Rick Reilly tries to whimsically convince us that golf is different and special; plagiarizes self for the umpteenth time; is still an asshole

Apologies for the hiatus.  I decided to do this post mid-last week, but didn't get around to it until now, because who cares I don't have to answer to anyone for my laziness I do this for free and who are you to judge?  Anyways, in the meantime, Deadspin pointed out that not only does this Reilly column suck taint, it's also plagiarized from a column he wrote just five years ago.  Rick does this all the time so it shouldn't be a surprise at this point; I'm mildly annoyed that I did not think to look into this possibility myself.  Anyways, read the Deadspin post as a warmup activity, maybe check out this little reminder of how much of a dickweed Rick is (especially when it comes to golf), then come back here and really get yourself good and worked up at what a shithead this guy is.  I know I'm worked up just getting ready to write this.  Roll the tape.

Two Down 

No clue who this is, no desire to find out; context suggests it's a nickname for one of Rick's golf buddies.  I'd sure pay a few dollars to see them in a cage match fight to the death against Simmons, J-Hench, Cousin Bug, and the rest of the Sports Guy Sycophants.

was watching the Golf Channel on the ancient Magnavox in the clubhouse at Ponky Municipal Golf Links and Deli, known near and far as America's worst golf course.

I feel like I'm there!  Just a quick reminder that not only does Rick suck at thinking, he's a bad writer too.

Kevin Stadler had just won the Waste Management Phoenix Open, thanks to a missed 5-foot putt by Bubba Watson on the 72nd hole. It was the first PGA Tour win of his life -- a 13-year wait -- and it seemed to be annoying the eyebrows off of Two Down.

LOL, eyebrows.  Those usually stay on your head.

"My God, look at this guy!" he was snarling in our bomb-shelter-motif clubhouse, where our homely golf group, The Chops, hangs out.

You can't tell because of the format of this and other article-pick-apart blogs, but he's using the time-tested Bill Plaschke "every sentence is its own paragraph" method here, and it's making the article slightly less bad, only because there's more empty space around the awfulness.

"I mean look how boring and polite he is! Here the guy does something he's been trying to do ONCE his whole life, and all he does is take off his hat and shake Watson's hand!"

"And your point is?" I asked.

Yeah, what WAS Two Down's point?  Let's step back and take a trip back in time to the same year Rick wrote the article he used as a template for this one--check out Rick's thoughts from 2009 as to how winners are supposed to act.  Here are some choice excerpts, before we return to 2014 and listen to all the high-larious antics this set of (likely) fat, emasculated 50-something cumbuckets would engage in if they won a PGA tournament.

There is a hideous new trend in sports that we need to stomp out like milkweed before it spreads. Scientists are calling it the Hey, look what I did, everybody! syndrome. There have been three dreadful examples of it lately, all from people who should know better.

Now before we get too deep, I will briefly help Rick out by making an argument for him that is definitely more substantial than your average straw man.  It's got some validity.  I will then tear down this somewhat valid argument, because Rick is a worthless dillweed.

The argument is that in this 2009 column, he's about to dump on a bunch of guys who are all time legends and have won something significant many many times in their careers, where as Kevin Stadler just won his first ever PGA tournament.  I think that's a somewhat fair distinction to make.  Repeat champions probably should be held to a higher standard of "We/I just won!" sportsmanship than first timers.  However, here are all the problems with that line of thinking, just in case Rick were to decide to show up in the comments and somehow come up with the idea of defending himself on those grounds.

1) Generally speaking, only cuntballs complain about athlete celebrations.
2) Even if you are OK with the general idea that showing up one's opponent is inappropriate, none of the three examples he's about to give are really showings-up of the opponents in question.  They're just apparel-based celebrations of accomplishment, which, who the fuck care.
3) In each of these cases, the losers who were allegedly being shown up are also pro athletes who make plenty of money and in the cases of examples 2 and 3, have multiple titles of their own.  This is not Ohio State hot dogging it after beating Eastern Central Ohio A&M 70-0.  These are stars that beat other stars.
4) Rick Reilly is a fucking moron, you really think he would ever make a point about sportsmanship that was worth a handful of shit?

OK, here we go.

