND YOU CAN'T GO WRONG WITH AN OFFENSIVE LINEMAN--ESPECIALLY WHEN HE'S HAD HIS BRAIN INJECTED WITH MINIPEDES BY THE GOVERNMENT AND IS PROGRAMMED TO OBEY! BILL BELICHICK DID THIS BEFORE THE GOVERNMENT EVER THOUGHT OF IT!

    4. WITH MY FOURTH PICK I DRAFT AN ENTIRE PACK OF STAPLES. THEY'RE JUST HANDY.

    5. MY FIFTH PICK HAS BEEN TAKEN BY THE GOVERNMENT TO A BLACK SITE TO BE SEXUALLY ABUSED BY ELVES ON DMT.

    6. MY SIXTH PICK IS UNFLUORIDATED WATER. FACT: THE TAMPA BAY BUCCANEERS HAVE BEEN ONE OF THE LEAGUE'S WORST TEAMS HISTORICALLY. FACT: UPON TAKING OVER JON GRUDEN FORCED HIS TEAM TO DRINK NOTHING THEIR OWN URINE OR DIET CHEK COLA. MOST CHOSE THEIR OWN URINE. FACT: THE BUCS THEN WON THEIR OWN SUPER BOWL, AND THEN THE LEAGUE IN CONCERT WITH THE MOSSAD AND BIG WATER FOUGHT TO HAVE HIM EXILED TO A STRIP MALL IN TAMPA WHERE HE SITS TO THIS DAY UNDER HOUSE ARREST GOING MAD AND LEAVING CODED MESSAGES ON A WHITEBOARD.

    7. MY SEVENTH PICK IS PIERS MORGAN. I WILL THEN MAKE HIM PLAY QUARTERBACK FOR THE JACKSONVILLE JAGUARS. GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE---NFL DEFENSIVE ENDS DO. IF THE OTHER PLAYERS ON THE FIELD IN THE LAST BOY SCOUT HAD GUNS THAT WOULD HAVE NEVER HAPPENED!

    8. MY EIGHTH PICK IN THE DRAFT ARE THE LYING BUREAUCRATS WHO WILL MERGE WITH ROBOTS TO USE US AS BATTERIES. THIS IS NOT AT ALL LIKE THE MATRIX AND IS THE PLOT OF MY UPCOMING NOVEL "THE MATRICKS" WHICH IS ABOUT AN OVERWEIGHT MAN WHO BUILDS THE PERFECT WIFE OUT OF GUNS AND EMPTY PROZAC BOTTLES. SPELLING MATTERS, JACKBOOTED THUGS OF THE COPYRIGHT TYRANNY! YOU'LL HAVE TO TAKE MY PIRATED DVD OF AVATAR FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS!!!

    9. I TRADE MY EIGHTH PICK FOR 400 UNITS OF SHITCOIN, THE MONEY MADE OUT OF FECES. THIS IS THE DANGER OF A FIAT CURRENCY AND THE ONLY WAY WE STOP CHINA IS BY SERVICING OUR DEBT WITH BAGS OF POOP.

    10. MY TENTH PICK HAS BEEN TRADED TO STAPLES FOR GOLD DOT COM. GIVE ME YOUR WORTHLESS GOLD AND I WILL GIVE YOU STAPLES, THE CURRENCY OF TOMORROW. REMEMBER: DON'T BE CAUGHT IN THE COLD WITH AN ARMFUL OF GOLD WHEN YOU CAN SECURE YOUR FUTURE WITH THE OFFICE-STYLE SUTURE.

    11. MY ELEVENTH PICK IS MATT BARKLEY. ANAGRAM FOR MATT BARKLEY: TALK TAR BY ME. BIG TOBACCO ONLY WANTED YOU TO THINK IT WASN'T CONTROLLING THE COURTS!

