We Put Power To Your Pants...

Blackout period be damned, we're back. And you know what? It feels nice to be back. The offseason saw the purveyors of this drivel taking the road show to Minnesota for a week of fun in the sun, drag races that bring the power to your pants, poker parties immitating hockey style fisticuffs and broken hands to boot. You want details? Of course you do, but you won't be getting them on the cheap. You want to know who Larry Dixon is? Google it fool. Cause I already know. Get with the times man, there is a whole lot of world your missing out there outside of our dear home town. You wanna know what happens when a Chicago Hockey team runs nonsense speak at our enforcer? I'll tell you what happens. People get their hands broken. Don't fuck with us. You been to the awesomeness that is drag racing? I have. Break loose of your chains you sheep, and go outside. That's all I've got to say.



Here we are a mere two weeks from the beginning of what will be a most difficult season for one of us here. You thought that I was prone to naysaying in the past? You have no idea. The Team, your team, is still quite dead to me with very few exceptions (LTD, you're cool). But, no matter my feeling towards the convicts that we no longer call Chargers, nor those whose mental mistakes (of which were plentiful) ruining yet another of my birthdays, I'll do my best to remain objective. By objective I mean a tyrannical level of criticism until I feel that something has been done well. How I've missed this so...

John Wayne was at it again this draft period and has further cemented his lore within the overmoistened loins of Mr. Canepa. The Godfather himself has already put his 2008 Super Bowl XLII trophy on his mantle and is busy furiously pounding his manhood in front of it. Apparently, this, and not last, is our year. We'll John Wayne Corleone, I hope you have that correct, cause the taste that is lingering from last year sure as shit hasn't improved. Nick might not blame you, but I do. You can't hide your failures with a new coaching staff or a few new draftees from me my foe. I've got my one good eye on you.

Now that the familiar weekly felating of our G.M. is out of the way, an old feature that does not appear to be losing any steam, you'll see some new things around here this year. From the aforementioned tyranny from my viewing perspective, you'll see some familiar bits, as evidenced by the first "Cut" of the year below, as well as the continuing berating of the "Inside the Suckitude of Analysis of Goodell the Gladiator's League", as well as the new "Madden '08" season long magic video game 8 ball predictor. We'll be playing out the schedule on a weekly basis starting with September Nine's opener against the Cubs. We'll play the game weekly, and report the findings and see what kind of prognosticator "Madden" really is. You don't like it? Ask for your money back and I'll be happy to refund your subscription fee. You still don't like it? Go take a leap into a firey drum of monkey semen, I don't give a shit what you think. File that away for posterity.

How 'bout some bullet points to round this post out in style...

*This Michael Vick thing is old. Michael 'Ookie, Ron Mexico' Vick is not the habadasher of evil the world of PETA would like you to believe. Criminal? Yes. Face of the changing NFL? Perhaps, along with many, many others who have commited heinous deeds in recent past. From Pac Man to Leonard Little, Rae Carruth to Ray Lewis, Chris Henry, and a laundry list of others, Mr. Herpes is merely the latest to fall prey to the temptations of the almightly dollar. Yes, killing dogs is inexcusable, and quite very wrong, but let's not sit here upon our high horses and cast stones at the indignity of others. I wonder how Mr. Herpes is going to like jail when Adam Jones walks free after biting a stripper for taking his money. All the while one of his boys paralyzes a bouncer with a 9MM handgun*** for reprimanding him for his actions. Strippers sometimes enjoy the biting I know, and sometimes apparently not. And don't get me started on Chris Henry and his underage drinking and vicodin binges with schoolgirls. If I have to hear Keith Olberman play the role of Moral Police one more time, I'll make it my purpose to choke on my own vomit. Now I'm getting off my soap box before the lightning strikes me retarded to death.

*It's Fantasy Football Masterbatory Management time again. Good lord it gets worse every year. I'm inundated with Dungeons and Dragons and it's fucking suffocating me to the point of nausea.

*Shifting gears, the Padres and Eric Byrnes can suck it. Beat it Byrnes, you're a tool. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd drown your stupid all star dog, but as we know from above, that would be wrong.



*I too will be admiring a trophy this offseason with the look of a prisoner with a vat of vaseline and a future copy of Scarlett Johansson's inevitable Playboy spread. The difference is I already got my trophy, and it only cost me one day of fun and debauchery in Minnesota. Hope you like jealousy Mr. John Wayne Corleone, cause my trophy is going to need an alcohol based high pressure steam cleaning when I'm done with it.

For now I'm out. I'll be back. We are all back, some of us more at half mast than others. Leave your mark, let us know what you like and keep all your dislikes to your fuckin' selves. It's going to be a long season, and we're more than ready to leave our familiar stink wafting from this pile.

*** May or may not have been a 9MM handgun. Sue me or look it up, I've got Scarlett open in another window and my 'date' is all naughty looking.