I’m sure that you’ve seen many of these so-called “Institutes” for WhateverTheFuck issuing report cards to NFL, Fortune 500 companies and whomever else they feel like bothering. Supposedly, these things are based on those firms’ minority hiring practices. This whole process always seemed a little bogus to me, especially since “minorities” don’t seem to include people of Indian, East Asian, or Latin descent. And before I drive a burning cross in the carpet next to your desk, let me just add that there doesn’t seem to be enough information floating around that would make these asessments accurate.

But what if we were to grade minorities themselves? Holy shit, there’s a treasure trove of data floating around to do that! Sure, some of it is just rumor and speculation, but who gives a fuck? That never stopped these so-called Institutes from pushing shit on everyone else. In fact, I’m starting my own institute right now, the The Jam It Up Your Ass, or the JIUYA Institute for short, as it says on all of our pending shipment of stationary.

And what is our Institute going to grade? Blackness. Out and out blackness. Yes, we know that R. Kelly is blacker than, say, Tony Dungy, but by how much? Can we create a subjective measure of how well a brutha gets down? We won’t know until we try. And so The Jam It Up Your Ass Institute presents, in conjunction with this fine website, the inaugural Kissing Suzy Kolber Minority Report Card. Enjoy.

1. R. KELLY. Recording Artist/Alleged Child Pornography Connoisseur.

PENMANSHIP - Routinely fails to spell out entire first name.   A

PHYS. ED. - Doesn’t actually play in the NFL.    F

ENGLISH - No ‘z’s used for plural nouns. Song lyrics include well-rounded concepts.     F

SEX ED. - Eighteen or older, Robert. Eighteen or older.    INCOMPLETE

GPA -  D

TEACHER’S NOTES - “I believe you can try … harder.”

2.  Tony Dungy. Head Coach, Indianapolis Colts.

THEOLOGY - Openly shows disdain for gays, citing the Bible. Yeah, buttfucking might be a sin, but so is eating bacon.   F

DRAMA - Never yells. Except about gays.    D

SOCIAL STUDIES - Shown up by his own quarterback when said QB waved Coach’s punt team off the field. Could not come up with two-thirds majority to override the veto.     D

WORLD HISTORY - Kinda looks Mexican.    F

GPA - D-minus

TEACHER’S NOTES - “About as black as the three of hearts.”

3. TRAVIS JOHNSON. Defensive Lineman, Houston Texans.

(aka The Guy That Ruined Trent Green’s Shit Last Season)

DANCE - Celebrated after Green concussed himself on Johnson’s knee on a busted play in the midst of the Dolphins’ nearly-winless season.     A

SPEECH - “He’s like the scarecrow. He wants to get courage while I wasn’t looking, and hit me in my knee instead of trying to hit me in my head. God don’t like ugly, you know what I mean? ”     A

ACCOUNTING - Was (rightfully) not fined for the incident.     A

GEOGRAPHY - Plays for the Texans. In Texas.     A

GPA - A

TEACHER’S NOTES - “Negro Cum Laude.”

4. BRYANT GUMBEL. Host, HBO’s RealSports with Bryant Gumbel.

MATH - Has trouble understanding 4-down/10-yard concept.    D

CHORUS - Sings the alto parts for O Danny Boy. F

MOCK TRIAL - Routinely winds up as the one being mocked.     F

ECONOMICS - Having his magazine show encroached upon by noted Caucasian Bob Costas satisfies “slighted by the white man” prerequisite.     A

GPA -  C-minus

TEACHER’S NOTES - “Maybe Black does crack.”

Most of you don’t really give a shit about what people are writing about the realm of sports blogs, and really, neither do I. They never talk about me! Seriously, it’s the same shit over and over. It’s the Wild West! No accountability! I worked my whole life to get overrun by these turds!

The thing I hate about the practice of writing is that it’s so deliberately short-sighted. Granted, you don’t really care about the political climate in Zimbabwe if you’re, say, writing a recap of the Reds game. But the legion of wordsmiths out there are more often concerned with story angles than with getting a handle on what’s really going on. The “big picture” perspective — or its intentional, smooth omission — is my benchmark for great writing. And so many people are shitty at this.

