Two Kurt Warner Stories and a Super Bowl Pick

Kurt Warner is one of the stories of the upcoming Super Bowl for two reasons: 1) his is a compelling and heartwarming tale of both rags and the riches that followed them and 2) it’s a story that has already had a successful following so it’s easy to rehash and sell as a new product.

And, since everyone else is telling Kurt Warner stories, allow me to tell the only two that I have.

When I returned from Europe post college graduation, I was picked up at the St. Louis airport by my father and my buddy Jesse. It was an interesting time for me. I had no place to live save my parents’ house, no job, no money, about ten thousand dollars of credit card debt, no car and had recently broken up with my European girlfriend. Also, because Europe hates everything American that does not involve bashing our government, I had no idea what was going on in the National Football League.

I arrived in St. Louis on a Sunday at roughly 11 AM Central time. After I said my hellos to Jesse and Pops, we walked to Pops’ car where I sat in the back (Jesse called shotgun, knows Judo and well, my dad always liked him better than me anyway so I didn’t fight the issue).

As we drove down the highway, Pops informed me that we had to get to his favorite bar soon so we could get seats to the Rams game. I started laughing uncontrollably. The last time I had heard about the Rams was in a phone call from my father wherein I was informed that their QB Trent Green had been mauled by Rodney Harrison (then with the Chargers) in a preseason game. They were an annual joke and I was dead sure the fellas were messing with me.

“He doesn’t know?” Jesse asked Pops.

“I guess not,” said Pops.

“Hey Nate,” said Jesse. “You know who Kurt Warner is?”

“Seahawks cornerback, right? Kinda shitty.”

They both laughed heartily and then Jesse threw me a copy of a Sports Illustrated which had on it a picture of Kurt Warner and the title, “Who is this Guy” which couldn’t have been a more perfect title for me because I truly didn’t know who he was. So I read the article and learned all the good Christian, stock boy turned superstar shit that we’re all currently familiar with.

Anyway, the Rams won the Super Bowl that year with Warner as QB. And I was back in Tampa a few months after it happened, thank God and the company that paid a few grand to say goodbye to me.

My second Kurt Warner story, the one where I actually got to see him, involves four hungover dudes, Bloody Marys and anger.

After a night out partying with some old friends turned into an early morning partying with some old friends turned into a holy-shit-the-bars-are-open-again-we-gotta-go moment, I found myself sitting with three buddies in an Chili’s or an Applebee’s or some kind of casual dining restaurant. You ever been in a bar so early that the waitresses don’t have the chairs down off the bar from the night before? Well, we had. And that’s exactly how the place was when we started drinking. Eerily quiet. Us to wasted to talk. Chairs still up on the bars as if asking us if we worked there. Just a serene alcohol moment the likes of which only makes sense when you’re between 21 and 25. Any younger or older and you’re just sad. Fortunately, we were all 22 and so the moment fit.

Anyway, Kurt Warner walked in and asked for the manager, and out came some chubby looking balding dude who did not look above paying for sex (one of my ex-girlfriends calls the look of desperate, chubby bald guys “prostitutey” and I feel you needed to know that).

Warner politely asked the man for a thousand dollar gift certificate and explained that he needed it to be one page so he could hide it in the pages of a book as a gag gift. I thought it was interesting that Warner had a sense of humor and would have told him as much if I wasn’t the fourth guy down the bar from him (I was on the far side with my friend Mike on the near side—a few feet from him).

The manager came out after checking into the gift certificate matter and informed Mr. Warner that he was sorry, but their gift certificates only came in denominations of $50 and he couldn’t get them to make one that came any higher.

Warner acted exactly like I would have in this situation. He said, “Thought so. No problem. I’ll probably just see if any banks have any thousand dollar bills left.”

That’s nice and typical and good human behavior and all that but, well, Warner had just brought this town a Super Bowl, something that Mike felt should be factored in to the decision here.

“Now wait just a goddamn minute,” Mike yelled as he hopped off the stool.

First, Mike pointed at Warner, whose mouth was wide open and whose eyes were squinting in total disbelief.

“This man just won your town a fucking Super Bowl you fat waste of fucking space,” he pointed at the manager. “Now you get back into your fucking office and you call whoever you got to call and you get this man a gift certificate for a thousand fucking dollars on one fucking piece of paper or I curse you to hell!”

“Curse him?” I asked. “What, you practice Voodoo now?”

“I thought you were Presbyterian,” chimed in Matt.

“Fuck you guys,” yelled Mike. “And fuck this guy right here for not properly respecting a football hero.”

To which Kurt Warner replied, “Man, calm down, okay? It’s no big deal. You really need to relax. Just sit down. You’re scaring this guy.”

The manager was shaking quite adamantly (Mike stood 6’7” in shoes).

“Thanks for being the voice of reason, Kurt” said Matt (or maybe the other guy—I forget who the other guy was but it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Mike who said it so there’s that).

And with that, Kurt Warner walked out of our lives forever.

Anyway, I’m picking the Steelers (-7). God Boy has no chance against that defense.

Scotty McCapenstein Cannot Use a Computer...

For many different reasons, none of which are really important or relevant to the fact that he just texted me with the instructions that I put up his picks.

So I'm putting up his picks.

The Capper Man wants you to pick South Alabama (+1) and the University of California (+10) in the sport of collegiate basketball.

I went to the NFL Fan experience and saw the Lombardi Trophy (and the Swashbucklers--Bucs cheerleaders) up close. I may elaborate on my evening but I have more important beers, er matters to attend to right now.

Yours in Christ,

The Guy Who Posts for Scotty Because Computers Confuse Him.

Tampa Bay Strip Club Myths Revealed

Thanks to the Super Bowl related media hype, a lot of writers are pointing out the fact that the Tampa Bay area is well known for its strip clubs. Now, I’m not gonna say that one of the many reasons I chose to stay in this town after college had to do with the number and quality of strip clubs in the area, but I will say that I enjoy having a number of quality strip clubs in the area.