Start with Phil Jackson. When he and his Lakers fricasseed the Magic to win another title, it was Jackson's 10th NBA coaching championship, a new record. Jackson had become the king of coaches. Everyone knew he was going for 10 -- it's not like it was a secret -- and there was the appropriate applause, huzzahs and standing on chairs.

But that wasn't good enough for him. He decided to paint a mustache on his Mona Lisa by quickly grabbing a hat with a big X on it -- for 10 -- and plunking it on his head.

Hey, look what I did, everybody!

MY GOD.  HE WORE A HAT.  THE HUMANITY.  I'M SURPRISED DWIGHT HOWARD DIDN'T BREAK DOWN IN TEARS.  Actually, I generally am surprised anytime that doesn't happen because Dwight Howard has the mental capacity of a 10 year old, but the point remains.  HOLY FUCKING DOGSHIT A HAT.  WHAT'S NEXT, A CRAZY DANCE?  THIS IS ALL VERY UNBECOMING, PHIL.

How were the Magic supposed to react to his new look? 

By not caring?  By going to the locker room and talking about trying to win it all the following year?  (They didn't in 2010, but they did make it to the Eastern Conference Finals where they were bounced by the Celtics.  FACK YOU!)

It was as if Jackson were saying, "Sorry to wear this in front of you so soon, but, c'mon, we knew where this was going, right?"

It was as if Jackson were saying, "Wow, I'm happy that I won ten championships because that's a cool round number!  Here's a really non-aggressive way of celebrating that."

Tacky. Shrill. Brash. 

Remember these words.

For a Zenmaster, it was very un-Zen. Here was the all-time preacher of team hoops, with his team all around him -- still sweaty from all that teamwork -- and Jackson suddenly went 100 percent "me." That hat said, Aren't I amazing! Doesn't this hat prove it? Don't you wish you had one?

That's one of the stupidest things I've ever read.  And I hate Phil Jackson and the Lakers.

I hated that hat for the same reason I hate those hideous championship T-shirts and caps that teams don the instant the final buzzer sounds. Why cover up the glory of the jerseys you bled in together all season -- the ones that have your city or team name emblazoned on the front -- with some ugly shirts nobody can read? 

That also have your city or team name emblazoned on the front.  Also, gee Rick, you think wearing that championship clothing just might be mandated by the leagues, who are in the business of making money by selling clothing to fans that are happy about their teams?

And why top it off with an ugly hat that just dangles a tag in your face?

THE HUMANITY.

Anyway, at least Jackson and his agents decided to donate the proceeds from X hat sales to charity. 

I like the comparative wording here that indicates that if Jackson instead kept the proceeds and burned them, it would only be marginally worse that the horrible, unspeakable act of wearing a hat with an X on it.

Of course, that just makes what Roger Federer did look so much worse.

HOW.  DARE.  HE.

Not two minutes after he had defeated Andy Roddick in a 77-game Wimble-never-done 

DIE

final, he went back to his bench, pulled out a tracksuit top with a 15 plastered on the side, put it on and spun around for the TV cameras. It was his way of congratulating himself on his 15th major, the one that bested Pete Sampras' old mark.

Federer did the same thing Jackson did!  It was so much worse than what Jackson did!

Hey, look what I did, everybody!

And remember this.

Now you tell me: How was poor Roddick supposed to have taken that? 

By shrugging, collecting his runner up check, and going back to fucking Brooklyn Decker (note: I am not sure if they were dating in 2009 and I'm not going to look it up but you get the point)?

It's like Rog was bragging: I knew I was going to roast you, A-Rod. That's why my people have been working on this all week!

Yeah!  The better thing to do would have been to wait until after the 15th title was secured, then have the tracksuit made, then go back to Wimbledon a few days later, and call a press conference!  Better yet, wear the track suit to your next tournament!  Crusty old balltonguers like Rick wouldn't be bothered by that at all!

Talk about cheeky. 

You don't mean cheeky.  It's a dumb point either way, but that's not the right word.

I mean, it's not as if some little seamstress ran out to iron the patch onto his jacket after the fact. The thing was in his bag the whole time! It's not just the sweater that was manufactured. The gesture was too.