    12. MY TWELFTH PICK HAS BEEN ASSASSINATED.

    13. MY THIRTEENTH PICK IS ANDY REID BECAUSE HE IS THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE AND BY THAT I MEAN HE'S EATEN SO MUCH MONGOLIAN BARBECUE IN HIS LIFE THAT HE IS NOW CHINESE BY DEFAULT AND THEY CAN'T BE TRUSTED BECAUSE THEY ARE TRYING TO DESTABILIZE OUR CURRENCY AND YAO MING THINGS.

    14. MY FOURTEENTH PICK JUST THINK ABOUT IT FOR A SECOND THERE WERE THIRTEEN ORIGINAL COLONIES BUT WHAT IF THERE WAS A FOURTEENTH NOBODY TALKED ABOUT WHAT IF THAT FOURTEENTH COLONY WAS CALLED BIKINI BOTTOM AND WHAT IF BIKINI BOTTOM HAD A PINEAPPLE WITH AN ANTHROPOMORPHIC SPONGE LIVING INSIDE GODDAMN WHY ISN'T THIS XANAX DOING ANYTHING

    15. MY FIFTEENTH PICK IS MICHAEL IRVIN BECAUSE HE KNOWS WHAT IT'S LIKE FOR A GOVERNMENT GOON TO JUST PUT HIS HANDS DOWN YOUR PANTS AND HAVE HIS WAY WITH YOU AT THE AIRPORT. HE ALWAYS SEEMS TO ENJOY IT WAY MORE THAN I DO BUT THAT'S JUST MIKE BEING MIKE.

    16. MY SIXTEENTH PICK IS WORM-RIDDEN GOVERNMENT CHEESE THAT IS ALSO AN EXPLOSIVE. OR THE ARIZONA CARDINALS OFFENSIVE LINE. THESE ARE THE SAME THING.

    17. MY SEVENTEENTH PICK IS JOHNNY MANZIEL BECAUSE TAXES ARE UNCONSTITUTIONAL AND SO IS THE NFL'S AGE REQUIREMENT. ALSO RESTAURANTS THAT DON'T GIVE YOU UNLIMITED ONION RINGS I DON'T CARE THAT THIS IS A BASKIN ROBBINS SIR I VOTE

    18. MY EIGHTEENTH PICK IS LAVENDER. IT'S A LOVELY COLOR AND FRAGRANCE AND I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY ABOUT IT, TALKING MOUND OF DIRTY LAUNDRY.

    19. NINETEENTH IN MY MOCK DRAFT IS RESERVED FOR THE AMPUTEE DIAPER OVERLORDS OF BUFFALO. I'M NOT JOKING PEOPLE. ASK RALPH WILSON. THEY ARE REAL. I DON'T MAKE STUFF UP.

    20. MY TWENTIETH PICK IS ONLY AVAILABLE ON MY LATEST DVD WHAT'S THE 411 HOW MARY J. BLIGE KILLED PRESIDENT GARFIELD. MEET ME AT MY CAR AFTER THIS IF YOU WANT TO BUY ONE. NO. COPS.


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    Screen_shot_2013-04-26_at_9

    The Cowboys drafted Matt Frederick last night. Or Wisconsin offensive lineman Travis Frederick. Whatever: Mr. Frederick was drafted, and just buy the jersey because it says "DRAFT PICK" on the back, because the NFL can't be bothered to type out a last name on a custom jersey. (Via Doug Farrar)


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    Tumblr_m2vzizuqux1qj6b49o1_500

    If you have ever complained about Netflix, Amazon Video, or any other streaming video service, you should be deported to the year 1998, and forced to find cheap entertainment on a Friday night in suburbia. That meant going to Blockbuster Video, and that meant entering a cheap-carpet scented level of hell itself.

