Written By The People, For The People

Every so often, believe it or not, I run out of things to say and/or talk about.  This is not entirely uncommon, especially given the extent of my abuse of spray paint, WD-40, and other inhalants.

So I employed your help via the social networking juggernaut know as Facebook.  On that note, What ever happened to Myspace?  Is that still a thing?

Regardless, I asked all of you what I should write about, and you provided me with some fantastic ideas ranging from regular, run-of-the-mill ideas to some of the more mundane.  As I sat here wondering whose submission to use as the topic of this very post, I realized, why can't I use all of them?  So here is your blog post, America (or at least the thirteen-or-so of you who responded):

It's been quite the eventful year.  Things started with a bang as the "Who Dat" bandwagon swept across the country, ending up in Miami with the New Orleans Saints' first NFL championship.

There are few moral victories as grand as this one.  This victory was the culmination of years of recovery efforts since Hurricane Katrina obliterated the city.  The Saints were okay the first season after the storm, but they kept getting better and better every year.  As New Orleans was repaired, so, too, was the Saints' roster and record.  It's this Steve Perry-esque inability to stop believin' (Doss) that brought New Orleans a championship and hope for the future.

Ironically, this is usually the time in the MLB season when I, a Cubs fan, do stop believin', and this season is no different (Kate).  What is different this year is the exodus of "Sweet" Lou Piniella (below).

This man turned arguing with umpires into some sort of grandiose display of belly-shoving and spitting while shouting.  He launched bases, kicked dirt, and spat in faces.  He involved almost anything he could in his arguments, be it dirt, baseball caps, or bases.  This propensity for props makes Lou Piniella the veritable Carrot Top of MLB managers.

Ironically, as we discuss this, Atlanta Braves manager Bobby Cox, who holds the all-time record for career ejections, has also announced that he will retire at season's end.

The two of these men have certainly left their mark on baseball with their Hall of Fame careers.  Hearing Bobby Cox say he won't be a Brave next season is like hearing Hitler say, "Actually, I like Jews now." (Stuart)  As long as I've heard the words "Braves baseball," I've thought of Bobby Cox.

He's as much a part of Atlanta as debauchery in general (Pattillo).  Atlanta is a city that's cost me three cell phones, two hotel room deposits, a wallet and a half (don't ask), a car tire, Kevin Eubanks tickets (Mandel), and a large portion of my sanity.  I wanted to be a doctor before my first trip to Atlanta.  Now look at me.  I'm trying to be the Hunter S. Thompson of dick jokes.

A time that was supposed to be spent preparing myself for medical school, college was instead a video-game filled drunkfest caked in weed resin (Tuna).  But son of a bitch, it was fun.

Let's take a look at me (above).  It's quite easy to list the ways I've gone wrong:

1. Given the number of chins showing, I've obviously had my daily serving of Jamocha Shake (Mandel).

2. Horizontal stripes are not flattering.

3.  White men are not meant to have afros (Drew).  I've had years of extensive research, and not only do chicks not dig it, but you might also have groups of closed-minded southerners chase you with various blunt objects.

4. Walking around with an unlit cigarette is not cool. It doesn't work like actually smoking to be cool.  People can tell when you aren't smoking.  It just makes you look like a precocious cocksucker.

So here I sit, pretentiously agonizing others' faults with words maybe 20 people see on this blog, maybe 21.  But when it comes down to it, I wouldn't be able to lambaste Twilight as a med school student when I'm too busy learning what actually creates human feces (there's a chapter on that, right?).  I get to sit here and buck America's largest trend: choosing between Team Edward and Team Jacob.

May I begin by saying that I'd rather be struck by lightning than see any of the Twilight movies.  Sorry, it's actually a sore spot because a local girl was actually recently struck by lightning and killed, but Ben asked for lightning.  But back to Twilight hating.  I'm sorry how much you love it everybody.  I refuse to like it (Katie).  Those movies are terrible.  How is her decision that difficult?  As the movies have progressed, The vampire (Edward? Jacob? Arsenio?) looks like he's been going in for increasing dosages of chemotherapy.  The werewolf hasn't withered throughout the movies and is surprisingly well-groomed for a werewolf.


