Welcome. Introducting our panel of annual analysts: Climp Bators (Pigskin Warthog Online Editor, statistician, sub-par husband) Lash St. Cower (Portland Daily Gazette columnist, senile ex-lover of Eartha Kitt) Rosalind Propecia (on-field interviewer, ESPN Chechnya) Cormac McCarthy (Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Road and All the Pretty Horses, licensed misanthrope) Kegstands-X5 (sentient, artificially intelligent android sent from the future to discuss football) Peaches Malloy (three-time Pro Bowl running back, disgraced infomercial psychic)
This is the year I stop thanking the wrong God for all of my victories, and start thanking that new God that I read about. This is the year that I stop being such a ball hog, and become a ball suckling pig.
BATTING .500 TEAM OF THE YEAR: North Korea. They conducted their third underground nuclear test, sure, but without the seasoned tutelage they’d come to know and love from Kim Jong-Il, 2013 was doomed to be a rebuilding year for the scrappy upstarts from the Paris of Totalitarianism. Like so many other countries this year, they let their guard down and let VICE take over the entire nation. Akin to the too-young Los Angeles Clippers, time will tell whether this nation […]
By age 20, Mike Tyson was not only boxing’s heavyweight champion, but the most dominant athlete of the 1980s. Not even the massive egos and grand stamina of Michael Jordan, Carl Lewis, or Rickey Henderson could deliver such a claim. He made his modest fighting height of 5’10” into a net positive, by employing a “peek-a-boo” technique of ducking extremely low in order to block opponents’ punches, and in his prime delivered his blows the way a typhoon delivers hydration: […]
Article I: The National Football League (henceforth “the NFL”, “NFL”, and/or “the League”) decrees that in conjunction with his ongoing suspension from his active roster, Mr. Incognito shall serve one hundred (100) hours of community service as an employee of the Grufferson Retirement Palace in Myanmar, Florida. When asked by residents if he is their grandson, Mr. Incognito will be required to answer in the affirmative, even if he is not the grandson of the resident in question. If prompted, […]
Cardinals bullpen. Youth’s flowing fountain runs deep, Like hot, fresh cheese fries. Sports bar bathroom reeks, Yet within: community. Bros pee, united. Love thy neighbor, dawg. Boston: The Pixies. Sam Adams. St. Lou: Jon Hamm. Busch.
The first thing that I’m reminded of when watching the Congress in crisis is my lifelong love of professional wrestling’s broad theatrics. Telling someone that you love wrestling is akin to what I expect it’s like to announce a foot fetish. Most recoil and wince, the rest ask if you prefer the big toe or the pinkie.
It’s autumn in America, the recognized center of our universe. With the change in season comes the opportunity to stargaze in a sweater, contemplate one’s place in the galaxy, and chart which Major League Baseball team in playoff contention best suits your astrological sign. But why think when I can think for you?