As opposed to gestures involving celebratory clothing that happen spontaneously and without preparation.  HOW DARE USAIN BOLT HAVE A JAMAICAN FLAG PASSED TO HIM TO WEAR AS A CAPE AFTER HE WINS A RACE.  DON'T ACT LIKE THAT FLAG WASN'T WAITING IN THE CROWD FOR YOU THE WHOLE TIME.  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, USAIN?

I hated that sweater for the same reason I hate when a player preens for the camera in the "I'm going to Disney World" commercials. Here's his pinnacle moment, the one he's worked toward his whole life. He should be going absolutely Lindsay Lohan nuts, but instead he's looking into the sea of people for a director, a cameraman and a boom mike.

Once more, Mr. Montana -- only this time, can you cry?

Yeah, those moments are not at all mandated by NFL contractual obligations with Disney.  Not at all.  Every athlete who does it (do they still do this?) seeks out the camera crew and says "I can't wait to voluntarily endorse you guys.  Let's do more than one take!"

Federer's sweater was a rare show of classlessness from a normally classy guy. One dipped in gold, no less. A gold sweater with a gold 15 pulled out of a gold man-bag. What, they couldn't gold-plate the man himself?

WHAT A PREPOSTEROUS IDEA!

The day before Federer's flub, Serena Williams drubbed sis Venus in a straight-set finale. Then, not 30 minutes later, she showed up at the press conference in a T-shirt that read, "Are you looking at my titles?" Okay, it's funny. And a little dirty. But it's immodest.

Yeah!  Poor Venus!  She only had seven career Grand Slam wins at that point, just five of them at Wimbledon, including a win over Serena in the final the previous year!  Think about her feelings for once, Serena!

And all three -- Jackson, Federer, Williams -- are better than that. They almost always rise above the schlock. When they don't, it's unbecoming.

I like how I used that word earlier in this post to mock Rick, and then he uses it down here.  I promise I didn't realize that was going to happen until just now.

I don't remember seeing pictures of FDR rolling up to his fourth election-night victory speech wearing a "Four-ever!" tuxedo jacket. Neil Armstrong didn't splash down with a "MoonMan" tat on his biceps. 

Absolutely ironclad logic here.  There is no possible counterargument to "Athletes shouldn't celebrate in certain ways, because politicians and astronauts don't celebrate in those same ways."

And I sure as hell don't remember John Wooden slapping on an X hat after his 10th NCAA title.

PHIL JACKSON, SHAME ON YOU.  YOU ARE NO JOHN WOODEN.  AND WHILE I'M AT IT, DON'T YOU JUST HATE THE WAY MIGUEL CABRERA WATCHES HIS HOME RUNS?  WHY CAN'T HE BE MORE LIKE HANK AARON?????

Athletes, coaches ... these are your moments; don't sell their purity. You will get your due, in due time.

Just let it come from us.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.  You.  Sportswriters are the worst fucking people on the planet.

And now we return to present day.  If you read the Deadspin post you've already seen most of these "jokes," so I won't go too in depth, but Jesus H. Christ on a Rocking Chair, let's keep in mind that this man gets paid seven figures a year for this kind of thing.

"My point is?" Two Down said. "My point is, if I'd just won $1.1 million zops in a PGA Goddang Tour event, forget about my first win in 239 tries, I'd go absolutely electro-shock, three-alarm, bat-guano nuts! I'd pull up my shirt, grab my big ol' stomach and go, 'Manage this waist, chumps!"

"Excuse me?"

"That sounds like something a loser like Roger Federer might do!"

"I'd throw the old lady scorekeeper into the lake and dive in after her! I'd do the Dougie 

Timely!  Even when he plagiarizes himself, Rick struggles to keep up with those dang kids and their music.  "If I won a tournament event, I'd find the prettiest girl in the gallery and ask her to 'Call Me Maybe!'"

with the sign boy! I'd take my 3-iron and knight my caddy like I was the queen!"

He gestured back disgustedly at Stadler, who was now making his trophy speech.

"He's all, 'I certainly want to thank the greens committee. The bunkers were beautifully and thoughtfully raked all week."

I could tell it was upsetting him, so, naturally, I tried to make it worse.