In the end, though, it's a question that will never be answered.  It is a rhetorical question with no true answer.  Just like, "Which is better, cake or pie?" (Greg)  What kind of a fucked up question is that?  It's an answer I don't want to know, because it means one of them is inferior to something.  They're both phenomenal!!  (This is where Twilight differs, as both suck equally instead of being equally awesome)

There are so many layers to this cake question.  What kind of cake or pie?  Does a cupcake count?  Doughnut?  Is a cobbler a cake or a pie?  What is a cheesecake?

When it comes down to it, I don't want to choose.  Key Lime pie is my favorite...until I have a really good red velvet cake...until I eat pecan pie...etc.  Choosing between cake and pie is like picking between boxers and briefs.  People may have their preferences, but as long as your nuts don't get caught in your zipper, it's all the same.

(Derek)...that is all.

I do know one decision that is much simpler: to eat meat or go vegetarian (Duff).  It's in our nature to eat meat.  Rich, bloody meat.  Some people feel that's cruel...it's unnecessary.  That's garbage.  You ever eat a porterhouse?  There isn't a damn thing in the world wrong with that.  You don't like killing animals for food?  I didn't see you picketing out in front of The Lion King.  How do you think Simba and the gang get their sustenance?  I can tell you for damn sure it isn't from any tofurkey.

And you think slaughterhouses are so terrible?  Well feast your eyes on this!!!

This is a machine used for manufacturing tofu.  This machine is responsible for making tens of millions of baby soy beans into tens of millions of bastard soy beans every year, because mommy and daddy are in your bean sprout salad.

BTW - Tofu is just plain disgusting.  I'd rather eat staples, toner from a copier, or just about any other office supplies you can find at work (Cathleen).

As for me, I'll gladly eat veal, knowing good and well it is the meat of a baby cow.  I will not, however, eat the meat of a mini-horse (Mandel).  That just doesn't look appetizing.  Those mini horses just always look dirty, no matter how often you bathe them.  They're like the carneys of the Animal Kingdom.

But you know what?  That's the kind of man I am.  I enjoy my steaks still bleeding and my chicken still kickin' (salmonella be damned).  Cake vs. pie?  I'll take both please!!  This is America, after all.  I hate Twilight and am not afraid to shout it at a rabid group of teenage sociopaths.  I'm the kind of guy who looks at his own grandmother sitting down to rest/nap and sees it as a golden opportunity to take a funny picture victimizing the family matriarch (Liz):

 The poor woman was trying to nap.  What a son of a bitch I am.

You know what, when I sit back and think about all the things that piss me off (Hunter), I come to realize that I'm right there at the top of the list.  I piss me off.   I'm a spray paint-huffing, grandmother patronizing, cake and pie eating fan of the losingest team EVER that gave up the med school dreams after six months...in undergrad.

Thanks for the help guys.  You've led me through this exercise to realize that I'm a real son of a bitch.  It was a simple question: What should I blog about?  It wasn't supposed to be some exercise in hating myself.  Thanks a lot, gang.



Until next time, peace out, bitches.

Four Score And Seven Days Ago...

 
That's right little guy, it's finally over.

In a press release, British Petroleum announced that at 2:25 CDT this afternoon, the Gulf Coast oil spill had been successfully capped following the sealing of the final three valves.  If we believe what these oil tycoons tell us (which they've given us absolutely no reason to do), the relief well is in place, and no oil is leaking into the Gulf of Mexico.

Image Courtesy of NASA


I'm so glad they finally got around to getting this thing fixed.  After all, with 2.5 million of gallons of oil leaking into the Gulf every day, one would figure they would try to get this done as quickly as possible.  Let's do the math: 87 days at 2.5 million gallons per day...so 217.5 MILLION gallons of oil are either floating in the Gulf, resting on the coast, or sitting in a HAZ-MAT bag.

I mean look at the picture above.  Now, note that the white spots are clouds.  But all of that gray is oil. THERE IS OIL EVERYWHERE.  Take a look at exactly how big this spill is here. If the oil spill somehow originated here (Huntsville, AL for you out-of-town readers; and this is hypothetical, so stay with me...) it would currently cover Little Rock, Memphis, and Nashville.  And with the predictions scientists are making in regards to what the Gulf Stream will do to the oil's path, Atlanta, Knoxville, and the entire state of South Carolina are next.

