Tags: Pau Is A Puke, Perk Is a Beast, Tim Russert
We interrupt this hiatus to pour a cold one for Tim Russert.
The heart breaks on so many levels. But I’m buoyed by the thought of him joining my grandfather in the great unknown. Pop-Pop watched Russert every Sunday and taught me to do the same.
I’m prepared to bawl my eyes out tomorrow morning. I almost lost it on the EZ Ride to North Station yesterday, which definitely would’ve been awkward. Tomorrow, we let it all flow.
Then it’s time to get smaller than Eddie House’s son. Funkier than Rondo’s grill.
So Lucy the Dog offers a premature and hearty congratulations to Perk, Boo Licious, Carl Spackler, the Crack Staff, and the rest of gangrene. You made us like the NBA again.
Tags: Sam Cassell, Victor Newman, Young and the Restless
For 28 years, Braeden has carried “The Young and the Restless” as the legendary Victor Newman, a cuthroat tycoon who wears out heavy bags, rides horses, builds empires, and bangs mad bitches.
In addition to liasons with strippers, blind farmers, and his son’s wife, Victor’s nailed Amanda Bynes, Jennie Garth, Jane Goodall, Tony Orlando, and Doris Day, all of whom, coincidentally also celebrate birthdays today.
Newman runs Genoa City, Wisconsin, and if you don’t believe me, ask Boston Celtics shooting guard Sam Cassell, who cut classes at FSU to catch Y&R and once told Sports Illustrated he loves nothing more than lying in bed naked, watching The Black Knight in action.
“He’s the man. The Victor Newman. Victor is cold.”
Amen, brother. Victor Newman will fuck you up.
Tags: Bob Lobel, Lloyd Lindsay Young, slow death of journalism and America
Fifteen years later, I returned to the Commonwealth and was shocked to power up the television machine and find Bob Lobel right where I’d left him.
I have no idea why the memory of Lobel stuck with me for all those years. But before the ESPN-ification of sports media, Bob was The Man here in Boston. Or at least he was in my feeble, developing mind.
When I came back, it was comforting to find a familiar face in a landscape that I scarcely remembered.
In 2005, Lobel told Boston Magazine:
“They call it ‘sunsetting’ in this industry: They ‘sunset’ their talent. I don’t know how they’re going to sunset Lobel. But I hope we all know ahead of time, because there really aren’t that many happy endings in this business.”
As it turns out, they were going to sunset Bob in April 2008. On Monday, WBZ announced it will cut 10 percent of its workforce including Lobel, ending the longest tenure for a sports anchor in the Boston market. (Lobel started at WBZ in 1979.)
To borrow a phrase from Hillary Clinton’s borrowed phrase from John Edwards, Bob will probably be fine. But his departure marks a sad loss. Even though I barely watch the guy anymore, it’s reassuring to know such connections to youth and ‘the good ol’ days’ still exist. With all due respect to whoever will replace him, it’s like watching Ruby Tuesdays replace your local bar.
But all things must come to an end. And surely Perk is a Beast will soon remind me of why Lobel is a turd-sucking douche who should burn in a flaming bag of dicks with Peter May, Bob Ryan, Dwight Howard, and John Mayer.
Until then, please enjoy this clip of another voice from my childhood, the brilliant Lloyd Lindsay Young. I couldn’t find any interesting Lobel clips.
Tags: Bonerama, Bones rock even with emo geek as front man, OK Go
Late Show with David Letterman, 02.11.08, Bonerama and OK GO
Tags: Baba Booey, DWYFF!, Eric the Midget, Howard Stern, Sal the Stockbroker, Sarah Silverman, Valentina Vaughan
It started with my online meltdown on Mediocre Tuesday, where I exposed myself as too dumb to even understand if Obama or Hillary were winning. Or if anyone was winning. On that matter, I remain confused.
Then Wednesday and Thursday, I watched the news coverage of the Harvard kids playing with Paris Hilton and Charlize Theron, who were awarded the Harvard Lampoon Woman of the Year and Hasty Pudding Woman of the Year, respectively.
I’ve never understood these seemingly self-important and inside-jokey presentations. But perhaps that’s the point. They’re for the cool kids who understand things that I don’t understand, and that’s why they’re in Harvard and I’m in my pajamas. I envy those kids. It looks like fun being all young and smart.
Last night, I watched Bourne Identity, a movie that I failed to understand. Why does that main CIA guy get killed in the end? Why is Julia Stiles not in high school? What’s the deal with that poor-man’s version of Forrest Whitaker’s Idi Amin? Why do they kill him? Can’t Matt Damon and the CIA just work things out?
I’m never good with ‘thrillers.’ They require suspending disbelief to a degree that I’m incapable of. Too much time is spent trying to figure out who’s good and who’s bad and what in the hell is going on, rather than sitting back and absorbing the pretty colors flying across the screen. And try as I might, I rarely understand such movies.
