People often ask me which 3 people throughout history I’d invite to dinner if given the opportunity.  If it’s a beautiful woman asking, I go the Jesus/Buddha/Mohammad route.  If not, I give my honest answer: Greg the Hammer Valentine, Iron Sheik and Iron Mike Sharpe.

My lord what an evening that would be.

Unfortunately, there’s no reference to caulking the wagons.

“Ferry?  I’m not paying for some stinking ferry.  Caulk the wagons, kids.  You do know how to swim, right?”

via Deuce

Last night’s game between the University of Oregon and Boise State had one major surprise.  It wasn’t that Oregon got shellacked on the road by a very good (and hopefully BCS busting) Boise State team or that their were some fisticuffs between the two teams and between Oregon players.  The major surprise, of course, was that Glass Joe is apparently playing defensive end for BSU under the pseudonym of Byron Hout.

Some of you will exclaim, “That’s ridiculous.  Glass Joe is a fictional character from the old and new Punch Out games.” 

To that I say, watch the video below and tell me that isn’t Glass Joe’s trademark nosedive.  When you’re done I eagerly await your apology.

I recently re-established my golf handicap this season. The process has always been a flaky one for me. Nevertheless, a handful of scores later, I acquired a number that is supposed to be the average amount I shoot over par in a given 18-hole round. As I logged into my state golf association website, I was able to view all the rules and by-laws regarding the establishment of said handicap. In big letters read, “A SCORE IS NOT ELIGIBLE IF THE PLAYER PLAYS WITH NON-REGULATION CLUBS OR BALLS.”

That’s the warning that gets the top billing?

THAT’s what the association is worried about?

That I might pull a Rodney Dangerfield from Caddyshack and nail a 30-footer for birdie using an Albert Einstein-designed putter?

How about the fact that a person can enter whatever they want for a score with zero oversight? Maybe that might be the bigger loophole? Try this the next time you’re at the course: gaze past the underage girls operating the beer carts, the disgruntled suspicious dude picking up the range balls (my first job), into the club house, between the dipshits letting us all know how great Tiger is every time he’s shown on the big screen, and you just might notice a very large elephant that no one else sees…or at least they pretend not to. And now, instead of handing in a scorecard signed by several people to another human in the clubhouse (like in the ol’ days), a person can now enter their score at a kiosk….by their lonesome.

Imagine this: as thousands of people enter their numbers after a round, a select few stumble across the notion that they can be whatever handicap they want. It’s like the problem you might get if you left a group of 4-year olds unattended in a room with a big clear jar of Oreos in the middle. Sooner or later…

And if they can be whatever handicap they want, why not inflate that number so that when they play in local tournaments (basically the only reason to have a handicap) they have a better chance of winning prize money? I couldn’t help but wonder that as I gazed at the leader board at a tournament I just played in. “59” read one of the “net” scores. For you non-golfers, a “net” score is the score obtained by taking the player’s actual score and subtracting their handicap. Again, generally that number should be about even par (say 72 or so). So, shooting a 59 is basically playing 13 strokes below your average. 13 strokes. When was the last time Tiger Woods, a 0 handicap from what I hear, shot a 59? Phil Mickelson? This dude basically, got out bed, pissed excellence that particular morning, threw on a faded pair of navy dockers, hopped into his ‘91 Volkswagon Rabbit, and proceeded to play better (relatively) than every professional golfer in the world.

Granted he’s not playing on Augusta National. And, maybe he’s just a “gamer,” a golfer savant, who never got his shot at the big time? Yeah that’s it, he’s a quiet, low-key dude who prefers Blue Ribbon, co-ed softball, the 9-5 shift at Lloyd Lumber, and weekend tourneys at the local municipal over the hassle of the PGA. Then again, if that’s so, why is he a freakin’ 19-handicap? Or just maybe, er…uh…I don’t know how to say this USGA…but maybe he’s a dirtball cheater? Maybe that number I paid 50 bucks for isn’t based on reality.

But hey, I’ll live with it. I’ll keep entering my legit scores while this dude rounds up to the nearest zero, or double-zero, as the case may be. And he can go on and use his winnings to buy that alligator head cover that he’s had his eyes on. All that I ask is that he doesn’t smile when he picks up that gift certificate. That he doesn’t gloat or try to shake my hand. That he doesn’t kick back in the clubhouse and tell us about how lucky he got when he holed those 3 putts in a row for birdie. How he never missed a fairway…and he never does that! That he just takes his money, gets back in the Rabbit, and rides quietly into the sunset. At least extend us all that still abide truthfully by the handicap system that courtesy.

H. R.

I’m no rocket scientist, but it seems like it would be common sense for the gallery to stand *behind* any non-golf, sports star who’s about to tee off in a celebrity or pro-am tournament.

Especially one who has a well documented history of being as poor a golfer as Charles Barkley.

Especially if you’ve got your frickin’ kid with you.