So needless to say that this was all a bit of buildup for the topic at hand, namely David Wharton (of the Cambridge Whartons? [sips brandy] ) and his thinger in the L. A. Times, which suggests that sports blogs are actually toning it down. I’d link to it, but it’s not a very good article. Plus, I wasn’t interviewed!

But it deserves a response from us. Leitch responded here, and it’s good. Because some of us can’t be part of this so-called smarting-up of America. And if you assholes want to jump on that wagon, have fun. For the rest of us, I present a quick thing in response to Wharton’s asinine assertion of ass, in its entirety, simply titled, “Henry Dickens Longbottom And The Very Wet Lake.” Enjoy.

Edgy.

Hip. Wild.

In with the cool kids.

Fuck.

Fuck?

FUCK!

Piss.

Shoes.

Licking pussy when your parents are out of town.

Not because it’s cool. Because you want to.

Cocaine. Bernaise sauce. Shake well. Serves eight.

Seven if your dad is fat. Like mine.

Timmy didn’t make you do it, shithead.

I saw some cows fucking once and it blew my mind.

I am cool. I drink beer with girls.

I’ve never eaten out another girl’s ass. I’m okay with that.

Why couldn’t McIntyre be the one quitting?

Rumor has it he licked chocolate out of another guy’s foreskin.

Electricity is expensive, but cardboard is almost always free.

Sometimes you just have to play the hand you’re dealt, or curl that hand into a fist and plunge it into the ass of someone you love.

Cactus.

Fin.

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

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?

EXT. DALLAS COWBOYS MINI-CAMP.

Romo: Hey, I think I can see my car in the parking lot from here. Wait…yeah–no, that’s not my car. Well, it looks just like mine. Oh wait, my car isn’t blue. Is it?

Peter King: Excuse me, Tony. Do you have time for an interview while you stretch.

Romo: Oh, hey Peter what’s up?

Peter King: You–you remembered my name!

Romo: Well, yeah. You’ve interviewed me every day for the past week, since mini-camp started. Hey, is my car blue?

Peter King: Wow. You have got to start spending less time with Jessica, Tony.

Romo: What do you mean? Why do you keep saying that to me?

Peter King: Well…um…be…because you’ve been so forgetful and I just–

Romo: Peter do you have a brother?

Peter King: Oh, no way I’d set her up with anyone in my family, especially after–

Romo: No, Peter. [looking over Peter's shoulder] Do you have a brother?

Peter King: Just one, but he’s in…Oh fuck.

[turns around slowly]

 

BIFF KING: Peter! I called your wife on a pay phone! She told me where you were. My, my, that lady has such a lovely voice. It reminds me of cold beer beading up on a baby’s ass. 

Romo: How did you get in here?

Peter King: What are you doing here? I am WORKING!

Romo: Hey, did you see any blue cars in the lot out there?

BIFF KING: Relax, Stevie, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Just came to see my little brother is all, and slowly ruin his life.  

Peter King: Stop calling me Stevie! I’m trying to do an interview here!

BIFF KING: Just like old times, ain’t it Stevie? You’re chatting up this one girl, but then she starts talking to me and before you know it, instead of hanging out with you, she’s driven her station wagon right into a bridge impediment.

Peter King: That was our mom! You jumped up from the back seat and covered her eyes! I missed my baseball game that day because of you!

BIFF KING: There you go again, Stevie, making shit up about Super Biff again. Just like the state of New Jersey made shit up about me robbing a liquor store with a chainsaw while I was high on Liquid Plumr.   

Peter King: They had you on video!

BIFF KING: That wasn’t me.

Romo: Hey, if you guys are going to have a conversation, you should probably get off the field.

[BIFF stares at Romo]

BIFF KING: Hey, Tony Romo. What’s happening?

Romo: Hi.

BIFF KING: Tony Romo, huh? More like Tony Shitbag. The third.

Romo: What?

BIFF KING: Fist any assholes lately? You’ve got such slick hands you could probably get elbow-deep in Andre Gurode’s anus if you’re not paying attention. Which you aren’t. Because you suck. Awwwww [spins finger around and points it at Romo] How did that taste, pussy boy?