I have visited at least ten of Tampa Bay’s strip clubs (Tampa Bay includes Sarasota, St. Petersburg and Clearwater as well as Tampa) and I feel it is my place to dispel some rumors.

First, drinking. There are only two strip clubs in Tampa Bay that allow full nude and alcohol consumption (they were grandfathered in when the law changed). You used to be able to bring your own liquor into strip clubs here and then pour your own into the juice and soda they sell at nine bucks a pop but times changed due to the untimely murder of a stripper (alcohol gets blamed for everything). To combat the new law, local hero and strip club owner Joe Redman, who once accidentally called my buddy Ben because he inherited a phone number from one of Joe’s friends (true story), decided to allow tailgating in his parking lot, proving that you can’t keep a good strip club down and also justifying why Joe perennially gets my vote for mayor (dude always runs—also a true story).

Second, the full nude part. Yes, they show you everything. Yes, there are back room payouts for sex. Yes, this is a part of the Tampa culture. Yes, I love it here.

Third, the six foot rule. There is a rule that states that no exotic dancer is ever allowed to come closer than six feet to a patron. As far as I can tell this rule is only enforced when someone forgets to bribe someone important. I was once in jail when thirteen strippers were marched in for the six foot violation (another true story). They were out in fifteen minutes. Redman doesn’t let people mess with his women. He’s a good man, I tell you.

Fourth and finally, Mons Venus. Often considered the crown jewel of Tampa’s strip clubs, Mons Venus is more of a lap dance and back room kind of strip club. Sometimes, the stage itself is actually empty. The women there know where the money is, and it’s not on stage.

I hope this helps you understand a little more about the Tampa Bay strip club scene. I’m just glad I could be of service. And you’re welcome.

Ideas for the MLB Channel

Life has bestowed upon me many blessings. I rarely get sick, my family and friends are all healthy and happy for the most part, alcohol happens to be legal in my native country and recently I got the MLB Channel.

Now, far be it for me to criticize something awesome, but baseball needs serious help. Maybe the MLB Channel’s executives, if given the time, will realize that laughter and sex sell way more products than uptight, semi coherent idiots with opinions on baseball. After this realization, the folks running the shows about The Show may come to terms with the concepts necessary to make this niche market channel an awesome and totally beyond super cool reality.

Now, the MLB network may have refused all of my efforts for improving their show. Maybe they’ve ignored my letters, phone calls and angry email tirades but they can’t ignore this… blog?

Alright, what the fuck ever. I’m going for it anyway.

If the MLB wishes to improve their network they need to add more hot chicks (preferably of the half naked variety but I’ll take what I can get at this point), they need to infuse some damn humor into one of the more poetic and timeless American sports and they need to hire me like yesterday. Just look at the shows I thought up in the last ten minutes.

The Bitching Hour
An hour a week where baseball players, coaches, umpires and fans can all come together and complain about how they got screwed. All the bad calls can be rehashed, all the shitty player seasons that cost millions of dollars and yielded mediocrity (or worse) can be relived and torn apart. In short, everyone gets to vent. Lucy Pinder can host. She doesn’t need to say anything. This show sells itself.

Hysteria Baseball Theatre 4000
Classic baseball games can be replayed with actual comedians doing voiceovers that make fun of past styles of play, past styles of facial hair and just the general bigotry of past eras. If comedy equals tragedy plus time, then the Houston Astros classic ‘80s uniforms should be good for at least twenty shows.

Hot Softball Chicks do Stuff
I don’t care what they do as long as they’re hot.

Hot Baseball Wives and Girlfriend Do Stuff
Again, I don’t care what they do as long as they’re hot.

You Banged Her
A panel of current baseball stars talk about all the fine chicks they get and who has or hasn’t banged the models, celebrities or strippers who are chosen as the topics each show. I wouldn’t think that inviting she-male freak Alex Rodriguez would be a good call, but you know, maybe during freak weak (more on this in a later post). Speaking of which…

The Real Show
Baseball players both past and present all take turns talking about who did what with regards to steroids, greenies, cocaine and other drugs. This would make for an awesome episode just about every week. Decadence kicks ass.

These are just some of the ideas I came up with in several minutes while on my third beer, which means that the executives at the MLB Channel could really improve their chances for advertising revenue if they hired me to run their channel.

Your move, Major League Baseball. Your move.

Pick This!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I haven't posted in awhile so I figured I would hand out some more winners tonight.

Pick #1 Houston(pick) at Indiana

Pick #2 Atlanta(-5) vs Milkwaukee


Im 4-1 so far.

Dirty Dave..............play what i say.

Rickey Never Asked to be Born

I used to hate myself for liking Rickey Henderson.

I moved to the city of St. Louis at four years old. I had never been to a professional baseball game… heck, all I understood about the sport was that my father had given me a bat and that I was not, under any circumstances, allowed to hit my little brother with it, which seemed to be pretty par for the course. My parents never let me hit him with anything. Even teddy bears.

After a few months in town, I fell in love with the game of baseball. The kind of serendipity one experiences when going from complete ignorance of a topic to total infatuation is rare. It happened to me when Suzy Tackett batted her eyelashes at me in kindergarten. It happened to me the first time I figured out I could read and that the city had seen fit to fill an entire building with free books for me and it happened to me after the first time I watched a baseball game on television.

And after I watched, I had to learn more about the game. My father, as much as he loved baseball, was about useless for most of the knowledge of my favorite team. Sure, he could tell me the rules, explain the positioning and lineups, and even show me the best ways to throw, catch and hit, but he had never been a Cardinal fan. He was as new to St. Louis as I was, and probably because he was trapped working and going to school and raising three kids, he didn’t have the time or inclination to research the history of the team.