But I’ll tell you two things I do understand:
(1) Anything for a penny is a damn fine deal, and
(2) When Sal the Stockbroker’s wife shoots him in the ass with a paintball gun, that is funny!
This weekend, Howard TV onDemand is offering an 80-minute preview for one cent, featuring the best Howard Stern show moments of 2007. I just watched it, and to be honest, it’s good though not great. But it’s certainly worth a cent.
Tags: Chicks who make my loins burn, Colleen Haskell, cottage cheese, Dude, Marriage, Sad confessionals, Waifish girls in brown bikinis
It has often been said that your marriage is only as strong as your ability to stave off former reality show contestants who are attracted to your creepy affection.
And in the case of my marriage, I’d have to say that adage holds true.
As I continue to enjoy the third issue of Rolling Stone’s 40th anniversary, I’m amazed by how many of the interview subjects claim to be “optimistic” about the future.
My only optimism for the future lies in the fact that I’m quite certain the world will end in the next 40 years. And that certainty allows me to feel OK about the fact that I’ve made minimal progress in my life. Nothing I do will matter much in the long run or even the medium run. So I can pretty much just sit around licking my crotch and smoking dope with my headphones on. And that’s obviously something to be optimistic about.
But as for a ‘positive’ future for the world, I’m pessimistic. Among RS’s self-proclaimed optimists are Al Gore, Craig Venter (genetics pioneer, duh), Dave Matthews, Jon Stewart, Dave Eggers, Jane Goodall, and Bill Gates. Bono gives an inconclusive answer, and Kanye West claims to be “optimistic about everything,” saying he sometimes even ventures from “optimistic” to the stratosphere of “borderline delusional.”
Eli Pariser, executive director of moveon.org had this to say:
“My optimism is based on the idea that we can act together intelligently.”
That quote jumped off the page for me, since I would suggest that basing optimism or anything on mankind’s intelligence is a risky proposition.
In what was heralded as a “television first,” Tyra Banks devoted her entire show today to “all the questions you wanted to know but were afraid to ask” re: the cooch.
So what did Lucy the Dog learn? What, as Tyra says, is up down there?
1. The clitoral hood protects the clitoris. And it has 8,000 nerve endings. But you don’t pee from your clitoris, girlfriend! Nor do you pee from your vagina! You pee from your urethra!
2. According to Dr. Debbie Herbenick, “most women have never looked at their genitals. Or if they’ve looked, they’ve only looked once or twice.”
3. You should let vaginas cool for about 10 minutes before serving to guests.
4. If you’re named Lana and you’ve never looked at your vagina, Tyra Banks will call you up on stage and make you awkwardly stand next to her while Dr. Herbenick plays with her vulva puppet. (See video after jump.)
I’d planned to get this ol’ clunker up and running again by writing about ESPN’s sorry “Who’s Now” campaign, which apparently ended a couple weeks ago. I don’t even have ESPN, but the few installments I caught left me altogether befuddled by what “Now” means, and why any of it matters. (As it turns out, Tiger Woods is the most Now of all, or at least he was then.)
It would’ve been quite the diatribe. But then after searching Google, I learned that “Who’s Now” has already been beaten mightily by scribes much mightier than I.
That’s some timely and clever writing! I couldn’t even think of a clever way to articulate the severe beating “Who’s Now” has taken in paragraph two. And I pretty much lifted the third paragraph from this guy. Yay!
Anyhow, I won’t pile on Now now. But if you ask Lucy the Dog, ESPN missed the boat badly. Tiger is not Now. He is not even Wednesday, last President’s Day, or Melky Cabrera. And he certainly is not Cody Paul.
There is no one Nower today than Cody Paul. He reminds me a lot of myself as a child, only entirely different. When I was young Cody’s age, my athletic prowess would hardly have been described as Now. Unless Now meant wetting your pants while standing on second base. In which case, I was totally Now. The Nowest.
But Cody Paul does not appear to have problems holding it in. And based on this video, I don’t expect he’ll have too many problems of any sort for the rest of his life.
You are blessed, Cody Paul, and destined for a life of mad hot poontang. So don’t blow it. Make it rain on them hos. Do it Now.
I’m generally amused by Jeff Ross. But I’m watching this America’s Best Impersonator show and he just made the most unnecessary, rude, douchebaggy comment I’ve heard in quite some time.
Little Richard performed with his faux Little Richard counterpart and a faux Tina Turner. And when they finished, Ross (a judge) noted that it was amazing to see “three queens” on the stage.
Little Richard did not look happy and attempted some zingerish reply, which was sort of weak. He seemed caught off-guard, and eventually just said, “Shut up.”
Making matters worse, only minutes later, faux Little Richard failed to make the Top Five.
This was not cool. So Lucy the Dog releases her anal sacks on your face, Jeff Ross.
Richard Wayne Penniman is a legend. You are just a funny guy who looks like a thumb. Funny guys who look like thumbs are a dime a dozen.