Now many would say "Tim, the leak is finally capped.  Why must you continue to complain?  They even finished a month ahead of schedule!"  Just because this problem is fixed does NOT mean it didn't happen.

The Gulf Coast economy is crippled to the point it may not recover.  Tell the residents of Gulf Shores, AL how much better it is now that the leak is capped.

Jimmy Buffett can't host a free concert every weekend.  That being the case, there is nothing that makes people want to visit the oil-stained beaches of the Gulf Coast.  "Hey kids, you want to go watch baby sea turtles die?"  "Shit no, dad.  That's pretty messed up.  Are you trying to raise serial killers?  I'd rather watch you and mom have sex."

What exactly can people advertise about the Gulf?  "Come to Destin, Florida.  We're not as greasy as that damn Gulf Shores!" or maybe, "Come to Orange Beach!  Our wildlife washes up dead so you don't have to watch them struggle on the shore for breath and life...and lose."

While most of the country views the area as simply a vacation destination, there are thousands of people in the affected region whose very livelihoods are rocked as a result of this spill.  Guess what restaurant owners along the Gulf are doing...crying themselves to sleep because the business they've worked their whole lives to create and maintain has been taken out in one fell swoop by money-pinching Limeys that would rather spend their money on their yacht than the oil spill (I hope you DIE, Tony Hayward (on his yacht below)).

As I've had time to think about the whole situation, I actually remain angry at Tony Hayward for only one thing.  On his yachting trip and turning over of control over the oil spill, Hayward simply said, "I want my life back."  There are jobless Gulf Coast fishermen, restaurant owners, and real estate agents who want their lives back as well.  Except their lives consisted of working and making money, not sailing the open seas in a yacht so insignificant to you that you named it "Bob".  As U.S. Senator Richard Shelby (R-AL) so very aptly put it, Hayward's actions are "the height of arrogance."

But other than that, thank you for leaving, Tony Hayward.  Seriously, thank you.  You spent almost two months leading all people actually concerned for the Gulf in one huge circle jerk.  You peed in an entire region's mouth and told everyone it was chocolate.  But you step down from your "responsibilities" as the head of clean up efforts.  A little more than a month later, the well is sealed.  An incessantly masturbating baboon would do ten times better than Tony Hayward.

But apparently nobody that's employed by British Petroleum can do anything spill-related without putting their feet in their mouths and the shooting themselves in the foot.  Take British Petroleum rep Randy Prescott, who averted the fears of seafood lovers, saying, "Louisiana isn't the only place that has shrimp."

Well, apparently it's also true that Tony Hayward isn't the only one with elitist bullshit coming out of his mouth.  You forget to realize Louisiana is one of the only places that is hemorrhaging jobs, specifically shrimp fishermen.  You also forget that our current economy isn't what professional economists refer to in the financial as "good" (sorry to get all jargon-y with you).  These people are losing their jobs, and nobody's hiring.  But there is still shrimp.

I've said this before, and I'll say it again: at what point does the U.S. Government get to put BP on trial for criminal negligence.  As Hayward sat around with your thumb up your ass watching yachting on Tivo (who the hell watches competitive sailing?), the ecosystem of the Gulf Coast slowly began to wither away.

You are evil, evil men who are concerned only with public image (which is surprising, since you've dragged yours through a pile of shit) and not with actual results.  I hope Hayward's yacht wrecks and kills ten people.  Then he can go to prison and get gang-raped.  I don't know if they get Oz over in Britain, but I wish that treatment on them more than anything in the world.  If there's one thing these men deserve, it's at least ten years of ankle-grabbing.

But I digress, the leak is capped.  No more is entering the Gulf, and we do need to be grateful.  But with all this excitement over the oil spill being capped, keep in mind, it is still in the testing phase.  It's hard to say, because this isn't a Hayward-led effort (in which case they would most certainly be blowing smoke up our asses), but I think they're shooting us straight.