But there were plenty of people in my neighborhood who could (and would). One of these people, an old white man who lived up the street and whose name I forget because I pretty much always called him Sir, taught me the history of the greatest Cardinal players ever. One of them was Lou Brock, who Sir promised me did things on the basepaths that would never be done again.

And then Rickey Henderson showed up and Rickey did some awesome stuff. Sir swore that Rickey hit better leadoff than Bobby Bonds, that he ran the basepaths as good as Lou Brock himself and that he could irk even the best pitchers from the moment he got into the batters box until the second he scored. Sir liked Rickey a lot, even if he was indeed, as Sir called him, “One crazy ass Negro.”

(Side note: It’s weird how really old people get a pass on racism but I guess that’s a topic for another day.)

Then Rickey broke Lou Brock’s stolen base record and, with Brock standing right there to help honor the young man who broke his record, the new record breaker said “Lou Brock was a great base stealer, but today, I am the greatest of all time.”

To the rest of the nation, it was at worst disrespectful and at best just Rickey being the oddball the rest of baseball had come to appreciate, but in St. Louis that statement was blasphemy. The consensus around town became that Rickey wouldn’t play for the Cardinals if he offered his services for free; talk radio and sports television airwaves lit up with spittle and venom all aimed at the A’s leadoff hitter. Rickey was viewed by most St. Louisans as more than just disrespectful: he was an outright atrocity of a man who should have been dragged out into the street and pelted with lit M-80s by Stan Musial. He was booed during every St. Louis at-bat (of which there were few because he primarily played in the American League) and more than once was referred to by my father as, “That son of a bitch Rickey Henderson.”

Sir was dead by the time Rickey had broken that record so I never got his thoughts on the matter. I just remember staying really quiet around my friends and refusing to admit to them that I would have loved Rickey in the Cardinal outfield.

Every media outlet on the planet lately has some reflection on Rickey Henderson’s career, both off the field and on the field. And all of that is fine and dandy like Ned Flanders’ favorite candy. Every baseball fan over the age of twenty has a Rickey memory. And I will remember Rickey Henderson primarily for teaching me that one wrong sentence can make a large group of people hate you.

But still, that’s hardly a reason to give a fuck.

And as he prepares to enter into the Hall of Fame, I kind of hate myself a little for hating myself for liking Rickey Henderson.

That’s why I’m recording his Hall of Fame induction speech and inviting all five of my friends and all six of my readers over for a beer-filled barbecue. I don’t expect them to come, mind you (who in the hell watches Hall of Fame speeches?). But I’m doing it anyway.

Because Rickey was one of the greatest.

And that speech is gonna be freaking hilarious.

The Snippets, Literally

Steve: The fuck is that?
Me: You never seen a teddy bear before?
Steve: Why you carrying a teddy bear?
Me: I found it on the sidewalk on the way up to the bar.
Steve: Aren’t you a little old to be picking random stuffed animals off the sidewalk?
Me: Wait, there’s an age limit for that?

Me: Man, I cannot believe that pissed Bill off so much.
Mark: Well, you threw a teddy bear at him. What did you expect?
Me: I thought everyone loved teddy bears.
Mark: You shouldn’t throw teddy bears at people, Nate.
Me: What about Gummi bears?
Mark: You shouldn‘t throw anything. At anyone. For any reason.
Me: I’m sure there are exceptions.
Mark: Probably. But just, as a general rule, stop throwing shit.

Lorraine: Wow, you are really good at throwing ice and catching it in your mouth.
Me: This is nothing. I can also throw ice into other peoples’ mouths.
Lorraine: That’s… um, great.
Me: You want me to show you some other things my mouth can do with ice?
Lorraine: You know, it’s amazing. You look like such a sweet and innocent person and you act like…
Me: A super cool, awesome guy?
Lorraine: An asshole. A straight up asshole.

Dave: This game is totally turned around. At one point, it was literally 31 to 10.
Scotty: It actually was 31 to 10.
Me: I would hope so since… well you know, that’s what literally means.
Scotty: Fuck your geeky ass.
Dave: Yeah, I could literally not care less about what you say.
Me: Actually, I think that’s hyperbole.
Dave: Fuck you.

Scotty: Seriously, what size is that sweater… a small?
Me: It’s a large.
Scotty: In child sizes?
Me: No, it’s an adult.
Dave: It’s literally an adult size.
Me: Now you got it.

Dave: You need to quit drinking hard liquor so early in the day there, pint size.
Me: Seriously… height jokes? I’m five foot nine. Five ten in shoes.
Dave: And if you keep drinking milk…
Me: That’s such an unoriginal form of humor. I mean, how would you like it if I just kept pointing out how disgustingly fat you are?
Dave: Go for it. I’m here and I’m round and I’m ready to get down.
Scotty: Literally.
Me: I don’t think you know what that word means.
Scotty: And you are under the mistaken impression that I care.
Me: Fair enough.
Dave: Literally.
Me: Nice call back, Dave.
Dave: Literally.
Me: Okay, beaten and dead horse have gotten to know each other now.
Scotty: But not literally.
Me: I need another drink.

Tonight's Picks

Drum roll please............................................I have 2 picks for this evenings card.
1. Toledo (-4)(3-14)(2-4 at home) vs Central Michigan(4-11)(1-7 on the road)

• Toledo is 4-0 vs C. Michigan over the last 2 years.
• C.Michigan is averaging giving up 76 points on the road and only scoring 64.
• Toledo is shooting 40 % from beyond the arc at home this year.

Prediction: Toledo 69 - Central Michigan 62

2. Illinois(-7)(15-3)(10-1 at home) vs Ohio State(13-3)(3-2 on the road)

• Ohio State doesn't score that much. Only averaging 64 points a game on the road.
• Illinois can score and play defense. Averaging 73 and giving up 53 at home.
• Illinois will drive and dish outside for 3's all game. Averaging 19 assists and 7 3's a game at home.
• Ohio State can make it a game by slowing the pace and collecting offensive rebounds. If they do not do this it will be a blowout.