YOU KNOW HOW GUYS ARE!  ALWAYS MESSING WITH THEIR FRIENDS!

"Golf decorum vexes you?"

"Hell, yes!!!" Two Down yelled. "Why can't golfers act like they do in other sports? If this was the NFL, he'd be twerking 

Much more timely than the Dougie.  Well done, Rick.  F-plus.

in front of the other team's bench! You think Richard Sherman acted like this after he won the Super Bowl Sunday night? You think he just took off his helmet and shook the Broncos' hands and said, 'Well played, sir'? No! He probably went up to Peyton Manning and yelled, 'Bro, was that some kinda JOKE?'"

Actually, that was such an ass kicking that he probably did just go up to Manning and say "Good game."  Leave it to Rick to screw up an attempt to paint Richard Sherman as brash.

The other Chops put their gin hands down.

"You're right!" The Human Stain chimed in. "In tennis, Rafa Nadal wins and practically falls dead where he stands, like he just took an arrow in the chest! But golfers act all sheepish, like they just sat in somebody's soup."

Partially because golf is a game for people who like puckering their assholes at all times, and partially because twats like Rick berate golfers the second the golfers show any emotion.

"Totally!" Thud 

Jesus, these nicknames are worse than Simmons's.

announced. "If I'd just won my first ever ticket to the Masters, and it meant I was going to finally play in a Masters with my dad (1982 Masters winner Craig Stadler), I'd pick up the flagstick and fire it like a Tommy gun at the crowd. 

That's actually... that's not really OK.  Please don't do that.

I'd make my caddy give me a piggy back ride and whip him like a jockey on a horse."

Stolen from a movie that was made in 1996.

The subject was taking my mind off the $40 I'd just lost trying to chip into the deep fryer, so I jumped in with both cleats.

Because golf isn't like those OTHER sports, like tennis!  Golf is special!

What's that you say?  I'm putting words in Rick's mouth?  You really think he feels differently?  The guy loves golf more than he loves air.  He talks about it like it's a nonstop thrill ride while also talking about how boring baseball is.  He sucks.

"You're right," I said. "If I just beat 144 guys over four days, and I'd never done it in my whole life? I'd wallow in it. I'd extend my hand to Bubba, yank it back and yell, 'Psyche!' When the guy in the bad plaid jacket came out with the winner's check, I'd snatch his toupee off and fling it like a Frisbee."

BUT I WOULD NEVER WEAR A SHIRT THAT SAID "TOURNAMENT CHAMPION."  THAT'S A BRIDGE TOO FAR.

"I know!" said The Little Ball of Hate. 

Hoooly shit.

"And at my speech, I'd start out with, 'I'd really just like to thank ... my sweet BUTT 

Lol butts!  Butts and poops!

for being so good! Nobody's hittin' these shots but me, you fools!' I can make these Pings play Beethoven, bitches!"

Now everybody was up, outraged at Stadler's fine manners.

[Two paragraphs of terrible jokes, including one with a painfully bad Twitter reference, deleted.  Long story short: these guys, fictional though they may be, are zilcheroos.]

And that's about when we realized Dannie, our curvaceous head pro, 

GOLF PRO-BABE.  THE GOLF GODS REWARD HER FOR WEARING SKIMPY OUTFITS.

had been listening the whole time from behind the dryer.

The dryer?  Or the fryer, which you mentioned a few sentences ago?  Someone please edit this man's work, and if possible, prevent it from being published.

"Right," she said, arms folded. "And then nobody on Tour would ever talk to you again. And you'd lose all your endorsements. And your wife would divorce you. And you'd start dating some sleazy stripper, and you'd end up broke. And you'd end up hanging around this dump with a bunch of no-job-having big-talking deadbeats like you guys."

Oh Dannie, you are just too much!  You pecking hen!  Always trying to ruin the guys' fun!

We all sat there in silent shame until Two Down finally raised half an eyebrow.

"Wait. We could date strippers?"

And that's the end of the article.  You are free to draw your own conclusions, but if they end up anywhere besides "Rick Reilly is an asshole," you may need to revisit them.

