Not only is she hot, but she sued Dick Cheney. She fucking sued Dick Cheney, for crying out loud! She’s got bigger balls than Les Miles, and I don’t know for sure, but being as she was with the CIA, I’m pretty sure she’s trained to kill. That’s just plain hot. I’m gonna go ahead and assume this one has Ashley’s full endorsement as well.
Surely you other bloggers are already well aware of how much fun reviewing your stats can be. Especially the referrer logs and search engine keywords reports. High comedy. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. (<–That’ll get me a few hits from people searching for Bad Religion lyrics, I’m sure.)
One thing that’s become abundantly clear is that pop culture quotes bring the crazy, random hits. Useless, irrelevant hits. Amazing how many people are searching for Animal House and Silver Streak quotes on a daily basis.
Funnier yet is how many people search for "the date germany bombed pearl harbor."
We’ve gotten hits from people searching for Pat Harrington, a place to download Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo and recipes for authentic Cincinnati chili. God only knows why anyone would want one of those. Apparently lots of people fondly remember Falco’s Der Kommissar, but are very, very hazy on how the lyrics went.
I don’t know if any of you intrepid readers of this here blog have heard the bad news yet, but word on the street is that Sunday’s complete demolition of the 49ers came at quite a price.
Seems the entire roster is questionable for the Jacksonville game, having been afflicted by what’s commonly known as the bends, due to their rapid ascent from the divisional abyss.
See, this is why I hate nitrogen. Hands down the biggest pain in the ass of all the diatomic elements. Just leave it to nitrogen to screw something up. Why can’t you be more like fluorine?
This, people, was what Moe "Kid Presentable" Szyslak would call total fustigation. The 49ers were unable to sustain verticality for even a single round. If you DVR’d it, you can actually pinpoint the exact moment when the 49ers souls were crushed. Pause right after the Saints’ fourth offensive play from scrimmage and you’ll see what I’m talking about.
I’ve always had a bit of a love/Haight relationship with San Francisco. (Eh? Eh? See what I did there with the pun? Oh screw you, it was clever.)
On one hand: Allen Ginsberg. Haight-Ashbury. Free Love. Jefferson Airplane. Big Brother & The Holding Company. Ken Kesey. Monterey Pop. Flower Children. The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Hot chicks in sundresses. Grass… lots and lots of grass. Rice-A-Roni. Jerry Fuckin’ Garcia!
On the other hand: The 49ers. D’oh!
I’d have made one bitchin’ hippie. I’m talking full-on barefoot, lawbreakin’, guitar-strummin’, freak-flag-flyin’, Grace-Slick-bangin’, Democratic-Convention-protestin’, parent-disappointin’ son of a bitch. Unfortunately, I was born about 20 years too late for that.
Instead, I grew up in the age of Mickey Thomas-era Jefferson Starship. Steve Perry-era Journey. The hippies were replaced by plain old vagrants. Mind-expansion was replaced by tie-width reduction. Grass was replaced by blow. Oh sure, the Rice-A-Roni was as tasty as ever, but you would have hoped that San Francisco could have resisted the urge to join the rest of the world in its newfound hopeless infatuation with crap. But nope. San Francisco had sold its soul.
And in walked a couple of guys named Montana and Rice to regularly thereafter crush mine.
So fuck you, San Francisco. You suck.
Don’t look now, but I do believe we’ve got a streak on our hands! It’s gonna be hug and munch all the way to Chicago. Yeah, we bad. Get back now, you don’t want none of this. Or something.
At this point, the Saints are still little more than a tight-assed whitey with some funky threads and a little shoe polish on their face, but you get the sense that their hips are starting to loosen up a bit. Nothing like a home game against a team that’s in worse shape than Ron Mexico’s genitals to keep that process moving right along. Oh, and thanks, Detroit.
Welcome to the soft underbelly of the schedule, bitches. Opponents’ scores before the bye: 41, 31, 31. Since: 16, 17, 16. Saints scores before the bye: 10, 14, 14. Since: 13, 21*, 22. If it weren’t for that abomination of a 4th quarter against Carolina, the Saints would already be back to .500 for the year.
But since that abomination of a 4th quarter did happen, we’ll have to settle for a 2-game winning streak and a game coming up against a team that’s every bit as crappy as Atlanta is. Hey, I’ll take it.
Meet Byron Anton "At least he ain’t Joey" Leftwich.
Passing: 2 for 8, 28 yards, 0 TDs, 1 INT
Passer rating: 2.1
SMELL THE FEAR! SMELL IT!!!
He is owning you with his eyes, don’t even deny it. The steely resolve, the intensity, the will to win. It cuts right through to your very soul.
In other news, Suzy Kolber is teh preggers. It was just a matter of time. What Joe Namath wants, by God, Joe Namath gets.
No, not Julia. Elaine. Face like a frying pan, big wall of hair, raging bitch. What’s not to love? Of course, none of these pics are actually of Elaine, I’m pretty sure they’re all post-Elaine Julia. But they sure do help remedy any issues with shrinkage. Oh, and any chick who loses a contest predicated on who can go the longest without masturbating is alright by me.
Loaded up and truckin’,
We’re gonna do what they say can’t be done.
We’ve got a long way to go and a short time to get there.
I’m east bound, just watch ol’ Reggie run.
Keep your foot hard on the pedal, son, never mind them brakes.
Let it all hang out ’cause we got a run to make.
All aboard the Groovy Train, bitches! We’re takin’ this convoy all the way to Glendale! Which… um… actually is westbound. Unless the origin is Seattle. But it’s not. So it’s not really…. aw fuck it, who wants pie?!?
Oh sure, it was far from perfect. Jammal Brown is still Mr. Presnap Penalty Pants. TJ Douchemanzadeh looks like he’d still fit right in with the LSU wideouts. There were times when you wondered if it would matter if they let the Saints play 15 DBs.
But you know what? Screw all that. You’ve gotta start somewhere, and while perhaps next year the Saints ought to think about starting in week one, for now, we’ll take what we can get. Is it the start of something big? Or just a temporary respite from the crapfest? I’d answer that, but if this year has taught me nothing else (and it hasn’t) it’s at least driven home that I have absolutely no clue what the hell is going on.