Hopefully it's time to quit worrying about the spill itself and focus our efforts on attempting to rescue coastal ecosystems, no matter how futile our efforts may be.  If you have the opportunity, please do what you can to aid in the Gulf Coast cleanup.

Here are my other BP Oil Spill-related postings:

Not At All A Slick Move...
Apparently BP Doesn't Read My Blog...

What I Learned From The 2010 World Cup

As Spain's 1-0 extra time victory over Holland brought the 2010 World Cup to a close, we should take a few moments to look back over the past month to see exactly what the latest installment of the most famous tournament in the world taught us.

GOD IS URUGUAYAN

Uruguay's quarterfinal match with Ghana ended with a little bit of controversy, to say the least.  Uruguayan striker Luis Suarez reached out to make a save on a shot from Ghana's Dominic Adiyah in the closing moments of extra time.

This controversial intentional handball has united all non-Uruguayans in one frame of mind: Screw you Uruguay.  You reached the semifinals because you cheated.

There are always whispers of countries paying off referees in the wake of this tournament because countries can't come to terms with the fact they're not the best in the world.  But there isn't any of that this year.  All we know is Uruguay cheated, and it directly led to their advancing past Ghana in the quarterfinals.  Uruguayan players and coaches are lambasting media outlets worldwide for depicting the team as cheaters.

They want to know what evidence people had to be able to make such egregious claims about the team.  Other than the photo above and the video below (I didn't pick the music):



Other than those two very telling pieces of evidence, what proof does anybody have that this team cheated?

I'll tell you what other proof we have.  Suarez himself is lauding his efforts, saying, "Now I have the Hand of God."  The Hand of God is on Uruguay's team?!?!  It is completely unfair for a team to have a divine entity illegally defending along the goal line.  If you're going up against a team of 11 men and you've got 10 men and the all-creator, you are sure as hell cheating.

VUVUZELAS BLOW.

Who knew these annoying plastic horns even had a name?  But honestly, you've got to give all the worldwide fans that showed up for this tournament with an unflappable will and seemingly endless lung capacity.  Without these fans and their very cheaply-made plastic instruments, how can I tell when the game's on?  That emphatic honk lets you know exactly who on your block is watching soccer.  Not that they're blowing one themselves.  It's just such an overwhelming noise even when the volume's turned all the way down.  And it's spreading to other parts of the world.

**CLICK HERE FOR A VUVUZELA RINGTONE**

The Florida Marlins are attempting to cash in on this annoyingly infectious craze.  They're appealing to the Hispanic population of Miami by incorporating vuvuzelas into their games.  After all, Americans aren't going to care about anything soccer-related until roughly four years from now when they do it all again in Brazil (However, with the World Cup plus shots of Brazilian beaches, it may be the highest-rated anything, ever).

Unfortunately only about 2,000 people go to each Marlins game, so there isn't much noise being made.  But I like their attempt to Americanize the art of cheering through something that was made famous in other countries first.  Let's face it: we're the laziest country in the world.  How do we make the bleacher bums lazier?  Simple.  They don't even have to exercise their minds in thinking of cut-downs or "Yo' mama" jokes to hurl at opposing players.  Just blow into the vuvuzela.  No thought necessary.

IF I FALL TO THE GROUND CLUTCHING SOME PART OF MY LEG, I WILL GET WHAT I WANT.




I guess I'll write something even though this video pretty much proves my point.  One drawback to the nearly wall-to-wall coverage of international soccer is the dramatically increased showing/viewing of dives.  It's completely disenchanting to see someone get close to someone, which apparently causes him to crumble to the ground clutching some combination of his knee/ankle/thigh/face, only to see him get up a minute later with no noticeable limp and chase the referee down the field probably yelling something like:

Hey!!  Didn't you see that?  He totally tried to kick my foot clean off my body.  What do you mean there was no contact?  Did you not see me writhing in pain on the ground for a ridiculously long amount of time?  Well that's because it hurt so much!!  Well, no, I'm fine now.