Rick Reilly: is a gargantuan asshole

Which of these lines from his column from last week about how to spend a day at the Masters most loudly and embarrassingly screams "I WANT YOU TO KNOW HOW IMPORTANT I AM!!!"?  Your call.  I want to apologize in advance for alienating any of our seven readers who love the Masters.  I actually enjoy golf quite a bit (despite the shit I give morons like Reilly for loving it) and I'll always watch Sunday at the Masters.  As usual, some of this is just hating for hating's sake.  I'm sure any of you who are huge golf fans would agree that Reilly is out of fucking control here.

Luck just French-kissed you. You've been handed a one-day ticket to Thursday at this year's Masters. But now you're freaking. You'll never get this chance again. What should you do? Where should you go?

Well, this will be my 25th Masters. 

What an asshole.

6:05 a.m. -- Wait! Leave your cell phone! Get caught with one on the course and you're banished for life. I know. I was standing on No. 1 once, watching Tiger Woods putt, when my phone rang in my pocket. Ring tone: "Fly Me to the Moon." Utter horror. Two Pinkerton guards took me roughly by the arms and escorted me toward the front gate. I was staring at a lifetime of standing outside the gate next to Gary McCord when I happened to see Augusta National chairman Billy Payne, whom I knew from his running of the 1996 Atlanta Olympics. "Billy! Save me!" And he did. But he's not going to save you.

Do you not know Billy Payne?  Oh, pity.  I certainly do.  Like I was saying, Rick Reilly is a fucking asshole.

6:15 a.m. -- Park for free, like everybody else, in one of the 8,500 no-charge spaces that are really close.

What a breath of fresh air!  Free parking!  In a midsized city on the Georgia-South Carolina border, no less!

Once [your chair] is down, leave. Nobody will take it and nobody will sit in it. The whole deal runs on the honor system, and the Masters is nothing if not honorable.

Totally.  Once you get past the rampant racism and sexism, the place is oozing honor and class.  It was especially honorable when, in 1984, the tournament decided to start letting pros actually bring their own caddies, rather than forcing them to use the club's caddies who were, you guessed it, all black.  And when I said 1984, I mean the 1984 that was 29 years ago.

9 a.m. -- Observe, for a moment, the most well-run sporting event in the world.

Holy hell.  It's a fucking golf tournament.  Let's see the geniuses that manage to somehow coordinate a slow-moving event with like 80 participants and a few thousand fans successfully put on an Olympics.  And geez, much as I despise the NFL, those fuckers have "well-run" down to a science.  Any sold out regular season game is a fuck of a lot harder to coordinate than a golf tournament.

And observe all of the stuff you don't see. No ads. 

The game of golf should be pure!  No ads!  No vaginas!  No people whose skin color would make you lock your car door if you were waiting at a red light and they were standing on the median holding a sign that says "Hungry please help!"

Nobody holding any signs. 

Especially not "Hungry please help!" signs!

No port-a-potties. No cars suspended on lakes. No electronic scoreboards.

Yeah, I agree, sports are just SO much better to watch when you have to wait twenty fucking minutes for the scoreboard to change.

Just golf played on giant fairways and M.C. Escher greens in front of a lot of Southern women in big hats. Fabulous.

This is the guy who thinks baseball is slow and boring.

10:20 a.m. -- Now, as Jim Nantz would say,

Makes sense that one smarmy buttwipe would enjoy referencing another.

over to 16, 

The only golf commentator to ever use that line!  Just like how John Madden was famous for saying "That's a first down."

where you can sit and watch players try to par the Lindsay Lohan of golf holes -- short, gorgeous and shady.

That would have been a non-horrible reference a mere five or six years ago.

For one thing, they're separated from the fans by 150 yards, so they can swear all they want. Certain players (cough, Tiger, cough) really like that.

Golf fans who perceive Tiger to be some kind of "bad boy" are just a bunch of tards.  They really are.

d) the Eisenhower cabin, built in the 1950s to the exact standards of the Secret Service. I slept there once. It's not much.

No big deal.

A sitting room and six bedrooms with twin beds. There was a rather pedestrian painting on the wall above my bed. I had a hunch. I checked the signature in the corner. Yep. Painted by Eisenhower.

NO BIG DEAL.

