It probably sucks to be Tank Johnson right now. The big dude is locked up in an Illinois cooler for a while. But cheer up, Tank: every cloud has a silver lining. If he was out and about with us civilized folk, Tank would constantly be on verge of an apoplexy during the brief moment after his phone rings but before someone other than “GOODELL, ROGER” came up on the Caller ID. Can the NFL Network make a special out of this?

So, which side are you on?

“Mr. Web 2.0” Tim O’Reilly is pushing a voluntary blogger code of conduct. If O’Reilly thinks some bullshit internet handshake agreement is going to keep belligerent morons from waving their internet-dicks then he is sadly mistaken. Frankly, the whole things smacks of censorship right down to the little bits of flair they would have your blog wear.

Spineless supplicants would get their very own genuine Little Bill Dagget sheriff’s badge (above left). Those who prefer free speech and the open exchange of ideas, and the occasional unpleasantness that accompanies same, would get an “anything goes” badge (above right). What kind of godless commie thinks a stick of dynamite is representative of free speech? Actually, I kind of like the badge with one tweak– it needs to be modified to reflect the wisdom of Big Daddy Drew Kane:

Exhasutive scientific studies confirm what we
have known for years: pimpin’ ain’t easy.

Speaking of ho’s, this Imus thing has been talked about ad nauseum, and I don’t have the patience or energy to add anything further. Big Sexy makes some salient points about double standards, but misses the fact that Imus was referring to a small, discreet and readily identifiable set of people and not just “womankind” in general. I bring all of this up only to tell you about THE STUPIDEST MAN IN AMERICA:

Buffoonery, thy name is Morning Gary.

Morning Zoo DJ’s are second only to sports radio clowns (cough, Schrutebag, cough) when it comes to unabashed idiocy. After the Imus fallout, it would seem that last thing any DJ with a double-digit IQ would do is have your listeners call and scream “Im a Nappy-Headed Ho!!!” in order to win NASCAR (shocker) tickets. Yet that is precisely what “Morning Gary” on WSBG in Allentown, Pennsylvania did Tuesday morning. The good news for Gary is his out of work ass can now call himself “Sleeping Til Noon Gary.”

Finally, KSK was name-checked today by “Mr. Flip” in the Baltimore Sun (but not linked— thanks, dick). What was it, you might wonder. The latest adventures of Sexy Rexy? Unsilent Majority’s sage gambling advice? No, it was Texas Gal’s nail polish pointers from the Ladies… takeover yesterday. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Up yours, Bawlmer.

Back in February, several astute readers noted that I never chronicled my tales of debauchery at the Penthouse party. I did this on purpose, even though I was photographed with a scantily clad Penthouse Pet. You know why?

Because fuck you, that’s why.

I’m cool with being lampooned, and I have the ability to laugh at myself, but the scrutiny of anonymous strangers was reaching preposterous levels. What’s with his hair? I don’t like his shirt. I can’t believe he’s wearing jeans with a blazer. I can’t believe he’s wearing a tee shirt with a blazer. And the overwhelming favorite for ridiculously obvious statement: some variation of He’s so pale!

Fuck you twice. My blood is German, Scandinavian, and English. I apologize that my ancestry has no Mediterranean, eastern European, Jewish, African, or native American influences. I come from a long line of Aryan racists, you see.

I actually used to be tan. When was that? My memory’s not so good. Oh yeah: when I was defending your freedom. I spent four months living outside in a desert, sleeping on top of a tank, occasionally getting shot at, and spending most of my down time waving flies away and trying to get sand out of my teeth. I was really tan then.

By the way: you’re welcome, you lazy fucks.

And now I live in New York City. It was both a business and a lifestyle decision. After living on a Marine base in the middle of nowhere in the Mojave Desert for three years and three months (note: tan that entire time), I wanted the exact opposite of that experience. Also, as an aspiring writer, it made sense to live in the city that houses every major publishing house in the country.

But hey, guess what? Yesterday it was 13 degrees. You’ll forgive me if I didn’t make it to the tanning salon.

Anyway, this has all just been a long introduction to show you this sure-to-be-classic photo from yesterday’s Varsity Letters reading. I’d like to offer my sincerest thanks to all the great people who packed the joint to listen to a couple sports bloggers read. This is me offering a serious discussion of bukkake while Will Leitch looks on in terror.

Don’t like my shirt? Fuck off. You know, in case I didn’t make that clear.

Clear, like my skin. Har fucking har.

I noticed a few days ago Terri Schiavo was here covering NFL free agent signings. Shit, what I wouldn’t do to get that kind of medical attention. Until this past week, I hadn’t seen a nurse since January. And even then, she only wanted change for a twenty before she ran out to one of the myriad liquor stores on Georgia Avenue outside the facility.

I used to have to rely on the few newspapers strewn about my room to obscure the various cracks on the wall and rodent feces on the floor. I was hard-pressed gleaning any new info from them, seeing as how they were all four years old and I wasn’t sure which of the ones on the wall weren’t load-bearing papers. In this place, you can’t be too sure.

But now with all the media ruckus of late, some senator who ignored my pleas for help for months showed up to give me this laptop. Not sure why that required eight cameramen, but, what the fuck, I’ll take it. I’ve missed football. Even though I got back from Iraq in November, I wasn’t able to follow any of the games thereafter. Last time I saw a nurse walk past my doorway, I asked her how the Patriots were doing. She stopped, took a long drag on a cigarette (didn’t think you could smoke in a medical center) and muttered, “Patriot Act is great. You served your country, defended our freedoms and shit. You’re a hero. Now pipe down and go to sleep.” That was it. Should’ve said something about changing my bed pan.

So, now, let’s see.

Leonard Davis to Dallas. Hmm, he’s a big fat guy, and thus key to the Wade Phillips system. Patrick Kerney to the Seahawks. What about Jimbo and Nelson? Napoleon Harris to the Chiefs, Tully Banta-Cain to the Niners, Brad Johnson to play Nick Nolte for Terrell Owens in upcoming Cowboys buddy comedy, Joey Porter’s half-shirted pit bulls to Miami, Luke Petitgout to the Bucs and Daniel Graham to the Broncos for entirely too much money.

Hey, they also signed Travis Henry. Why shell out big money when anyone could run for 1,000 yards in that system? Hell, I have no legs and I could do it.

Speaking of which, The Pentagon told me my leglessness is a preexisting condition that dates back to my childhood. According to them, I was always going to lose my legs. It’s in the genes, like going bald. War just expedited the whole process, so they can’t compensate me from my injury.

But I got this laptop.