If I apply this logic to real-life situations, it could be advantageous every now and then.  For instance, if I'm walking down a downtown street in some city and some jerk bows up to me and has roughly a 50-75 pound advantage over me, I fall on the ground and throw my wallet to him in one fluid motion.  Then as I writhe in agony on the ground and he stands above me holding my wallet, the police become interested.  Thus my point is proven: if you try to punk me, you will go to jail for a few years and probably get raped.  On a related note, I don't think it's an effective move in prison.  You're quite vulnerable when dropped to the floor and clutching your ankles.


AN OCTOPUS KNOWS MORE ABOUT SPORTS THAN I DO

In case you haven't heard, Paul the Octopus has become an international sensation over the course of the World Cup tournament.  This psychic cephalopod correctly picked the winner in each of the eight games he predicted.

Beginning with Germany's group play games, Paul correctly predicted the winner of each of Germany's matches, as well as Spain's victory over Holland in the World Cup Final.  Paul proved to be unbiased through it all, correctly picking against his home team in the matches against Serbia and Spain.

Now while he may not be able to speak, Paul's blind selection of which cube from which to grab his food has come to show that he knows exactly what he's doing.  I'm beginning to think we could use this underwater seer to help solve some of our country's greatest problems.

Let's take a look at the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.  Set him in a tank where his choices are using the A-WHALE to skim oil from the Gulf now or to "work out the kinks while we get it to maximum operation" and other bureaucratic bullshit.  That way if he picks the latter, we can kill and eat Paul.  Unfortunately, a mixture of BP and our government have chosen the latter, and that leaves us with nobody to kill and eat to take out our frustration.

Honestly, they aren't using the A-WHALE until it's at full capacity.  Which makes complete sense because it's not at all like they can skim the oil at half capacity, figure out what can be improved while it works, and get it to full capacity.  Thus, while the kinks are being worked out, oil is still being skimmed. Not as much as possible, but it's a lot better than doing absolutely nothing.

But this may all be a moot point, seeing as how if Paul the Octopus were born in the wild, the oil spill would likely have killed him by now.



SOCCER IS OLD SCHOOL


Who needs instant replay?

Surely not the British, whose second goal in their round-of-sixteen match (above) was disallowed because the ball didn't cross the goal line.  However, almost every available camera angle clearly shows the ball crossing the goal line and then bouncing back into play.  It wasn't one of those situations where we debate if the ball made it all the way across the line or if it was still touching the goal line.  The ball cleared the line by several inches, but was not considered a goal.

People argue that the goal would have been inconsequential as the final score was 4-1 in favor of ze Germans.  While usually a pretty straightforward and correct point of view, that is not the case here.  If the goal had been allowed, the match would have been tied at two-all.  The two German goals came at the hand of their remarkably strong counter-attack unit.  But keep in mind, if the score's tied at two, England isn't desperately sending eight men into the offensive half, leaving them more susceptible to a counter-attack than Lindsay Lohan in court (Sorry, but despite O.J.'s murder trial, "I'm a famous person" is not an acceptable defense.  Now you're gonna be somebody's bitch.).

But when it comes down to it, Britain's complete lack of interest in our Gulf Coast and what they've done to it makes it so fitting that they were screwed out of the World Cup.

But look at all the offside missed calls.  The U.S. team had two goals disallowed because they had a man in an offside position.  The only problem: no camera angle showed anybody anywhere near being off sides.  It wasn't even close.  Actually, in the match against Slovenia, the referee didn't say what he was calling.  He never said (even after the match) what foul he called on the U.S.  All I know is that a whistle was blown and the referee decided we weren't allowed to score anymore.

Apparently FIFA took note of these instances and told the referees to be a bit more lax about calling offsides.




He's not just offside.  Tevez is damn near standing on the keeper with nobody else within several yards of him.  There is arguably no more definitive a case of offsides than this one.

But FIFA stands by their men.  They don't need the technology that can tell us precisely what happened so they can be sure they're making the right call.  It's coming down to a case of, "He looked offside," or "I didn't see it cross the goal line." 

And another thing: the referees chosen for the World Cup, like the nations, are the best in the world at what they do.  If that's the case then I don't want to see who didn't make it.  Apparently people worldwide train to be referees when being an assistant crack whore doesn't work out (guys can be crack whores too).

At least the guy who officiated the France/Ireland qualifier.

