The Bills and the Rogers Centre have unveiled their “series logo” for the team’s upcoming games in Toronto over the next several seasons. This expertly-crafted graphic has everything you would expect from a major sporting event logo– maple leaf, that CN Tower dealie– everything except any mention of the word “Buffalo” in conjunction with the Bills.

My corporate-speak dictionary tells me that “series logo” is a euphemism for “new team logo as soon as the old man finally drops dead.” Buffalo fans who are troubled by a seemingly inevitable move should look at the positive side– it will be a lot easier to follow the Bills in Toronto than if they were to move to, say, Los Angeles.

DON’T CROSS STREAMS!

As you probably know by now Javon Walker is currently laid up in a Vegas area hospital after being found beaten down shortly after sunrise yesterday. Reports claim that Javon had spent the previous few evenings/mornings spraying down various club-goers with tens of thousands of dollars worth (15 bottles) of horrifically overpriced bottles of Dom’s rosé. While the picture above appears to confirm those reports, one completely unsubstantiated rumor states that somebody in Floyd Mayweather Jr’s crew is responsible for crushing the receiver’s orbital bone.

You see, Vegas is Money May’s town, and when he’s giving his people a champagne shower you really shouldn’t try to upstage the recently retired pound-for-pound champion. According to message boards, the only source less reliable than those ne’erdowell bloggers, Walker thought he could outdo Mayweather, who reportedly went through 50 bottles of Cristal. As the story goes, somebody (or bodies) from Mayweather’s group of friends ran into Walker later that evening morning and gave him the old “keep your ugly fuckin’ goldbrickin’ ass out our desert community” speech. I can safely say that Mayweather himself was not personally responsible for any assault seeing as how he’s yet to surface at any area hospitals with a broken hand.

In completely unrelated news, my boy Andre Berto is fighting for one of Mayweather’s vacated belts this weekend. And yes, you bet your ass I’ll be boring everyone with boxing talk at Deadspin.

Note: This is precisely why you should never buy Dom, Cristal, or any of that other mass produced crap that makes you look like a baller. Learn from a Jew and buy artisinal bubbly. Oh, and tell those bitchy waitresses that if they want a corking fee, they have to earn it.

Image via the Sports Gamer Forum by way of SpyOnVegas.com

People making a deal about this interview I did. Well, I didn’t see it. That is to say, I saw it. I didn’t see the reaction to it, which I’m reading right now. Can you sum it up for me? It’s hard to make out through the parallax view.

I read some bell hooks coloring book on the way over. But I’m not coming from anywhere. Where are you going? Hit me on the hit when you get there. When I wake up on Thursdays, I wish it was Thursday, but in another month. You ever get that?

My favorite U.S. protectorate is Guam.

You ever read about bristlecone pines? Them shits is old. I just made that up. Why are you talking about trees? Smoking trees is slang for smoking marijuana. Draping trees is slang that hasn’t been invented yet. Chris Henry lives a sad life.

People said God created the world at OTAs, but I think that’s a lie perpetuated by the night manager at McDonalds.

I think God created place mats when Satan tole him table tops was made a’ table titties. God sometimes foolish like that. They say God can be found in the details. That means God is found in stats. That means fantasy football is a religion. All this time you thought you didn’t believe.

You think it’s weird that I like Lou Reed?

There’s a war going on outside no man is safe from. So what’cha gonna do since you know now?

Man from the interview asked me how I can be mad if I’m making $35 million. I don’t make that, man. Somebody at the mint does that. I only collect it. I bet mint people all kinds of happy. They make all the money there is. Probably got fresh breath too.

Actually, I read this interview and found Vidal’s answers even more disjointed than my own. When a man asks you about the weather, you don’t tell him about the temperature, the amount of cloud cover or the chances of precipitation. You tell him about the weather!

So, how are you, blog people?

+ 1 to blog people.

Blog people + 1 equals blog numbers. That’s blog maths. How many blogs you get outta blog? That’s blog division.

I just made you up in my head, blog people.

You just made me up in your blog, blog people.

Javon Walker has really changed his ways after witnessing up-close the murder of friend and teammate Darrent Williams on New Year’s Day 2007. Nah, just yanking yer chain– the champagne-spraying waste of money was found unconscious at a Las Vegas intersection. Details, like Walker, are sketchy, but doctors say he suffered an orbital fracture. They also said you could actually see cartoon stars and cuckoo birds doing the rumba around Walker’s battered head.

The Raiders spent the equivalent of the gross domestic product of Uruguay on Walker. Since then, Walker has done his best to to avoid undue attention. A day before getting KTFO by an unknown assailant, a demure Walker was seen modestly spraying 15 bottles of champagne on Tryst patrons. A regular shrinking violet, this guy.

Die-hard Raiders fans can look forward to another season of frustration. And meth, lots of meth.