    Blockbuster Video was owned by Wayne Huizenga, capitalism's greatest fecal alchemist, a Midas who turned a waste management empire into a video empire, and then turned that hunk of crap into the Florida Marlins. Blockbuster's business plan was a simple one:

    1. Open up mazes filled with VHS tapes.
    2. Ensure that 80% of those videos were movies no one would ever want to watch, not even in the last waterproof cabin of a sunken cruise liner submerged 300 feet beneath the surface of the ocean.
    3. Charge three dollars for initial rental
    4. Charge a reasonable late fee of $59.00 a day
    5. Imprison the American populace
    6. Sell the entire prison-state to China
    7. Force the entire nation to watch the Florida Marlins win a World Series
    8. KILL BIG LASERDISC (R.I.P. Laserdisc)

    Like most giant American success stories, this was a terrible plan, and worked brilliantly because your father did not want to pay nine cents more to rent from Ted's Video and Nails down the street. Ted's Video and Nails would make up the difference by doubling down on pornography and horror movies, both usually kept in a separate vault in the back that you were supposed to show I.D. to enter.

    Ted never made you show I.D., and is a convicted sex offender now. He was back then, too, but he let you rent I Spit On Your Grave and 9 and Wild Orchid 2 without much protest. That overcame a lot of the difficulties of your relationship with Ted, and the sex offender thing.*

    *Ted's also had questionable policies regarding the sale of candy. You wouldn't think you could buy Nerds indvidually, but there they were in a bucket at Ted's, 50 cents for a handful.

    There is literally nothing you should miss about Blockbuster Video. Its employees were wage slaves chained to white particle board fortresses at the front of the store, wearing the same blue polo with the BLOCKBUSTER logo emblazoned on the front that they wore yesterday, and the day before, and let's not talk about how long it's been since this Blockbuster polo had been washed, kid. You wanted to rent the lone copy of Cool Hand Luke in the store for the third week in a row, and the Blockbuster zombie wanted to get to six o'clock, their arthritic I-Mark in the parking lot, and the bag of shake weed they're going to have to settle for until the band takes off or the military becomes the only option to a better life. Besides, the shirt under it is clean, and that's what counts.

    Blockbuster's selection made sense only in the sense that there was an alphabetical order, and sections, and then the words on those tapes were arranged in something like alphabetical order. Blockbuster would have one copy of Lawrence of Arabia. They would have 500 fucking copies of The Pelican Brief because Blockbuster either had a sweet deal with the studio on the video release, or because someone seriously overestimated your interest in a middling Grisham thriller.

    This bothered me so much I once rented three copies of The Fugitive--three out of roughly seven hundred copies available at once at the Blockbuster on US 19 in Palm Harbor, Florida--just to see if the clerk would even flinch. They did not, and merely noted the $5,000 balance in late fees the family account had on it from the last time we rented Cool Hand Luke. I shot the clerk, and took all three copies home and watched them without remorse. When I finished one, I would go to the next, because the best thing to watch after watching Andrew Davis's classic take on Dr. Richard Kimble's story of redemption and survival IS TO WATCH THE FUGITIVE AGAIN.*

    *Andrew Davis may have been the most Blockbuster director ever: Above the Law, The Fugitive, Under Siege, Code of Silence, Chain Reaction.

    No one ever called the police, because Blockbuster law only forbade the theft of items, failure to pay late fees, or the unwillingness to spend seven dollars on an 8 oz. pack of Nerds at the register. It did not count as murder, anyway: Blockbuster employees were never really alive. Isn't that right, Run Home Jack?

    The only advantage to working at Blockbuster was taking a copy of a new release early for yourself and hiding it at the front counter. No, you didn't really want to watch Like Water For Chocolate, but if you had to be miserable, so did all the suburban moms on your shift.

    The version they censored so you couldn't see any of the ladypelts in the nude scenes, mind you. God, Blockbuster sucked. They even allegedly hair-tested their employees, because the last thing you want in society is for the fluorescent light-stunned drones at your place of employ to have the pleasure of getting high and thinking about the bitchin' ride they're gonna get after they finally ditch the fuckin' crapton I-Mark.