The room on the corner is where the club's patron saint, Clifford Roberts, always stayed during the "toonamint."

Good ol' Cliff!  What a delightful piece of human garbage he surely was.

I slept there once, too.

NO

BIG 

DEAL

In the desk drawer, there was a little white pamphlet that listed the entire membership. My eyes bulged, but my host asked me not to publish it, so I didn't. The Masters is nothing if not honorable.

Augusta National is nothing if not interested in not pissing off its members, who enable it to do things like offer free parking.

The first time I met Jack Nicklaus was outside this door on Wednesday in 1986 and I had to ask him if he was broke.

Oh, have you not met Jack Nicklaus?  I have.  I even asked him a "hard-hitting" question that was actually quite a softball.  Then I slept in the Eisenhower cabin for.... I believe it was... yes, it was the seventh time I slept there.

12:50 p.m. -- If you're really daring, try to sneak a peek at: a) one of America's finest wine cellars (I've seen it;

NOT THAT I'M BRAGGING

1:05 p.m. -- The waiter writes out the bill on a simple little check pad you could buy at Walgreen's for $1.99.

Isn't that uninteresting factoid proof of the greatness of the Masters?

Leap to get it, but the waiter is going to give you the stink eye if you give him anything but cash. Imagine: Augusta National hosts captains of finance and industry and yet if you're not staying on the property, they're not taking any chances with your Visa card.

Imagine: a place that wants to pretend like it's still 1935!  It'll shock you to find out that it's located in the South.

2:40 p.m. -- See if you can find Bubba Watson on the course. You want to see what his caddie is wearing on the front of his white overalls: The number 1. It goes to the winner's caddie each year. Who says golf doesn't have jersey numbers?

No one?

3:45 p.m. -- Tired yet? Then go sit in your chair on 18. Savor the quaint tradition of a Masters member announcing the names of the players who are about to approach the green, without a microphone. Shake your head at a tournament with no hospitality tents and yet with hospitality coming out of its ears.

What the fuck are you talking about?  Rick Reilly is the worst.

And here's how not to start a piece of sports journalism

Who wrote this intro? I'll be you can figure it out without looking for the name in the labels section of the post.

My son watched a few holes of the Masters with me on Sunday. He's nearly 3 and a half and hasn't figured out how to crap in the toilet yet. He spends most of his time naked or partially naked, barking out orders like "Put on Wow Wow Wubbzy!" and "I want graham crackers!" Every night, he promises us that he won't climb into our bed in the middle of the night, and yet, I always wake up around 4 a.m. because some snoring wildebeest is kicking me in the kidneys. Last week, the stubborn bastard sat still for a haircut for the first time only because we allowed him to play "Angry Birds" on an iPad. He's a man of many quirks. I'm not gonna lie.

I'm not gonna lie- I either think my main audience is new parents (Kids are a handful am I right?), or simply don't give a flying shit about trying to entertain anyone else. Listen, it's all well and good to try to connect with your audience by bringing up something they're familiar with. To start a column about Tiger Woods with 125 words about how your toddler behaves like every toddler in America kinda goes above and beyond that. I hate you with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, mystery writer whose obvious identity I won't reveal yet.

Here, check out how he ends the piece. Eventually he gets around to talking about Tiger and then wants to wrap up by going back to the kid. And how Tiger isn't a role model, or is, or something.

I am supposed to think that he's a poor role model -- that he's an adulterer, that he's selfish, that he's a phony, that he behaves badly on golf courses, that he's someone I wouldn't want my son to emulate some day. That's horses---. I want my son to know that you haven't lived until you've fought back, that you haven't won until you've lost, that you can't understand what it's like to relish something until you've suffered, too.

Hmm. So I guess being married with a kid but fucking everything that moves and then inevitably being caught is somehow equivalent to fighting a terminal disease or something.

I want him to understand that it's the 21st century, that we sit around picking our heroes apart all day, that we expect them to be superhuman at all times, that we get pissed off when they aren't, that it's hypocritical if you really think about it.

Who ISN'T secretly banging at least 15 random broads from all over the country at any point in time, you know?

