Just sayin, but the Chicago Bears are undefeated since the debut of the Smokin’ Jay Cutler meme. They are 5-1 overall, but 4-0 since fans started posting pics of my favorite Bears QB of all time with a half-burnt coffin nail in the corner of his semi-permanent smirk.
Meanwhile, them hapless Detroit Lions are the dictionary definition of “regression to the mean.” Last season, they were 5-1 through six games en route to their first playoff game since Bill Clinton was messing up his interns’ laundry in the Oval Office. This season? The Motor City Kitties are an underwhelming 2-4 and already on the clock for next season’s draft. Part of the problem is that they have no running game, but, frankly, the bigger part of the problem is that they just aren’t that good. Last season was an aberration. This season looks more like the team that has seen a Super Bowl hosted at its home field (apparently, Detroit got the call because Beirut was booked that weekend), but has never played in one. Ever.
NFL MVP: Ray Lewis, Baltimore Ravens. Last weekend, his Ravens beat the Dallas Cowboys but lost him for the season to a torn triceps (ouch!). This weekend? Curb-stomped by the Houston Texans 43-13. It sez so right here that there is no way, NO WAY a Ray Lewis-led team lays down and gets beat like eggs in Gordon Ramsay’s kitchen if he’s on the field and on the sideline.
Irresponsible Rumor-mongering 1: There is no truth to the rumor that Lewis was in head coach John Harbaugh’s office with a roll of duct tape, insisting that the training staff could just tape the broken wing to his body and he could go with but one arm (which would still make him 89% more combat-effective than anyone on the New Orleans Saints defense…too soon?)
No, actually it ain’t too gat dam soon.
Lookit, I get that the Saints feel like they got jobbed by the commish on that whole Bountygate deal, especially in the light of the recent revelation that none other than Reggie White His Own Self (cue harp music) was paying players to lay the lumber on opposing players…with the blessing of the NFL. (Of course, the NFL would have you believe that these transgressions occurred back in the dark days of 1996, when leeches were still commonly used on sidelines to treat the four humors, but I digress).
(Editorial note: sheer n***adry follows.)
Okay, y’all Saints is mad. But what in the wide, wide world of sports is keeping y’all from tackling the n!gga in front of you? I feel like Bucho in “Desperado:” How hard is it to just hit the man in front of you in the name of the Most High God? Y’all letting ballcarriers just traipse through ya defense like some gat dam Von Trapp chirrun finna break out into song…
(Editorial note: the Russian just slapped me upside the back of the head, because I was apparently yelling whilst I was typing. My bad…)
Speaking of getting hit, some fool got hisself knocked out this past weekend and Nobody Gives A Fugg because it didn’t happen in one of the only three fights that currently matter. By way of a f’rinstance (thanks, Marv), here are the only three fights that currently matter, in ascending order:
Fight Number 3: Wladimir Klitschko vs. Vitali Klitschko for the Unified Heavyweight Championship of boxing. Besides suggesting that a better fight would be both men against a gat dam dictionary (maaaan, them names are some jaw-breakers), the fact is that this fight amounts to little more than good accounting. Wladimir owns four Alphabet Soup championship belts; Vitali owns the fifth. Both have already said they won’t fight each other, which is fine with me because styles make fights and watching these two paw at each other without doing any lasting damage (think of that godawful shower sex scene between Sylvester Stallone and Sharon Stone in “The Specialist”) ain’t my idea of a fight. Now, if I’m finna pay for a fight between brothers, please please PLEASE make it Liam and Noel Gallagher, and make it like that fight in one of those terrible JCVD movies where they tie canvas around an iron pole and dip the canvas into super glue and dip that into a bucket full of nails and broken glass.
Fight Number 2: Floyd Mayweather vs. Manny Pacquiao for the Championship of Each Other. There is only one reason why this fight hasn’t happened, and why it never will happen: Floyd Mayweather ain’t about to get paid to take an azz-whuppin, because that’s what’s waiting for him if he ever gets in the ring with Pac-Man. Oh, don’t act like ya don’t know, because great fighters will go out of their way to whup a n!gga’s azz just to prove something. Muhammad Ali fought every summamabish in sight. Sugar Ray Leonard put weight on and took weight off looking for fools to knock out. Rocky Marciano whupped err’body’s azz BUT death. But Floyd? The only fight that matters for him is this one and all he has consistently done is run from it. This fight should have happened twice already (Leonard-Duran, anyone? Gatti-Ward? I can do this all day), but Floyd is straight ducking the one dude that can beat the Bejeweled Blitz out of him.
Fight Number 1: Anderson “Spider” Silva vs. Jon “Bones” Jones for the I Just Peed A Little Championship of Oh My God. There’s no way this fight can happen. No way. It’d be too, too cool. First off, they both have nicknames that we actually remember…AND think are cool. (If you can name Floyd Mayweather’s nickname, I’mma need you to take your hands off the keyboard, pull your pants back up, back slowly away from the computer, reintroduce yourself to your wife and her boyfriend, and go outside…hopefully, the moonlight won’t burn your UV-deprived skin). Second, both can utterly whup azz; they are masters at both grappling and escaping holds, they can strike with fearsome power with either arms or legs, and they are both apex predators, convinced that anyone across from them must be dinner. Third, because of the second fact, there’s no way this fight goes the distance. It might end up with someone dead, but it won’t go the distance. But, because this fight would actually exceed the quantum limit for cool in all known universes (thus creating the Fonzie Paradox, wherein if Fonzie is ever cooler than Fonzie all matter at that point collapses into a singularity), it can’t happen.
See, the Tigers are nothing like the Lions. The Tigers have actually been to and won a World Series since the Reagan Administration, whereas the Lions’ last sniff of championship cachet happened back in 1957, when cigarette-smoking filling station attendants used to bathe your car in gasoline before wiping it down with a baby seal skin chamois…
OH, and get this: now some other organization is all pizzed-off with Lance Armstrong, and “stripping” him of his titles.
Soooo…I’m supposed to be all morally outraged and shyt because Lance cheated.
Sorry. I can’t do it. All Lance was doing was playing by the real rules of cycling, not the ones in the book. As my old squad leader once told me, “Rulebooks will get you killed in combat, because Ivan (our enemy back then) done read your rulebook.” I know what my eyes told me, and my eyes told me that Lance Armstrong won 7 Tours de France. They can “strip” him all they want in their santimony, because all it does is award another convicted cheater. In fact, you ain’t gotta take my word for it, look it up: since 1998, only two dudes have ever won the Tour de France without either having cheated during that race or any other.
See, if everybody’s cheating, then no one is special. If no one is special (thanks, Syndrome), then the playing field is level. And on a level playing field, with everyone doing every version of the Howard Stark’s super soldier formula except for the one that turns you into the Hulk (Ultimates reference!), Lance Armstrong put boot to azz for 7 Tours de France.
aaaaand I’m OUT like the St. Louis Cardinals…