(envelope flies open)

Dear Mrs. Andre Randall,

YEEEEEEEHAW! WAAAAHOOOOO! GREAT GREEN GOBS OF ELEPHANT CUM, WHOPPITY YOW!!!!!

How the hell you doin’, honey? It’s with deep regret that I must inform you that your husband, Andre, died this weekend while workin’ on my new Cowboys stadium, THE GREATEST GODDAMN STADIUM YOU EVER DONE SAW! It’s 50 times better than the stadium those faggots in New England play in!

Apparently, your husband died after touching a high voltage line. That makes him the second guy to do that this week. HOLY SHIT! That sounds like a helluva way to go! One second you’re about to take a lunch break, the next: ZAP! You’re a goddamn squirrel fricassee! And here I thought the only high voltage we got exposed here at the new stadium was some of the new, top-notch pussy we got comin’ in for the cheerleadin’ squad! YOU TALK ABOUT ELECTRIFYIN’!

Anyways, the ol’ DOUBLE-J sure is sorry as shit for your husband’s death and any inconvenience it may have caused. Shit, I just figured the only workers we’d lose building this gorgeous, state-of-the-art facility would be a couple of day laborers. AND WHO THE FUCK CARES IF ONE OF THEM GETS THE SHOCKER, KNOW WHAT I MEAN? The only way one of those guy’s families would know something was wrong was if the monthly check didn’t arrive at their village in the rainforest!

Sure does hurt me to lose a local feller. Although, if he’s touching bare power lines, he might not be the sharpest penis in the vagina! Shit, even our fatass retard coach wouldn’t do that, UNLESS HE THOUGHT IT WAS A LICORICE ROPE! What a big fat fuck! Anyway, your husband’s recklessness has helped absolve me of any legal liability for his accident. So really, he did me and the insurance company quite a big favor by bein’ so goddamn dumb. CHEERS TO THAT FUCKER!

Anyway, Mrs. Randall, I’d like to again express my deepest sympathies on behalf of myself and the intire COWBOY family: me, drunken Switzer, Princeton Boy, Other Princeton Boy, Fatty, Pacman, my boy ROMO, my lovely assistant Jennifer, that faggot Aikman, Special Emmitt Smith… all those assholes. I know there isn’t anything in this world that can compensate for the loss of your husband, which is why I’m not sending you any kind of money. That would only cheapen his memory. Instead, I’mma induct your son into the GODDAMN COWBOY RING OF HONOR! HOW YOU LIKE THAT SHIT, SWEETIE PIE?!

Actually, it’s not the official Ring of Honor. This is the unofficial subcontractor ring of honor, which is scratched into the crawlspace behind the new Pot Belly Sandwich Works located near Section 218 on the Loge-level concourse. You ever have one of their sandwiches? GOD DAMN, THEY ARE TASTY! Small, but still pretty fucking good! The Double-J likes himself THE WRECK! Salami, roast beef, turkey, ham, swiss: That thing’s tastier than a Thai girl’s ass! Why, big ol’ Wade would spurt in his Tuffskins if he ever saw one!

In fact, I’d like to present you with TWO $1 coupons for the new Pot Belly Sandwich works that you can redeem when the stadium opens in 2009! No need to thank me. THE DOUBLE-J TAKES CARE OF HIS OWN, DARLIN’! That is some delicious grievin’! I’d also like to extend to you an exclusive invitation to join our season ticket mailing list, provided you pony up the $3,000 waiting list convenience charge.

I’ve also enclosed ONE free ticket to our pregame showdown against those faggots from Houston on August 22nd! Ever seen my boy Romo live? HE’S A GODDAMN STAR! And you can see him up close as he rides the pine while some no-name dipshit scrub takes the field. I’ll be a fucking Louisiana witch doctor before I let my boy ROMO get hurt!

That ticket comes with a $450 convenience charge. We accept Visa and MasterCard. This ticket’s only free provided you buy a six-pack of tickets to every other preseason game. THE DOUBLE-J DIDN’T GET RICH BY BEING A SHITHEAD!

We’ve had an awful lot of troubles at our new stadium site. Your husband died, that one asshole got hit with a crane hook, some other guy fell 20 goddamn feet. And that’s just the shit we made public! One guy’s kid got eaten by the escalator! WHAT A GODDAMN MESS! But I tell ya, when you see this sparklin’ jewel of a new stadium, you’ll agree it was ALL WORTH IT! This place is gonna be a goddamn penthouse, darlin’! We got fountains, and arches, and panels, and glass, and all kinds of crazy shit! Even the shitter looks cool!

So don’t think your husband died in vain. He died a hero! A cowboy! He died doin’ what he loved: installing electricity so that the LED screen at my concession stands work properly! GOD DAMN, THAT IS A RIGHT HONORABLE WAY TO BOW OUT!