If my son needs a role model, and he will, that person should be me. I don't need Tiger to teach my child how to behave. I need him to teach my son that it's fun to watch golf. Yesterday was the first lesson. There was a putt, and a roar, and a fist pump, and then my son screaming "Again!" Only Tiger Woods could have made it happen. It's a gift.

I'm so confused. So confused. If the point of this article was "Tiger Woods is fun to watch when he's golfing well" then I'm on board. Unfortunately the point might actually have been anything from "HI I'M CHARLES BARKLEY AND I JUSS WANTED TO REMIND YOU DAT AFLETES ARE NOT ROLE MODELS" to "I have a 3 year old who likes to act like a 3 year old." So I'm just going to turn in for the night.

Did you figure out who the author was? That's right, it was Hunter S. Thompson. Nah, just fucking with you, it was Simmons.

The Haters Are Back!

It's great to finally see some negative comments in my post from last Monday. To all you haters and crybabies: your tears are delicious. See, we hadn't had any good, solid negativity around here in quite some time (the last good comments I remember were from the guy way back in late 2008 who was horrified that I was making fun of Vince Young... man, those were hilarious) and obviously they reflect a desire from some readers for us to either write better or write more often. While I can't promise I will try to do either of those things, I will promise that I will try to try to do both. The last month or so has probably been the busiest of my entire adult life, culminating with the insanely busy weekend that's wrapping up as I type this. So from here on out I should have a few more posts per week going up.

I'm so giddy about those negative comments that I'm actually going to briefly respond to them. To the anonymous guy who says that Miller is actually pronouncing Beltre's name correctly in Spanish- which language is the broadcast in? If it's in English, and the AP has released a pronunciation guide which is meant to inform English-speaking broadcasters how to say players' names, and that guide says that BEL-tre is correct, then yes, you dipshit. Yes I want the English pronunciation. To the other guy who has a fork up his ass about who knows what, you're right. I didn't get to that longer post. I'm still going to do it, probably this week. You'll get by with or without it. Also, if you come here regularly, you'd know that KSK is probably my favorite blog. I reference it somewhat regularly. On the other hand Deadspin can kiss my pasty white basement-dwelling cock. It's great for silly videos and pop sports news, but the editorials and comments are abysmal. Deadspin could disappear tomorrow and I wouldn't shed any tears about it. So yeah, you're probably the kind of person who would fit in just fine as a regular commenter there (assuming you aren't one already).

Ah, that felt nice. Sincerely, though- feel free to post hateful comments whenever you want. Keeps things interesting around here, especially when we're not posting much.

I suppose at this point I should say something quasi-substantive so that this isn't just a meta-post. I have very little time before my eyelids involuntarily close themselves so I will say this: you know how much I like to bitch about announcers talking about football players making football plays on football fields for their football teams in big football games? Dear sweet Lord in heaven, golf announcers might have them beat in the race to annoy the shit out of me by repeatedly saying unnecessary shit. I never watch golf so the hour of the final round of the Masters I checked in on today was a harrowing experience. I got to hear all about golfers using their golf clubs on the golf course to make golf shots.

That was just a great golf shot.

As opposed to what? The fuck else might you be talking about? A bocce shot? A tennis shot? The shot at kicking his gambling problem that Phil Mickelson waited oh so long to take? I was so angry I almost kicked my TV right where I imagine its taint would be. Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. You don't sound smart, informed, or sophisticated when you call a shot made by a golfer a "golf shot." You sound like you have a learning disability. Although I suppose I should just be happy they didn't constantly refer to golf shots as "dynamic." (See above link re football players wearing football pads playing football with a football football.) Am I right about this though? Is "golf shot" not fucking absurd? Of course it is.

Actual post coming later this week! Maybe! Who the fuck knows!

Maybe You All Don't Find This As Amusing As I Do

I stole this picture from the front sports page of msnbc.com. Really makes Tiger Woods look like an asshole.



Hey Rocco, I'm just gonna stand here with my big giant trophy and this smug little grin on my face while you watch your hopes and dreams get flushed down the toilet. Awwwww, what's the matter, Rocco want a trophy? Rocco want a trophy? Too fucking bad. Is that a tear in your eye? Let me lick it! Mmmm...delectable!

(Please read the disclaimer in the title again and again.)