Prediction: Illinois 74 - Ohio State 62

Both games tip off at 7pm EST.

This is Double D's Dirty Dave....................play what i say.

Sports, Men and the Importance of Being Stupid

When I turned seventeen I made what would be one of my worst decisions ever and got myself a driver’s license. Keep in mind, I had absolutely no intention of ever driving because my friends that drove all found ways to constantly end up in jail, injured or just plain dead. But one day I came home from school and sitting in my parents’ driveway was a shit brown ’79 Mercury Cougar.

“Whose hoopty is that sitting in our driveway?” I asked my step dad.

“Yours,” he said and he threw me the keys.

“I guess I have to get a driver’s license now.”

He nodded solemnly as if he could not understand why he had the misfortune of inheriting the only teenage boy in the City of St. Louis that had no interest in driving a vehicle.

Three accidents (one in which I hit a cop) and one ticket later, I finally passed my driver’s test (I failed it three times and only passed it because a buddy of mine swore I’d have better luck if I did it while tripping LSD—mine was an odd childhood). After I got my license, I went and got proof of insurance from my State Farm Agent. I asked the dude why it was that men paid more than women for automobile insurance. I told him that I had been told that men get in more accidents than women.

“That’s not exactly true,” he told me. “The thing is that women get in about as many accidents as men but that when young men get in accidents, they are typically of a very serious natures. All young drivers make mistakes but men prefer the kind of mistakes that happen around one hundred miles an hour. And those are more expensive to insurance companies.”

And that’s when I first started to understand that men are, for the most part, jackasses. We start all the wars, we represent the greater number of murderers, rapists, thieves and drug dealers. In short, we are inherent gamblers and thrill seekers.

And that’s why we invented sports.

Think about it. One day a man (or more likely, a boy) convinced another man and/or boy that it would be a good idea for them to form groups, throw a leather ball around and beat the shit out of each other. Furthermore, many women approved of this behavior because it was actually so much more civilized than murder, rape and stealing shit.

So, to those who think that sports are stupid and unnecessary I say, “Yeah, probably. But they’re not nearly as stupid and unnecessary as most of the stuff we actually want to do.”

Only 25 more days until pitchers and catchers report!

Why this blog needs a lady like me

It troubles me, as I watch Bear Grylls purposely putting himself inside of a Canadian glacier to show you how you survive if ever stranded on a Canadian glacier, that men consider themselves the "superior" species. Let's be honest, when in the hell will ANY of us be flying over the Amazon any time soon? Do we really need to know how to saute a boa constrictor? I think not.

This is why I prefer catching my daily dose of testosterone from something that doesn't leave me scratching my head at the end of the day and thinking, what in the hell were they thinking. I enjoy every and any sporting event where even I can tune out the idle chit chat of my female companions. Don't get me wrong, I love my Jimmy Choo's as much as the next girl, but Jesus, sometimes it even makes me want to hang myself. You wish your girlfriend could be this cool.

I'd rather spend my Saturday afternoons with a beer, some wings, and a football, basketball, or baseball game, whatever season we may be in. I thoroughly enjoy anything and everything sports. I love watching it. I love talking about it. And I really enjoy making the opposite feel stupid when they talk to me like I don't have a clue when it comes to sports because I have a vagina and I'm pretty. I'm an anomaly - no idea where it came from or why. But it happened, so here I am. I just hope I can add some insight, reason, and class into what will be, no doubt, a testosterone laden, ball-busting, shit talking kind of blog. I hope you enjoy!

They Say Purple Signifies Royalty

I just paid $144.95 to be groped by a possibly gay, definitely effeminate male at a formal wear place because Scotty McCappinstein is getting married and I am part of the wedding party. My groomsman duties apparently entail wearing the kind of purple that only Prince could love (thanks, buddy—if I ever get married, you’re wearing something pink).

Anyways, I noticed something while at the tuxedo shop. They sell Buccaneer cufflinks. And we’re not wearing them. Don’t ask me why. Ask Scotty (note: Scotty will post more when he figures out blogger and I have no idea when that will be).

Now, effeminate tuxedo shop boy also told me that the cufflinks are a huge seller (in addition, he told me that I should be very proud of the fact that the difference between the length around my shoulders and the length around my waist is more than twenty inches—seriously, just a gay gay gay moment all around) but that somehow, one of the more diehard fans of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers will not be wearing Buccaneer cufflinks when he signs his life over to the woman he loves.

That, like so many other things probably happening in that tuxedo shop, is just wrong.

Anyway, Dirty Dave, when you go to get fitted, watch out for Bill. And definitely close the door when you change. I think I saw homeboy try to sneak a peek.

So Your Team is in the Super Bowl

That’s awesome, buddy. I am damn glad to hear it. I am super duper psyched for the state of your fandom. I remember seven years ago when my team won the Super Bowl and it was like the coolest thing ever. After the Bucs won, I head-butted my buddy Nick and he threw me through a screen door. And I didn’t even mind! Man that was good times.

Anyway, I understand that it’s hard to behave yourself under such crazy awesome circumstances and all that. I know because I couldn’t behave myself under similar circumstances but you know, at that time I was at my buddy’s house where everyone (more or less) accepted me as the weirdo I am but you people, well some of you are coming to my town and I just want to get a few things straight with you before you show up. The following is my advice to both Steeler Fans and Cardinal fans who will no doubt be coming to Tampa and making it harder to get a reservation at a restaurant over the course of the next few weeks.

Steeler Fans:
I know you people because you are fucking everywhere. You are loud and obnoxious and annoying and just generally insufferable during the regular season here in Tampa so I can only assume that you will be incredible assholes come the week of the Super Bowl and as such I have one important piece of advice: shut the fuck up.

