The Two Loneliest Men in the World

Posted on May 1, 2007

[Tom Brady dials Randy Moss’ phone number after getting word that the Patriots have traded for him, and Moss answers after 19 rings.]

Moss: If you’re calling to invite me to that surprise party for Al Davis, I already told you– I ain’t going!

Brady: Hey, Randy, I heard we traded for you.

Moss: [inhales deeply, as if smoking] Who’s this?

Brady: Tom Brady.

Moss: Like the Brady Bill, with the guns and all?

Brady: No, like three Super Bowls Tom Brady. Best quarterback in the league Tom Brady.

Moss: [coughs painfully, as if forcing a golf ball from his throat] Doesn’t ring a bell.

Brady [sighs]: The dude who knocked up Gisele.

Moss: Oh, Tom Brady! I know how that is. I’m on the hook with four kids—she get you for all the babymamma money yet?

Brady: Not yet. [scratches chest with receiver so Randy can hear the manly bristling of his chest hairs, which are going prematurely gray, but no one knows that except for Andruzzi, and he’s sworn to secrecy.]

Moss: She got me man… draining me, dude.

Brady: How much you paying?

Moss: I don’t know—I don’t pay no attention to that shit. I just go by the house with a sack full of nickels. You know how it is— when you’re rich you don’t write checks, right?

Brady: Yeah, I guess. Coach B holds my money for me. [yanks his empty pockets outward into Hoover flags like a cartoon cat who can’t afford to buy the ukelele he’s set his eyes on, and then remembers Randy can’t see him, and then smacks himself in the head for being so stupid, and then wonders if Randy heard the smack on his forehead.] He promised he’ll give it to me when I retire.

Moss: How you know he ain’t spending it?

Brady: Have you seen how he dresses? He looks like my retarded cousin after a shopping spree at the thrift store.
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A press release from Kyle Korver and Kevin Curtis regarding racial inequalities in professional sports

Posted on April 17, 2007

With the full support of their families and friends, NBA forward—and Ashton Kutcher body double—Kyle Korver and NFL wide receiver Kevin Curtis are proud to announce the founding of the Alliance for the Preservation of White Athletes (APWA), a civil liberties watchdog group that intends to fight unfair hiring practices in professional sports.

It is common knowledge that the number of white athletes in the NFL and NBA is diminishing rapidly, and the APWA is very concerned about this trend. “I just don’t feel comfortable being stuck in a locker room with all those black guys,” Korver says. “I mean, it wasn’t long ago that there would have been two, maybe even three American whites on the floor at once, and now we’re lucky to see that a couple times a year.”

“It’s sad,” Curtis says. “White kids in the suburbs used to have role models they could believe in. Steve Largent, Fred Biletnikoff, Ed McCaffery, that McConkey guy who played for the Giants, I think. Now, there’s just me and a handful of others, and I include guys like James Thrash who probably aren’t even white, but they could pass for it if you looked from really far away. The point is, there aren’t enough white guys in the league, and, frankly, I think it’s wrong.”
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Poo-tee-weet?

Posted on April 12, 2007

Kurt Vonnegut would probably never stop laughing if he saw how many tributes were written to him today, but I can’t help myself– the two people most responsible for my being a writer are, in order, my dad and Kurt Vonnegut. I know I’ll manage quite well without either of them around, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it or pretend that it doesn’t bother me.

It’s probably worth noting that when Anna Nicole Smith– a drug addicted whore with no discernible talents or usefulness– died, she became the top story on every news station for over a month, but when Vonnegut– one of the great American writers to ever live, and one of the most influential Americans of the 20th century– died, he became a footnote on the day’s news.

Take from that what you will.

A Vonnegut quote from 2004:

My last words? “Life is no way to treat an animal, not even a mouse.”