Romo: Peter, we’ll pick this up later. [walks off]

BIFF KING: Yeah, better get going, Dorothy. That yeast infection isn’t going to treat itself. Heh heh heh. Believe me, I know.

Peter King: You’re unbelievable. You just chased away my interview! I’m trying to do a job!

BIFF KING: Just take another NyQuil, Stevie. This isn’t the first time you’ve been cockblocked by ol’ El Segundo here. A little composure is in order, along with a little breakfast. Stevie, I think you and the big dog need to mosey on down to the awful Waffle House and settle this over some Texas Toast.

Peter King: You don’t have any money, do you?

BIFF KING: I’ll pay you back. I’ll drive. I’m the blue 2008 Range Rover in the lot over there, in the back.

Peter King: Where did you get that?

BIFF KING: Whoo, listen to you, Mister Up In My Business. Why, do you want one? Can you afford a machine like this writing for your little magazine?

Peter King: Mmmmmaybe I can!

 

[they head to the parking lot]

BIFF KING:  So how’s that little girl of yours doing?

Peter King: Don’t ask.

 

 

I need a ruling on this…

The Olympics are coming up and I really need to get this straightened out before anything gets started over there. It is okay to lust after girls that appear to be pre-pubescent, but are actually, um…Okay, let me start over.

You see, most gymnasts work out so strenuously that they can’t menstruate until after they’ve finished competing. So unless the “If there’s grass on the field…” qualifier trumps the “If she’s old enough to bleed…” qualifier, we’re probably dead in the water already.

But let’s suppose that it does. You think about the happy place on a girl that’s about 4-foot-8 and can probably curl 35 pounds with her Fallopian tubes. That particular region is probably so tight that even the most modestly-endowed men could find such confines friendly and inviting.

I mean, they don’t look like pre-teenage girls. Some of them are even in their twenties. Okay sure, the occasional balance beamer might look like JonBenet after she went though Shawne Merriman’s medicine cabinet, but most of them look like fresh-faced, wholesome, All-American girls. That don’t wear pants.

I’m still torn. I’ll have to slap this issue around more and get back to you.

Some of you assholes would score a little more ‘tang if you just opened your eyes and paid attention to the world around you. The reason all of these girls are dating assholes is because they want men that are assertive. They don’t really care if he’s frequently wrong about driving directions or occasionally punches them in the face. That’s the price of doing business to them. These broads are all about the ACTION!

Now I know what you’re thinking. “But Punte, I’m broke. I can’t afford to show women a good time. It’s a waste of money when I’m not even guaranteed sex.” You’re not paying attention, dick. Did we learn nothing from the legend of El Guapho?

“Why don’t you just take her? When you want cattle, you take the cattle. When you want food, you take the food. When you want a woman…you just take the woman. Why don’t you just take her?”

Now, I’m not advocating…you know. Well, I am, but in a subtle way. If she comes out and says, “Please stop having sex with me or I will contact the authorities!” then the jig’s up, bro. But of course you could gag her beforehand, or just wait until she falls asleep. But if you do that, you should cover her face with a towel, so the sweat from all your hard work doesn’t wake her up.

Oh, and one other thing. If you take that silent ninja route, you’re probably not going to get her off, so don’t try. I just thought I’d point that out.

I’m glad we had this chance to talk.

If you think you’ve screwed your life up sufficiently, just relax. You’ll have plenty more opportunities to jam the proverbial shovel into the soily base of that sorry pit that you call a life, and dig yourself an even deeper hole. Then, when the judgement comes [clutches bible in one hand and shakes it vigorously in your direction], you’ll have to answer for all the bullshit thou hath wrought, motherfucker.

But suppose you catch a break, and someone upstairs decides to grant you one more chance to atone, to come on down and spin the wheel or answer that riddle or eat that bug or whatever the fuck. Suppose you were put on a game show, against other dipshits like yourself. But in this episode, your fabulous cash and prizes for winning would be one first-class aisle-seat ticket to Heaven, or your religion’s equivalent. If you’re atheist, let’s just say you’d get a nice watch.