(via Al and Big Lead)

While I would never want total amnesia, one benefit, however, would be a chance to revisit all the routine things we do and see every day and to pick out all the stuff that doesn’t make any sense. Take a basketball game, for instance…

I’m pretty sure the first thing I would question is who in the hell are these “cheerleaders” in the goofy school-colored uniforms that don’t resemble anything a female on this planet would ever wear (at least in this millennium)?

How about the dudes grabbing their butts as they hoist them over their heads?…I guess I can partially make sense of that.

Moving on, is it accurate to call someone a “cheer leader” when the majority of the time they’re being totally ignored while cheering goes on all around them? Dare I say, the cheerleaders sometimes appear guilty of being the most oblivious people in the stadium to the very thing that everyone else paid money to see. Shouldn’t they be the most excited? It seems like a person’s knowledge and fanaticism about a team should be part of the whole try-out process. Then you’d have some cheerleading. At the least, it’d be authentic.

And what’s with the leg kicks? When was the last time a leg kick got me psyched up about a game? Or pom-poms? Or a pyramid formation? As if I’m just sitting in my chair numbly watching a team play and then, suddenly, “POW” a leg kick from a cheerleader hits me like a bolt of lightning and I realize how intense overtime really IS…“Thank goodness the team designated people to lead the cheering or I would have been lost,” I would think to my relieved self…

I’m not saying this is a good thing, but it seems our society has moved beyond the whole cheerleading era, right about the time we hung up our letterman jackets for good, and gave up the cheers that started with “We’ve got spirit, yes we do…” And yet they’re still there, throwing themselves into the air, back-handspringing across the floor, igniting us with those feminine arm-extension fist pumps.

The mascots I can see. They’re original, over-the-top and goofy looking, kids get their pictures taken with them, they get into fights with other mascots, they’re funny on Sportscenter. Even horrible mascots, like the Cornell “Big Red” bear I witnessed this year at the NCAA basketball tourney, a mascot that petered out midway through most cheers and leaned on the scorer’s table, never raised her/his arms above her waist, was totally disconnected from what the cheerleaders were doing, entertained the shizzle out of me. I loved that freakin’ bear!

But the cheerleaders…why? Is it just our collective nostalgia, our desire to hold on to an innocent remnant of the past? Is it Title IX (i.e. preventing the schools’ elimination of men’s lacrosse?). Or is it we just haven’t been paying attention for so long it’s become like the clutter in our garage, useless as it is, it wouldn’t be the same without it.

And there is that wholesomeness, I guess; that Leave It To Beaver/apple pie, or in the case of the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, bourbon flavor to it all. It’s uniquely American and, to that extent, I’ll accept it. Plus, without lacrosse, what would all the athletes do that aren’t good enough to play real sports?

H.R.

Wally Backman’s masterful rant got me in the mood to dig up Tommy Lasorda’s eloquent response to the accusation that, as manager of the Dodgers, he was telling his pitchers to throw at various Padres.

Currently the manager for the South Georgia Peanuts, Backman is widely know for his days with the NY Mets. Here’s his bio for those who can’t quite place him.

We missed f*cking megasigns.

(Via With Leather)

Excerpted from the Canton Intelligencer:

Sources present at the Cavaliers End of the Year Banquet said that it was an uncomfortable experience.

“My wife and I left as soon as we could,” remarked an employee in Cleveland’s front office, who wished to remain anonymous.

“When one of his teammates would walk up to receive their award, Lebron would alternate between long, slow claps and vigorous clapping.”

“It was pretty obvious he was still steamed by their lack of support during the Orlando series.”

Read more satirical news at Newsgrift.com

What stops an old guy from putting on his Fruit of the Looms in a gym locker room? Too much my friends, far too much. How many times do I have to walk into my local fitness club and witness senior porn?

Putting on their socks…in the nude.

Shaving…nude.

Checking phone messages…nuderama.

Deodorant…nuder.

Going for an additional head and groin towel-off…Old McNudald.

Big arm stretch and waist twist…Bachman-Nuder Overdrive.

I leave my workouts burdened with questions:

How many things can a person who averages a dinnertime of 4:58PM do before concealing his aged jewels?

And, more intriguing, does the underwear delay occur gradually over time, with the boundaries of normalcy and common sense being pushed further toward, and then beyond, the limit with each passing decade? And, most disturbing, will it (or is it) happening to me?

Perhaps these questions should be asked by all of us men, as we blow out the candles with each passing year. “How IS your urge for blatant nudity… in a humid room surrounded by dudes?” – that question alone should be sufficient. In fact, I would argue that the standard “age markers” such as wrinkles, lack of muscle tone, gray hair, no hair, ear hair, and how close our testicles are to the toilet water while seated are all irrelevant for gauging our true age next to the aforementioned question.

When I get up there in age I may drive slow, wear outdated clothing/dark socks, complain a little too much, but I ain’t going out like that. I’m going to step out of that steamy shower in a slick motherf’n velvet Adidas lounge-wear sippin’ a White Russian. And I’ll say, to the 1st youngster who sees me, after a brief nod to my well-concealed penis, “You wish, bitch.”

H.R.