Look, during the game you can feel free to scream and shout and stomp on puppies and babies alike (especially if you brought your own babies and puppies) but when the game is not going on and you’re wandering the streets of Ybor, drunk off your fat asses, we do not need to hear how great your team is because a) we don’t care and b) you don’t play for them. People of Tampa are known for being laid back and easygoing folks but we have lax gun laws down here and we will wax your Primanti Brothers sandwich sucking selves if you don’t stop screaming in our streets. (Note: Primanti Brothers sandwiches are fucking awesome and I will never make fun of them.)

Now, if you are a Steelers fan who happens to live down here and you are not actually from Pittsburgh, please say the following before cheering like a madman: “I root for this team because I picked them when I was a kid because they were good and it made me feel good to root for a winning team.” After that, MAYBE I will refrain from shooting you.

If you are from Pittsburgh and you live here (I’m looking at you Dirty Dave): please do us all a favor and do not remind us how totally awesome it is that you moved from the ‘Burgh and now get to see your favorite team play in (and most likely win) the Super Bowl in the totally much warmer and more fun town that you chose to move to because the weather was better. We know. We get it. You’re happy. We would be happy, too. Now, just sit down and be happy and we’ll all watch the game.

In short, stay classy Steelers’ fans.

Cardinals Fans:
I have no stereotypes of you because you really haven’t ever had a good team for which to root so I’ve never actually, um, met one of you. Also, your team has only been good for approximately a month so you probably don’t even know the basic rules of the game yet and as such I am extending you a little leeway. I wish you no ill will as you struggle to crawl out of your fandom infancy. However, I feel it is my duty to read you my famous Bandwagon Fan Speech (I gave this to Patriot fans a few years ago and none of them took the advice and now everyone hates them so please pay attention to the following):

No one wants to hear how much you suffered rooting for a crappy team all these years. Your freaking team could hardly sell out a game over the last fifty years and no one, seriously, freaking no one cares to hear about how hard it has been “rooting” for this crappy team. If you start complaining, I will force you to name twenty players on the Cardinals as well as the offensive and defensive coordinators. If you cannot do that and you expect me to consider you a longtime suffering fan, I will shoot you.

No one wants to hear about the lack of respect that your team received this season. If your team had earned anything prior to this season, it was a lack of respect. Complaining about a lack of respect will get you a respectful bullet in your respected ass.

In short, I don’t blame you, bandwagon fans. Fan bases have to start some time and they are usually not built until a team starts winning. This is Tampa Bay; no one knows this better than us.

But, and this is important, if Plaxico Burress had shot himself in a Tampa nightclub it wouldn’t even have been a misdemeanor. We like guns down here and we hate high strung assholes.

No need to thank me for this sage advice. This is just the kind of superhero I am.

Observations from a Championship Weekend

The Arizona Cardinals are definitely going to lose the Super Bowl. And it’s not because the Steelers are the better team (they are) and it’s not because Arizona’s offense will get totally destroyed by Dick “I’m not a porn star though I got a porn star’s name” LeBeau (they will), it’s simply because the Steeler is not a bird. The Gridbirds have (going back to Week 17) beaten the Seahawks, the Falcons, and now the Eagles. There is only one other NFL team with a bird name, the Ravens. And they are no longer involved. So bet heavy on the Steel (my gambling technique is known as “bullshit”).

And while we’re here, do you realize that the Baltimore Orioles used to be the St. Louis Browns and the Baltimore Ravens used to be the Cleveland Browns? If you name your sports team the Browns, ultimately the city of Baltimore will steal your team and name it after a bird.

Just once, I would like Kurt Warner to say something along the lines of, “You know, my faith in Jesus is a huge part of who I am and all that but I’d still really like to gangbang our cheerleading corps. They are that fine.”

At one point during that Steelers game, I switched over to TBS and watched “Ocean’s Eleven” for about fifteen minutes before I remembered that I was supposed to be watching a football game. That’s the definition of a boring ass game. The Ravens may as well have wrestled one another on the field and taken the resulting penalties. At least that would have been worth watching.

Troy Aikman thinks “defensed” and “defensing” are words. I find it very unsettling that no one corrects him. Eventually, Joe Buck has to take him aside and say, “Troy, you played professional football and should definitely be able to communicate every tense of the word: defense. You can be defending, Troy. And you can be defended. But you cannot be defensed. Now, if you behave yourself and get through the next game with relatively decent grammar then we’ll sing the alphabet song together and go out for ice cream. Okay, Troy?” Maybe I’m an asshole, but I don’t think it’s asking too much for announcers to know English.

I feel very weird about the Arizona Cardinals because six years prior to moving to Tampa I rooted for the then St. Louis (Football) Cardinals and they left like thieves in the night, which was upsetting and unsettling. I used to really hate the Arizona Cardinals (especially when I lived in the STL and had no football team to follow). But it was a weird hate. It was kind of like having your wife leave you except your wife is ugly, fat, mean and ready to marry another guy anyway (so there’s no alimony). In a way, you know you’re way better off without that chick, but at the same time, you know, she’s still a bitch. Anyway, I’ll be rooting for the Cardinals because it is a neat underdog story but I’ll still feel great when they eventually get beaten by the Steelers. I guess what I’m saying is that in the upcoming Super Bowl, I really won’t mind in the slightest if the underdog disappoints because the underdog is a whore. Or something like that.

The Super Bowl is going to be held here in Tampa Bay. Sportswriters are notorious for bashing the host cities during Super Bowls and 2000 (the last time we hosted one) was no exception. Maybe the sportswriters will be a little nicer than last time because they’ve had to put up with Super Bowls in Houston, Detroit and Jacksonville since then but more than likely they’ll be the same cynical dicks they always are. Anyway, in the interest of getting a head start on the negativity, here are some things that will be mentioned about the town in which I chose to live.