When we Knew the World Was Going to End

Posted on April 4, 2007

When the national anthem began, we stood as one, hats flipped off of heads, hands over hearts, eyes on the field where the President stood, and we really listened to the words again, after years of ignoring them, sipping on our beers and sneaking looks down the tank tops of the underage girls two rows in front of us and whooping like idiots when the singer sang about bombs and death. We realized how sad the song is, how we’ve come to celebrate death and savagery wrapped in a cloak of godliness. And we shed a few tears—but only a few because the last few days had wrung us dry—when we asked ourselves the inevitable question: is this the same kind of song they sing before their soccer games or camel races or kabaddi or whatever they do over there? Then we remembered again. We were sure we would always remember.

The air was still thick with dust and days-old smoke, a mist washing over us, curling into our nostrils and diving into our lungs. It was relentless; no matter how hard we coughed or how often we blinked, it was still there, coming, coming, always marching toward us, and we couldn’t help but wonder what we’d just swallowed—was that just dust from a broken cinderblock that rested on our seats? Was that ash from a burning car that fell on our tongues as we breathed open-mouthed so as to avoid smelling the death in the air? Was that our fathers, brothers, sisters, neighbors dusting our hair and following us home? Read more

The NFL Countdown Crew Predicts the 2012 Super Bowl

Posted on March 28, 2007

Chris Berman: Welcome back to NFL Countdown everybody! As you know, it’s the off-season for the NFL, but we don’t get an off-season here.

Tom Jackson: That’s right, Boom!

Berman: Thanks, Tom.

Jackson: No problem, Boom!

Berman: I love this guy! Anyway, as you know, TJ, Steve, Mort, Mel Kiper, Bill Parcells, and I just started a new project for ESPN last week, in which we predict the outcomes of every Super Bowl for the rest of the century. Let’s get a recap from Steve “Only the Good Die” Young!

Steve Young: Well, in 2007, the Lombardi Trophy was returned to its rightful owners when the New England Patriots beat the Dallas Cowboys by a score of 23-16. Adalius Thomas would have won the MVP trophy if not for Tom Brady’s heroics, as he threw for nearly 200 yards and would have thrown at least 2 touchdown passes if they hadn’t been scored by other players. The game effectively ended when Terrell Owens dropped a pass, then fell to the turf in tears and was called for consecutive delay of game penalties while he pounded his fists against the turf. Then, in 2008, the Patriots dominated the regular season, only to struggle in the playoffs, where they barely won all of their games, but still won the Super Bowl, thanks to Bill Belichick’s superhuman intelligence—

Berman: You’re going too slow! Faster, faster!
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Who Will Be the NHL’s Pat Tillman?

Posted on March 12, 2007

March 11, 2007
From: Commissioner Gary Bettman
To: NHL Player’s Association
Subject: Recent Negative Press

Good afternoon, everyone! I write today with news of an exciting new plan to improve our public image and to boost our ratings. As you know—or maybe you don’t know, but now you do—our ratings lately have been less than stellar. They’ve been not great, even. But they will be better, thanks to my leadership and your cooperation, which I’m assuming I have, because I know how much you all want to work with me to make this league great again.

As you probably know, the United States is at war right now. We—the NHL—do not have a stand on the war and don’t plan to take a stand on the war. People in America are very sensitive about people taking stands on things and they would rather us not say anything at all, so we’re keeping our mouths shut about the rights and wrongs of the situation and letting the government do what governments do. It’s not our place and it shouldn’t be our place, so we won’t say anything, because, as we’ve said, it’s best not to say anything.
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What it Feels Like To Hug a Cloud

Posted on March 9, 2007

I saw my Dad for the first time in four years today. I stood in the supermarket in front of the frozen meats and he was at the end of the snack aisle, penned in behind a fleshy, red-faced woman and her cart full of sugar water and canned death. I waved to him, but he looked straight through me, as if he were trying to read the expiration date on the pork chops behind me. I rushed toward him to give him a hug and tell him I’m sorry I never hugged him enough before, and he’d better come back right away and see my new house with the dogs, and the little cave where I do my work, and the quarter-sized hole in the middle of the living room floor, and the big TV in the big living room where we can watch football together.