    Blockbuster brought out the worst in anyone who stepped in its doors, too. Family trips devolved into the same debacle every time, and by that I mean "Oh shit how did we end up renting Ace Ventura AGAIN, DAD?" Go with friends and die, because inevitably one friend would take five minutes scanning the back of the box seeking some inner truth that would reveal it as the movie we can watch tonight while drinking malt liquor that will change the way we view existence. In that span of time the rest of you had decided on watching Hard Boiled again, because no one ever rented it, and also because there was that scene where a guy got hit full speed with a jumping motorcycle.

    Besides never having any movie you ever wanted to see, Blockbuster could ruin you financially, at least if you were poor, stupid, and forgetful. Get there too late and have to drop a video in the dropbox? DEBTOR'S PRISON. Late fees of $12 a week overdue? BETTER CALL A COLLECTIONS AGENCY. Blockbuster did not even try to dissuade you from admitting its fellowship in the prison-industrial complex. You could get points off your license for a while by watching the "Safe Driving" video they kept with the other free videos like "Make a fire rescue with your family" and "Creepy Public Access Yoga Tape From 1983 With A Guy Wearing No Underwear and Loose Shorts."

    In Florida, Blockbuster may have had the right to detain citizens, but its employees were simply too underpaid and apathetic to do it. It was also an unlicensed daycare where children were left to roam in the aisles and fed only with Twizzlers.

    The chain began to die the minute someone figured out how to pipe movies and games directly into the home, and bypass the sad glass tank full of blue-shirted gerbils sucking up retail space and pesky overhead on every corner. No one will ever mourn Blockbuster, because no, the world did not need 80 copies of Baby's Day Out when all we wanted was one copy of Friday. (Which was always out, because demand and stoners.) The world did not need to wait in line behind a deranged woman in bike shorts and a Stussy t-shirt threatening to bomb the store because hell yes she did put Mo' Money in the slot before midnight, and you're a lying dead motherfucker if you doubt her. (Note: this woman did not in fact put the video in the slot before midnight. No one ever did.) The world did not miss bullshit edited versions of movies specifically chosen because they contained famous people you wanted to see naked in them.

    The world does not miss Blockbuster, and never will or should. Return your DVDs with blood on them. Poop in the return box. If you see one burning, ensure all neighboring business are safe and then let it burn. If a collections agency comes after you for a $3.00 balance on a video you rented in 2002, then MAIL THEM A LIVE PIT BULL. Blockbuster video was the worst kind of business; a trap designed for stupid people to lose money in until they find a better service.

    I still have one of those copies of The Fugitive. Come after it if you like, Blockbuster. Oh, that's stealing, you say? To quote Deputy Marshal Samuel Gerard: I don't care.


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  • 04/29/13--06:53: Brawling on Everest
  • 164750463

    You might think brawling at 24,500 feet above sea level is a bad idea. You are likely not a Sherpa, and do not take climbing etiquette as seriously as Sherpas do. Knock some ice onto them while climbing, and you will receive a visit at your tent, altitude and lack of oxygen be damned.

    Later in the day, a furious group of Nepalese stormed up towards the climbers' tents and pelted them with stones until the men came outside, after which a loud argument ensued and punches were allegedly thrown.

    "It was terrifying to watch -- they nearly got killed," the eyewitness said.

    Note: the picture with this article is the closest thing we have to a climbing photo because pictures of people boxing at 24,000 feet, believe it or not, are very, very rare.


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    Screen_shot_2013-04-29_at_12

    I walked into the Coors Light can a skateboarder...

    Screen_shot_2013-04-29_at_12

    AND I EXITED A RAD SURFER DUDE:

    Screen_shot_2013-04-29_at_12

    I went into a giant Coors light can a secretary from Ohio and came out as A WEREWOLF WITH SHINGLES.

    I went into a giant Coors Light Can and came out the same but with a horrible wheat allergy and colorblind.