Too many strip malls
Too many uneducated people
Too many criminals
Too many strip clubs
Too many Waffle Houses
Too far from the beaches

I’m sure they’ll add a few more angles than that. But I am going to make it a mission of mine to say to every dickhead sportswriter or tourist that knocks my town that a) no one asked you to show up and b) fuck you. I’m a genius and a humanitarian and all that.

And finally, because logic and fluidity have not yet checked in to my fried mind, I leave you with the following, which was explained to me by my friend, Mark:

“You shouldn’t throw teddy bears at people, Nate.”

ROAD TO THE SUPER BOWL....

It runs through the hard working blue collar town(I'm from there but I'm neither or those two) of Pittsburgh. It's going to be cold, snowy, and loud. How are the depleted Ravens going to keep up with the home team in their own environment? The answer: They are NOT. The Steelers ground game is the best it's looked all year and Big Ben is making plays when he has to. Ravens do have a rookie QB playing in the AFC Championship game. Congratufuckinglations. We had one of those a couple years back and he decided to throw the ball to the Patriots all game. Sorry Big Ben. Had to throw you under the bus. I see more of the same from Flacco. He will turn the ball over early and often. I'm going to go with two picks and a lost fumble, courtesy of the Defensive Player of the Year, James "I tear Ravens heads off Ozzy Osbourne style" Harrison. I do have to give some thanks to the Ravens for not being able to make that next step. Sorry ass team from a sorry ass city. Prediction: Pittsburgh 23 Baltimore 10. I am now going to walk away singing, "Here we go Steelers!!!! Here we go!!!! Pittsburgh's going to the Super Bowl. Here we go!!!!!" and got to throw in a little " Its peanut butter jelly time, peanut butter jelly time, peanut butter jelly with a baseball bat." Double D's Dirty Dave....play what i say. Pittsburgh all the way.

So You Don't Drink Every Day

Well, we do. And we've already started. DD brought his laptop into the pub because we cannot go full geek without him. I just wanted to post because everyone else was doing it and I'd like to point out the difference between the way DD and Scotty bet. DD is a fundamentalist, meaning that he focuses mainly on team perfromance. Scotty is a technical better, meaning that he focuses more on the line movements. I feel you need to know this. I also feel you should know that DD is fat and Scotty is ugly.

Scott is so ugly that he goes out of his way to dress in mismatched clothes so no one notices that he makes Julian Tavarez look like Ben Affleck (spelling?).

DD is so fat that his doctor measures his BMI in acres.

Anyway, I'm going back to drinking...

Oh, and making fun of each other on line is more fun than in person, which is weird because most everything else is more fun in person.

dirtydave sucks

I will introduce myself later as I am drinking in a bar already. I am using DD's piece of shit lapper with 2/3 of the screen busted (bad porn site accident).

Play Kansas at 3:30 eastern. They will HAMMER Colorado.
Play UCLA at 3:45 easern. I just like the.

PICK #2

First I want to apoligize for that first pick. I didn't think Northern Iowa was going to make their first 7 shots. All downhill from there. Now for the 2nd pick of the day.

Pick #2 - Butler (-2 1/2) at Illinois - Chicago

Reason #1 and only - Butler is 7 -1 against the spread on the road.

Prediction - Butler 73 - 62

SHOWTIME!!!!

Hello all. This is Dirty Dave. For all of you gambling folk I will be selecting games to play each day. I only have one rule for you. Play what I say. Once again, play what I say.

Pick #1 - Drake (-5 1/2) vs Northern Iowa

Tip - If you can always buy the hook (half- point). Make your wager a whole number.

Reason #1 - Drake is 10 - 2 at home this season overall and Northern Iowa is a mediocre 4 - 4 on the road.
Reason #2 - Drake has won the last four meetings with the margin of victory being less than 8 just once.
Reason #3 - I said so.
Reason #4 - Just fucking play it.

Prediction - Drake 69 - 60

Next - I will post my next game at 1 pm (2 pm tip-off)

This was brought to you by Double D's Dirty Dave........play what I say.

Ten Things I Would Like to See in the AFC Championship Game

Ben Roethlisberger giving a post game interview using the words, "verisimilitude" and "perfunctory".

A drunk Hines Ward.

Ray Lewis punching himself repeatedly in the head.

Joe Flacco celebrating a touchdown by bumping and grinding a sideline reporter.

Steely McBeam wiping his ass with a terrible towel.

Fast Willie Parker reading a murder mystery on the sidelines while Coach Tomlin stuffs his face with powdered donuts.

A topless Jenn Sterger.

Troy Polamalu’s hair done up in that Princess Leia side-bun style.

Trent Dilfer showing up drunk in the booth and reminding everyone that there was a time when he actually won a Super Bowl as a starter.

Two words: grease fire.

Happy Trails Chucky

The Buccaneers, of whom I am a huge fan, have decided to cut John Gruden the hell out of their general collective. When Scotty the Handicapper called me up to let me know this, my response was, “Nice.”

Why?

‘Cause fuck him, that’s why.

Gruden brought us a Super Bowl with what was essentially Tony Dungy’s team and philosophy. The idea behind John’s hiring was that the team was good enough to win it all but they weren’t motivated. And Chucky can motivate.

Only problem is that he can’t actually coach.

This year, the Bucs’ defense gave up an average of eleven points a game until defensive genius Monte Kiffen said he was quitting. As a result, the defense quit and started giving up points like they could trade losses in for gold. The Bucs collapsed down the stretch and even though they needed only one win in their last four games to get in the playoffs, failed fucking miserably (they even lost to the Raiders).

And Gruden sat back and watched the whole thing unravel without changing a freaking thing.

