I spent the last three days in Richmond, Virginia. Richmond, The Hartford Of The South! I stayed at a hotel which was, in most respects, delightful. But it had a few tragic flaws. First of all, it had no pay-per-view porn of any kind on the options menu. Fucking Southern hypocrites. There’s an entire bottle of free body lotion in the bathroom with my penis’s name on it (That name? “The Bull.”). You’re telling me all I have to masturbate to is my imagination? That’s bullshit.

Second of all, and this is something every middle-of-the-pack hotel does: No fitted sheets on the bed. I think we’re all quite familiar with the standard hotel bed. It consists of one bottom sheet, one top sheet, one ratty blanket, and one bedspread that hasn’t been washed in over six decades. Mine likely still had traces of Charles Robb’s DNA on it. Anyway, these beds are made so tightly, it’s like sleeping under a goddamn sheet of Cling Wrap. And, since they never use fitted sheets, anytime I try pulling the sheets out from under the mattress to get some breathing room, the whole goddamn thing comes undone.

I am a restless sleeper. I toss. I turn. I breathe heavily. I scratch myself. I even practice Tae Kwon Do. I rotate sleeping positions like I’ve been skewered on a goddamn spit. Back, side, stomach, side, back, side, etc. As a result, I have never slept in a standard issue hotel bed without waking up the next day splayed out on a bare mattress with a laundry heap of sheets spilling over the side. This annoys the fuck out of me.

Are fitted sheets that expensive? Is there not enough room in a hotel budget for elastic? GET SOME FITTED SHEETS ON YOUR BEDS, HOTEL MANAGERS. Cornell University didn’t teach you JACK SHIT about proper hospitality.

Anyway, here are your cheerleaders for the week. Did you know one of the Cowboys’ cheerleaders is named Starr Spangler? I bet she’s seen a hotel bed or two.

This is Casie. Casie was your girlfriend for 18 months. Despite her flawlessly toned body and affinity for making love on top of dryers, Casie put you through absolute Hell on earth. Seriously, dude. She was certifiably insane. She told you she went to Dartmouth, when in fact she attended New England College. And when you checked the Dartmouth directory and couldn’t find her name, she got mad at you for “spying on her”. Then she kicked you in the chest.

She claimed to have been best friends with Nicole Eggert, but you couldn’t verify it. She told you she worked at Christie’s Auction House, but building security had no record of her ever being an employee. One time, you stepped on her foot by accident in the middle of a crosswalk, causing her to argue with you for ten minutes WITHOUT FINISHING CROSSING THE STREET. She had an invisible cat named “Ollie”. Sometimes she talked in a little kiddie voice. You had no clue why.

She called you fat. She broke down in tears once because you got a haircut she didn’t care for. She was also an anti-Semite. One time she met one of your buddies, then after he left the room, she asked in exasperation, “God, are ALL your friends Jewish?” She loved talking about how much richer her ex-boyfriend was compared to you. She demanded you get a job in finance. She booked restaurant reservations at four-star restaurants you couldn’t possibly afford, then made you take her anyway.

One night, she woke you up at 3AM to tell you how much she hated your family. That was the last straw. You got out of bed, put on your clothes, and started to leave the apartment. She grabbed your arm and tried to restrain you from leaving. You shook her off, running down the stairs to catch a cab. And on that cab ride home, you exhaled. You were free. You knew this was it. No amount of make-up sex would draw you back this time. You knew you would never see her again, and you didn’t. It was the best you felt in ages.

Somewhere, deep in the back of your mind, you wonder if she was ever named Casie to begin with.

Rhonda recently graduated with a doctoral degree in physics from Emory University and, as a weekend diversion, decided to join the Cardinals’ cheerleading squad because it’s the closest franchise to her home in New Mexico, where she works at Los Alamos National Laboratory. There, she is helping to refine the Orion Laser, which is already powerful enough to mimic a nuclear explosion.

Once completed, she plans to seize control of the laser and use it to destroy all of Europe. “Bitches had it coming,” she’ll say.

Rhonda also frequently questions Jason Whitlock’s blackness.

The Iggles announced their 2008 cheerleading squad which includes the Bell sisters: Paige, Nikki and Danni-Lynn. Holy cats, are they hot. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to get anything done the rest of the afternoon with the image of these honeys distracting me.

I need something to cleanse my mental palate. Maybe a triumvirate of less comely sisters, like the Brontës:

Gah! Fuggit, it’s Friday afternoon– might as well ogle away. Get the cheerleaders back in here…

[ HT: The Professional Cheerleader Blog ]

San Diego’s cheerleaders have been bringing the A-game for years. Trying out for the Chargers Girls would seem to be as daunting as auditioning for the number five slot with the 1927 Yankees. Yet, as documented in The Professional Cheerleaders Blog, some of these ladies are acquitting themselves admirably. So much so, in fact, that my trousers suddenly fit funny in and about the crotchal region.

This is Jennifer. She’s got, like, hair and stuff.

Before another week draws to a close, I wanted to extend a hearty ‘up yours’ to the NFL owners who overwhelmingly rejected reseeding the playoffs to allow wild-card teams to host playoff games, at the expense of division winners with better records. There are valid reasons to support or oppose such a change, but the company-line reason owner were spouting this week was essentially, “It would unfair to our fans, who have grown to expect they will host a home game if their team wins a division.” Bologna, I say!

If the owners were so concerned about the fans, they wouldn’t subject them to these meaningless end of season games where division leaders rest the good players that fans bought tickets to see and we get stuck watching Jim Sorgi or some shit. GAAAAAH!!!!!

Now ogle these hot twins.

Shannon was born in Jackson, Mississippi, where her home has been preserved. She was educated at the Mississippi State College for Women, the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and Columbia University’s business school. She later became a photographer of some renown while working for the Works Progress Administration.

But her true love was literature, not photography, and she soon devoted her energy to writing fiction. Her novel The Optimist’s Daughter won the Pulitzer Prize in 1973. In later life, she lived near Jackson’s Belhaven College. She died of pneumonia in at the age of 92, and is buried in Greenwood Cemetery.

“Your mother and I want you to have a good time this weekend. Maybe you’ll go to the batting cages with the fellows or catch a picture-show with your best gal. Whatever you do, if someone offers you a “reefer”, run away as fast as you can and call 911 immediately. Reader’s Digest says that a “bad trip” is not very “groovy”. I clipped the article, it’s on the front of the fridge if you want to read it. I also put a copy in your sock drawer. Maybe you want to show it to some of your friends. All we want is for you to not to grow up to be a burnt-out hipster uploading shoe-gazer NFL fight songs on YouTube. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

According to Michael David Smith at the Fanhouse, the Chiefs are spearheading (arrowheading?) the NFL’s proposed ban on players wearing their hair long enough to obscure the name on the back of their jersey. What a relief, I was tired of having to ask people “Wait, is that Al Harris or AJ Hawk?”

Damn you Kansas City for pushing your Middle America customs and mores on heathen urbanites. If Troy Polamalu wants to give Larry Johnson something to grab onto when they make sweet love he attempts to tackle him, then who are we to judge?

Speaking of flowing tresses…