    I went into a giant Coors Light Can a blogger but came out as a pinata filled with bees.

    I went into a giant Coors Light Can as Nick Saban but came out as Nick Saban but riding a kickass donkey called Victorydick.

    I went into a giant Coors Light Can as a giant Coors Light Can and came out as a Coors Light Can and now the damn universe is broken whyyy Coors Light whyyyyyy---

    I went into a giant Coors Light Can as a normal person but came out without feeling in my hands and no ability to tell if my beer was cold or not and then I killed myself, Coors Light, because you robbed my life of its only meaning. This is being written by a dead man with numb hands buried in a can of Coors Light.

    I went into a giant Coors Light Can with Johnny Cash, Steve Jobs, and Bob Hope and I came out on the other side with none of them and thanks, Obeerma, thanks a fucking lot.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can wearing a pair of spectacles, and I came out wearing a Whizzinator filled with hot dog juice.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can with a dachshund and came out with an elderly anteaters and I'm okay with this, because the anteater is way better than that mean fucking frankendog ever was. Come close, anteater; tell me of your ways, and the sweet taste of skin-scorching fire ants on your tongue.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can a normal person and now I am Steve Spurrier. It's pretty awesome. Thanks, Coors Light.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can as a smokeshow in hot pants and a bikini top and now I am in a world where no one uses the word smokeshow, and have lost all meaning in life. Please help me, Clay Travis. "Smokeshow."

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can a Ninja Turtles comic-book purist, and I walked out with the firm belief that the crossover anti-drugs episode with the Muppet Babies was canon.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can an opera singer and now my voice is that of a strip club DJ and my "Nessun D'Orma" literally destroyed La Scala in 23 seconds flat.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can and now everyone's speaking in nothing but reggaeton horn.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can and into a world where there are just giant Coors Light Cans trying to rip my skull open and drink what's inside me.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can and Terence Malick was in charge of it and now there's just this fifteen minute shot of Sissy Spacek with a cat on her lap while someone reads horrible poetry over it.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can as a ripped dude and came out the other side as a fat man with Type Two diabetes and that's the last time I drink Coors Light Reality flavor.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light can with my family Bible and walked out with a tattered Baby's Day Out coloring book and a blood-rusted dagger.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can as myself and now am noted character actor Jeff Fahey. Body Parts 8: Where Does Evil Live (in my dick) coming to theaters in like fifteen minutes.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can as a Mormon and walked out a Mormon because if I'm going to betray my faith for booze shit it's not gonna be for this raccoon piss, dude.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can and walked out with a seasonal job as a pre-K ski instructor and a summer gig as a rescue diver off Key Biscayne. My skin looks like a Coach satchel and I just turned 29.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light can leaving the world as we know it, and walked back into a world in which the Earth's gravitational pull was instantly reversed, everyone who was outdoors fell into space and died, the survivors rebuilt society by constructing networks of pulleys to tether them and ferry them about the planet, and everybody's buttholes in they armpits instead.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can as Tim Tebow and came out as an NFL quarterback.

    two roads diverged in a wood and I, I walked into a giant Coors Light can, and that has made all the effervescence

    I walked into a giant Coors Light can a young libertarian and walked out a middle-aged divorcee with strawberry-blonde fingernails from all the rainwater I've been drinking.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light can as Carson Daly with a handful of agar packets, and walked out as Adam Carolla.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light can and shall live out the rest of my days as a humble light-beer widget.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can and thaaaaaat's where Tyler Bray is.

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can and found Paul Reiser and I'm gonna stay in here as long as it takes to beat him unconscious so don't wait for a rad-universe version me to come rollerblading out the other side any time soon

    I walked into a giant Coors Light Can and came out as what if I told you Nikola Tesla wasn't just an underappreciated genius but also the greatest black quarterback of the segregation era? Shock To The System: an ESPN 30 for 30 about the electrifying talent you've never heard of and also electrical


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