So fuck John Gruden, the horse he rode in on, anyone who gave the horse water or gave him directions along the way and (while we’re at it) the makers of all the Chucky movies.

As for a replacement, I’m hoping for Shanahan.

Ten Things I Would Like to See in the NFC Championship

Kurt Warner punching the crap out of a fan.

Larry Fitzgerald getting dragged down by his dreadlocks.

Donovan McNabb taking a leak on the Gridbirds kicker.

David Akers missing a freaking field goal in the playoffs.

Jenn Sterger.

A drunk Neil Lomax showing up in the booth with a stoned Stump Mitchell, both of whom can’t stop calling Bill Bidwell a “Crooked cocksuker” live and on the air.

Snow.

Jesus Christ showing up and inexplicably challenging Kurt Warner to a thumb wrestling contest.

Kurt Warner kicking Christ’s ass in a thumb wrestling contest.

Three words: cheerleader make-out session.

Jemele Hill does not Know what Words Mean

Jemele hill writes for ESPN, despite the fact that she doesn't know what words mean. It's tricky, but she still pulls it off. And by "pulls it off" I mean "fails completely." Her words are in bold, mine are in a state of frustration.

Choosing a Rhodes Scholarship over the NFL? Now that's admirable
By Jemele Hill

I wish I'd seen the Myron Rolle interview in which he expressed his desire to bring specialized medicine to underdeveloped countries as much as I've seen the grainy footage of Adam "Pacman" Jones frequenting yet another strip club.

Okay, first off, fuck you. You can watch whatever you want however many times you want to watch it. But here’s the deal as regards the same Pacman Jones who is constantly being covered and exposed by ESPN, for which (and oh by the way) you work: he may have planned murders. When a millionaire athlete plans murders, that’s news. When a kid transfers to Oxford, that’s just a smart kid transferring schools. Myron Rolle isn’t passing up millions. He’s postponing millions for one year. Let’s not get him ready for the papacy just yet, okay Jemele?

I wish Rolle's 3.75 grade point average at Florida State was considered as scintillating as the recent rumblings about Terrell Owens, who reportedly might be on his way out of Dallas.

Do you? Do you really wish that a student athlete’s GPA be considered scintillating? Can you really even say that Terrell Owens leaving Dallas is scintillating? Here’s the definition of scintillating: brilliantly lively, stimulating, or witty. Is there anything scintillating about a wide receiver getting booted off a team? I would say no. I would also say that Jemele Hill, a professional writer, does not know what words mean.

It's not easy to accept the fact that a 75-year-old grandmother in Elkhart, Ind., probably would recognize Jones but wouldn't know Rolle -- the most important story in college football -- from a vacuum salesman.

Actually, it is easy to accept the fact that someone I’ve never heard of in a place I’ve never been to would be more likely to know a famous man than a not so famous man. It is the definition of “easy to accept” because it is likely. Seriously, you are a professional writer. You should know what words mean. Also, vacuum salesman? The hell is wrong with you, Jemele?

I'm as guilty as most columnists. I've written twice about O.J., once about T.O., and once about Brett Favre, giving selfish athletes a platform when Rolle has done something so extraordinary it's worth 100 columns.

If you wrote a hundred columns about Myron Rolle, you would be fired. Also, you didn’t give any of those athletes mentioned a platform because offering them a platform entails letting them speak about issues specific to obtaining a goal. You wrote ABOUT them, thus by definition you did not offer them a platform. Learn what fucking words mean, Jemele! Also, Favre, Owens and Simpson were all in the news for dastardly and/or odd reasons. Rolle is a smart kid transferring schools. Oh, and he happens to play football. And that’s the whole fucking story, Jemele. Jeez.

Even better, Rolle's achievements have nothing to do with how fast the Florida State safety can backpedal, run the 40-yard dash or tackle.

Actually, this is wrong too. If Rolle weren’t a good football player, you wouldn’t write this story and his achievements would be ignored. At this point in the article, you are officially full of shit. You have eaten so much shit that you cannot eat any more. And you smell.

He is a rare breed, all right. Rolle is a college player who can be called a "student-athlete" without it being an oxymoron. He announced this week that he is delaying entering the NFL draft until 2010 so he can spend a year studying medical anthropology at Oxford University.

Good. Seems like a great kid. Cute story and all that.

In November, Rolle won a prestigious Rhodes Scholarship, following in the footsteps of NBA legend Bill Bradley and former President Bill Clinton. That alone was an exemplary achievement. But then Rolle really outdid himself by stiff-arming the NFL, even after an advisory committee informed him he would be among the first 50 players chosen in the draft.

Did he really stiff arm the NFL? Or did he postpone the inevitable for a year? I mean, it’s not like he said, “Hey NFL, I will never play in your stupid league. I’m going to England for the rest of my life because I like tea and rugby… and also Roger Goodell is a douche bag.”

"It's a great opportunity," Rolle told ESPN.com. "I'm going to get the chance to study at Oxford and read some incredible books and be among scholars. The whole culture in England is just very appealing. It will make me a better person and a stronger advocate."

Great kid. Says great things. Does the right thing. Kind of boring but still, you have to admire him.

Rolle passing up millions to study abroad is a much bigger deal than Tim Tebow winning a second national championship, Alabama returning to national prominence or even Utah's undefeated season.

No. No, no, no and no. A national championship is news every year because every college team wants to win one. It is the stated goal of a D-1 football season. And Rolle hasn’t passed up millions yet. He has postponed his collection of millions. The words “passed up” imply that he will never see those millions. You should learn what words mean, Jemele Hill. You are a writer.

It would be one thing if Rolle were just a scrub, but he has started virtually every game since his freshman year and was the Seminoles' third-leading tackler this season.

You sound like you are trying to justify this entire article with that last paragraph.