And herein lies the basis for our latest summoning of the vox populi. You are selecting a game show that you will be forced to play to determine your future in the afterlife. And, as with any other half-assed stab at democracy, there are a few stipulations to consider:

Your game must be played against other people. Single-player game shows, such as Deal Or No Deal, are out. That game creates a conflict of interest anyway, as host Howie Mandel is, in fact, a minion of Satan.

You may select a game show that would team you with a celebrity or celebrities, or anyone you like. You are asked to specify who will be rounding out your team with your selection.

Reality shows shall be considered game shows for our purposes here, and may be selected, provided that your selections meet the aforementioned criteria.

Your game show does not have to have originated in America. You are expected to provide a link and explanation for games that may seem unfamiliar to the rest of us. Use hyperlinks; the spam filter will block your pick if you copy and paste a URL. Also, only one incarnation of any game show can be selected.

Wait at least ten picks before making subsequent selections.

I’ll pick first, and I’ll take the Nickelodeon classic Double Dare, since my parents were assholes and never let me go on the show when I was a kid. I’m pretty sure I can outsmart a couple of 12-year-olds. Kids are dumb! And since I’ll need a smart, athletic partner upon which to hang my hopes, I’m also picking USA Gold Medalist, Harvard alum, and Celebrity Apprentice veteran Angela Ruggiero.

This might be the first commenter draft where the post was longer than the picks. Either way, it’s your turn.

[phone rings]

Matt Mosley of ESPN Fame: [answering] Whaddaya do, buckaroo?

Coach Mangini: Hello? Is this Matt Mosley?

Mosley: Oh. Hi, Coach. I thought you were…What can I do for you?

Coach Mangini: I have some qualms, Matt. I have some qualms that I need help sorting out. I have some qualms about these power rankings you helped produce on ESPN.

Mosley: Okay…

Coach Mangini: You ranked us 21st. Just tell me, are you pissed at me about something?

Mosley: Nope.

Coach Mangini: you’ve just seemed … short with me.

Mosley: I’m sure that wasn’t the case.

Coach Mangini: Are you really pissed at me about something? To be down with three of the guys on that panel, a 21 was odd.

Mosley: I’m not explaining what went on between the eight of us to anyone, least of all a head coach. I’m sure you understand why. But there was voting, and that’s how the numbers came out, so that’s how y’all were placed. I had a say over my rankings, and that’s it.

Coach Mangini: Honestly? I’d have rather not been in it than been a 21.

Mosley: Now how am I supposed to respond to that, Eric? We voted. It’s math. Y’all put yourselves out there. No one was duped.

Coach Mangini: Well, I guess I know where I stand with you guys then.

Mosley: Well, yeah you do. You stand 21st with us. Don’t sulk, little buckaroo. This is supposed to be fun.

Coach Mangini: I know that number’s wrong. I just didn’t expect that. And it was fun except for the ranking, which was a real evaluation of how I’m doing.

Mosley: Um, No. Are you really taking this that seriosuly? Because that concerns me. This is supposed to be Fun. How many more times do you want me to say it?

Coach Mangini: Well I took the ranking seriously, yes. If it’s not indicative of the work I’m doing, then I won’t treat it as such.

Mosley: All right, you need to chill, and I need to get into makeup and get pretty for a local TV appearance tomorrow.

Coach Mangini: How do you pretty yourself up when there’s a nighttime of slumber between now and work?

Mosley: Went to the day spa and got a manicure, a pedicure, and got my eyebrows did.

Coach Mangini: Can I, um, see?

Mosley: My toenails? Are you some kind of freak?

Coach Mangini: I was kinda hopin’ for the whole package. If not, you may clip the toenails and mail them my way with the DVDs of all your other TV appearances. I was ultimately hoping for the gussied up Mosley, top to bottom.

Mosley: Yeah, I don’t know how I’d accomplish that.

Coach Mangini: Please, Matt! I’m so ronery! Cup my qualms with your hands and make them better!

Mosley: Sorry, buckaroo. [hangs up]

Coach Mangini: Oh, Matt. Please don’t hate me! I just wanted to give you a little attention!