Let me ask you somethin’, darlin’: you a looker? Andre was pretty young. You must still be pretty well put together. You come on down to TIXAS Stadium and let the Double-J give you a once over. Even if you ain’t cheerleader material, it never hurts to have some more quality pussy ‘round these parts! I’ll give you a shoulder to cry on, and a lap to grind on! They don’t call my cock “The Widowmaker” for nuthin’!

So sorry ‘bout the dead husband. Hope he gets better. And don’t forgit about my little offer. ‘CAUSE THE DOUBLE-J KNOWS THAT SAD TAIL IS GOOD TAIL! YEEHAW! WOO HOO! I AM FUCKING CRAZY!

Warmest Regards,

JERRY GODDAMN JONES
OWNER
PRESIDENT
PRIME MINISTER
POPE
KING
VICEROY
EMPEROR
GENERAL MANAGER
HEAD FUCKER IN CHARGE
DALLAS FUCKING COWBOYS, THE PRIDE OF TIXAS!!!!!

PS – If you want, Tank Johnson can come to the funeral. My boy TANK just loves goin’ to funerals! Even if it’s for folks he don’t know! What a crazy asshole!

Dear USGA,

What the fuck? From Friday through Sunday fans on the east coast were able to watch Tiger play the Open in primetime, and now you’re just fucking us in the ass. Some people can’t stand the idea of an anti-climactic 18-hole playoff to settle the tournament, but fuck, I’m not one to complain about such things. One thing I am wont to complain about is an 18-hole playoff played at a time that guarantees my 8-5 ass won’t see a single blade of that badass kikuya.

You need to man the fuck up and tell NBC that shit needs to be on after work. I know that Jeff Zucker has a hard-on for all of those households in middle America that are clamoring for their night of American Gladiators and Nashville Star, but fuck those people. Would the advertisers even care if those piece of shit shows were preempted for some primetime Tiger? Fans of golf buy new kitchens, planes, and all of the other expensive shit made by NBC’s parent company. Fans of shitty third-rate reality programming spend their disposable income on lottery tickets, Bonnie Raitt albums, and WrestleMania tickets. To whom should you really be catering?

In the end, the USGA and NBC should ask themselves, “What would Russert do?” I think the answer is clear.

Yours in Christ,
Maj

“Trust me, kid. Nobody’s gonna know that we snuck that Alex Smith jersey in there.”

Jesus Christ, Tiffany! How many times have we gone over this? You INTERLOCK your fingers, then pull them up so that ONLY the HEEL of your PALM is on the victim’s breastbone! Unless, of course, you think it’s a good idea to crush the ribs of someone who’s dying? Huh? They’re not using their lungs anyway, may as well puncture them with a splintered rib, right?

Yeah, you just keep being casual about it, Tiff. Do it the way you want. You always do. “Ooh, look at me, I’m pretty! Nobody ever tells me I’m wrong!”

Well I’ll tell you what, missy: you keep doing it that way, and your smile won’t be enough to bring little Mrs. Potts back to life after you detach her xyphoid process and it cuts her organs up so bad that she dies from internal bleeding before the heart attack can kill her. Believe me, when that happens, there isn’t a Korean woman in the world who can manicure the DEATH off your pretty little hands.

Oh, you’re gonna cry now? Sure, go ahead. I’m the bad guy.

(photo from PCB)

Chris Matthews: So one of Obama’s top aides has suddenly resigned. Samantha Power left when a Scottish newspaper quoted her as referring to Hillary Clinton as quote “a monster” endquote. Hey, isn’t this just like a football game when the big guy’s body gives out and he’s no longer good for action?

Tim Russert, how is Barack Obama gonna pull this off now with such a significant member of his team gone for good?

Tim?

As anyone who’s read so much as a poorly constructed paragraph on this site is aware, we like to lard our writing with innumerable Simpsons quotes. It’s that thing that we say.

With a cast of characters numbering somewhere in the tens of millions, there’s someone in The Simpsons universe that anyone can identify with, like Col. Leslie Hap Hapablap for Ufford, Data for Ape (“Oh look, a clue! Candy bar wrapper!”) and Ralph for Maj.

But which would you actually want to hang around with? Duffman might be fun, for say, five minutes, but the constant “DUFFMAN! NEEDS TO FILE ESTIMATED TAXES BEFORE THE 16TH! OH YEAH!” could wear thin.

My inaugural pick: Moe Szyslak.

He’s the only person I know who has a worse opinion of himself than I do, he’s a complete degenerate (“I had a lot of fun being you, Dr. Hibbert. One thing: You’re not welcome in the library no more.”), he won’t upstage me with the ladies and, oh, he has access to unlimited booze. Thanks, pally.

Since we’re dealing with a somewhat finite population here, you have to wait at least five picks before making another.