Despite having a legitimate pro future, Rolle did the right thing by not going to the NFL right away. Like Tony Dungy, Rolle's destiny is bigger than football. The NFL might be the best sport in America, but at Oxford, Rolle will be among some of the greatest minds in the world.

The NFL is not a sport, Jemele. Football is a sport. I know I sound like a broken record but please, for the love of all that is decent and holy, learn what fucking words mean.

"My family was very supportive," Rolle said. "They wanted me to go to Oxford because they taught me to always put education first. It was the most important thing for me besides God and family. Some of my teammates and frat brothers were like, 'Man, that's a lot of money to pass up.' I was definitely getting mixed input."

Mixed Input, not for nothing, is the name of a garage band started by computer geeks in southern California. True story.

Most college athletes are obsessed with getting to the pros, and many of them have proved they will do anything to get there, even if it's something unethical. Every day, we read about athletes who let their sport define them. So it's refreshing to know that Rolle's dream isn't to plant his helmet in Tom Brady's ribs. His biggest dream is to open a free medical clinic in the Bahamas, where his parents and some of his siblings were born.

My biggest dream is about seven feet tall and sometimes puts its helmet into Tom Brady’s ribs. Also, opening free medical clinics can only be done with a lot of money. NFL players accumulate lots of money. Just saying.

"Studying at Oxford is more than about the acclaim and the power," Rolle said. "It's about the people you meet. Yes, the NFL can give you financial stability, but I feel that's just temporary."

You are a smart kid, Mr. Rolle.

I only wish there 20 million more people like him. I'd rather read 1,000 more stories about Rolle than one more about whether Plaxico Burress should remain a Giant. There wasn't a Tebow run, a Sam Bradford pass, a Colt McCoy scramble or a Michael Crabtree catch this season as impressive as what Rolle has done in the classroom and for his community.

Your hyperbole has become tiresome, Jemele. Also, if there were twenty million more people like him, this would not be close to a news story.

Rolle graduated from his New Jersey high school with a perfect 4.0 GPA, earned his bachelor's degree at FSU in two and a half years and will have his master's degree in public administration before he leaves for Oxford.

Nerd.

Rolle created a program called Our Way To Health for Seminole Indian children to help educate them about the importance of physical fitness. He studied comparative politics and holistic medicine for six weeks in London, and was awarded a $4,000 grant for cancer research.

Goody goody.

Rolle would rather be a neurosurgeon than a Pro Bowler. He'd rather work for the World Health Organization, the leading think tank in global health, than be the next Ed Reed. His idol is Benjamin Carson, a doctor and director of pediatric neurosurgery at Johns Hopkins, not FSU alum Deion Sanders.

Awesome. Great kid. Someone should write an article about him or something.

"Access to specialized doctors isn't great," Rolle said. "If an organization could channel the great doctors that are in the United States to other countries, it would be outstanding. There are programs out there, but I see that need."

A lofty goal. A spirited purpose. A good kid with an idealistic mindset. Beautiful.

It's too bad our infatuation with talented athletes who are hopelessly immature and irresponsible prevents us from fully appreciating someone like Rolle and giving him the attention he deserves.

Don’t speak for me, Jemele. Also, how does laughing at TO’s idiocy prevent me from appreciating Rolle? How? Seriously, make a goddamn point already.

Unbelievably, Rolle once was criticized by FSU defensive coordinator Mickey Andrews, who complained that Rolle was spending too much time studying and not enough time preparing as a football player.

That is unbelievable to you, Jemele? You know what is unbelievable to me? Goblins. Jemele Hill does not know what fucking words mean and she is paid to use words by ESPN. This irks me. I am irked over here.

Sounds like a pretty smart guy.

That last sentence should be this entire article.

An Introduction

“It’s been a long time coming. I was nervous, waiting,”
--First ballot Hall of Famer, Rickey Henderson

There’s something about the above quote that just makes me feel so... pleased with the way that people work. I have no doubt that Rickey was nervous. I have no doubt that Rickey was waiting. I also have no doubt that Rickey gave no thought to the fact that he could not have been inducted to the MLB Hall of Fame any sooner than he was because the Hall of Fame makes everyone wait five years from their retirement year before they can possibly be inducted. Rickey probably didn’t give this fact any thought because Rickey probably didn’t care to learn the Hall of Fame eligibility rules. Rickey always wanted to play baseball. Rickey still wants to play baseball. And Rickey was one of the greatest to ever play the game.

Here at Bank and Balls it is not our intention to follow the traditional rules of sports writing, nor is it our intention to acknowledge that there are traditional rules of anything. We just want to blog about what it is that we do. We are heavy drinkers. We are gamblers. We are sports fans first and everything else second. Oh sure, some us are spouses; some of us are even parents. We are responsible human beings who understand that sports coverage is overblown and taken way too seriously by fans and the media alike. We don’t care 'bout any of that here.

We want to write about sports through the perspective of those who not only enjoy sports as nothing more than entertainment, but also as those who love to wager on the outcomes of games, and as such we wish to help everyone enjoy the facts that 1) sports are taken too seriously, 2) that money and sports gambling are not taken seriously enough and 3) that we are good looking, hilariously cool individuals who will make you laugh.

Our humble cast is as follows:

My name is Nathan DeGraaf and I will be your mediator of the experience that is this blog.

Dirty Dave and Scotty the Handicapper will do the grunt work, letting you know what bets they make, why they make them and why they are better than you at making money off the efforts of over-hyped athletes.

Nikki the Bartender will provide the still relatively interesting perspective of the attractive and knowledgeable female fan.

We do this because we are heroes, we do this because we have addictions, but mainly we do it because busting on each other in the local pubs has limited our capacity to insult one another to the grassroots level of mere conversation. The internet deserves our bullshit.

We are happy to be here. It has been a long time coming, this blog. We were nervous, waiting. But we’re glad the day has come.

Welcome to Bank and Balls.