And if he didn’t come I would be so mad; last time he disappeared on us I wasn’t ready for it and I’m still not ready for it, no matter how many times I act like it doesn’t bother me. You promised us you were done scaring us, I said, and still he stared past me. You promised you would come home.
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Thank God for AJ Feeley

Posted on March 4, 2007

Gus pushed through the door to The Lucky Shamrock, and was surprised to see that his old stool was free. In the adjacent stool, a tired woman sat, nursing her drink and wasting the seconds before she had to go home. He’d never seen a lonelier woman in his life, but there was aggressiveness about her loneliness that told him she wouldn’t bother him. It was too dark to tell if she was pretty, but she looking worn-out, and he already could smell her—she smelled like cigarettes and lemons.

As he sat down, he felt a strange warmth envelop him, the kind he’d felt as a child being tucked into bed. Sean stood behind the bar, just like he always had; it was like Gus had never left. The only difference was that Sean was bald now, and his nose looked like it had been dipped in bleach.

“Hey, Gus,” Sean said. “I thought you’d got cleaned up?

“I did.”

“Kitchen’s closed. You want a soda or something?”

“Michelob,” he said, slapping a twenty on the bar. “And a Jameson.”
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An Open Letter from Tim Hardaway to the Public

Posted on February 21, 2007

Hey y’all, this is Tim Hardaway, checking in to clear my name. Y’all might’ve heard about how me and Dan LeBatard were talking about that gay dude from the Magic, and how I said some things about how I wouldn’t want no gay dudes on my team. Somehow, since then, the media’s got things all twisted and they’re trying to act like I’m some kind of hater, like I’ve got some kind of problem, know what I’m saying? And the thing is, I’m not a bad guy. I just wear my heart on my sleeve, you know, like I always did on the court, and you all loved me for it back then. So what’s the problem now? Why you gotta act like I’m some kind of monster?

Yeah, sure, I said I hate gay people. And then I said it again the next day. But, like I told some reporter yesterday, I only hate gay people like I hate broccoli. I mean, broccoli’s gross. Seriously, nobody likes broccoli, right? I mean, unless it’s covered in cheese or butter. Kinda like gay people. Nobody likes them, not even with butter.

See, that’s how I think on people. I kinda like compare them to foods, you know? Gay people are broccoli because they’re gross and you don’t like them and you only have to swallow it because they make you even if you don’t want to and you think it’s disgusting and evil.

Same kind of thing with Mexicans. They remind me of pizza, cause it’s everywhere, you know, but not all of it is good, and there’s some real nasty pizza out there. I’m a thin crust man, myself, by which I mean, I’m against illegal immigration and I wish they’d learn to speak English.
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Transcript of a Phone Call From Ron Rivera to Jesse Jackson

Posted on February 20, 2007

Jackson: Yello?
Rivera: Good morning, Reverend Jackson, this is Ron Rivera…
Jackson: Who? I don’t know no Ron Rivera.
Rivera: I used to play for the Bears back in the ‘80s, and I most recently worked as their defensive coordinator…
Jackson: Who? What Bears we talking about? Is this some kind of hunting thing? I don’t hunt, you know. Not that I have any objection to it; my fingers are just too delicate.
Rivera: Oh. Well, this isn’t exactly about hunting. See—
Jackson: Good, that’s good. I’m anti-gun, you know. Too many young black men and women getting gunned down in the streets every day. It’s a travesty, an embarrassment, a terrible plague. Someone ought to do something about it.
Rivera: Um…
Jackson: So don’t be calling me about no guns. I don’t do guns. You got that?
Rivera: Sure. No guns.
Jackson: Good. So are we done then?
Rivera: Um, no, I don’t think so, Reverend. I was calling about something else…
Jackson: I’m a busy man, Mr. Rivers. I don’t have time to waste chit-chatting on the phone all day. Not when there’s souls to save. So if you got nothing important to say, then—
Rivera: Wait! It’s about racism in the NFL.
Jackson: Why the hell didn’t you say so? Who they holding back now? More penalties for the dances? You know that’s anti-black legislation, don’t you? Everyone knows only black men really dance, and I have the data here to prove that celebration penalties are called very disproportionately— Read more

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