The game-winning goal came from French striker Thierry Henry after he expertly trapped a pass...with his hand.  As you can see, it's not like his hand was down at his side and took a weird bounce and hit it.  The ball was illegally knocked from in front of his body to the ground (unintentional or not doesn't matter).  The resulting goal granted France a spot in the World Cup, where they lost twice and finished last in their group.  It's hard to say anybody can do worse than that, and the Irish (who should have been there instead) are certainly no exception.

The technology is there.  Even though it isn't the case in this country, other countries' economies live and die completely depending on this game.  You have to make sure you get it right when you're on this grand of a stage, and you're getting everything so very wrong.


So that pretty much covers it.  Thank you World Cup for helping me forget that the Gulf Coast is becoming a big ol' pool of oil.  Now America will forget about you until four years from now in Brazil (World Cup plus those Brazilian beach bodies? Yes please).  Just when you come back, please leave those fucking vuvuzelas behind. 

Hot Dog, That's American!!

This weekend I awoke to something I'm not very familiar with hearing...crowds of cheering people.  This isn't one of those Rodney Dangerfield moments where "I get no respect."  I just don't generally keep a crowd of cheering people in my room.  At least not since that house fire a few years back.  I lost a lot of good men that Presidents' Day.

So the cheering that woke me was obviously not for me.  Instead it was the crowd preparing for the Nathan's Famous Annual Hot Dog Eating Championship in Coney Island, New York. These roaring masses were shouting in preparation for one of the most American pastimes ever created.  It's right up there with apple pie, baseball, and...hey now...

Think about it.  We are easily the fattest country in the world.  What is a bigger celebration of that fact than a stage full of people violently shoving as many hot dogs with buns as possible into their mouths?  After all, we are the country that brought you the Double Down.

However, when it comes down to it, this contest is one of the more disgusting events you'll ever see.  No hot dog bun goes down the hatch without being saturated in some sort of liquid.  I thought it was just water, but an aerial view of the stage gave me a behind-the-scenes look at the variety of beverages provided to the contestants.

Granted, some of the competitors did try to stay healthy by using plain ol' water to lubricate their food enough to be forced down their throat without being chewed.  But apparently some of them bucked that trend and embraced the fact that each of them are cramming at least 20 hot dogs (the weakest of the competitors) down their throats in ten minutes, so why try to be healthy?  Let's soak 'em in soft drinks and Kool-Aid.  The only thing unhealthier than eating that many hot dogs is...well any other competition this "league" hosts.

Take Sonya "The Black Widow" Thomas (above) for example.  The 98-pound Virginian has eaten her way out of many a pickle, downing 65 hard-boiled eggs in just under seven minutes, defeating four-time hot dog champ Joey Chestnut in a Krystal "Square-Off" (Thomas put down 57 fresh, hot, small squares), setting a world record by eating nearly eight pounds of turducken, and eating just over one-tenth of her body weight (11 pounds) in cheesecake.

I looked into the competitions and realized that the healthiest thing these competitors eat is oysters (I don't know if oysters are actually healthy or not, but they're at least the closest thing).  There is an asparagus competition...but they deep fry all of it first.  They eat beef brisket by the pound(s), sushi by the hundreds of pieces, pizza by the...well...pizza I guess...just not by the slice.  It's ridiculous.

It's not like this is unhealthy at all.  Just take a look at Eric Booker (above), the world record holder in chocolate candy bars (two pounds in six minutes), burritos (15 in eight minutes), corned beef hash (four pounds in under two minutes), glazed doughnuts (49 in eight minutes), Purim (a Jewish holiday) cookies (50 in  six minutes), matzo balls (21 baseball-sized balls in five-and-a-half minutes), and pumpkin pies (four-and-a-half in 12 minutes).

How the hell do you even practice these things?  I guess he just walks into Krispy Kreme and asks for five dozen and an egg timer.  However, these feats of disgusting are no match for Don Lerman (below), who set a world record by downing a stomach-wrenching 1 3/4 pounds of pure ol' butter in five minutes.

In an unrelated story, I believe he's dead now.

You want to make this competitive eating really enjoyable?  You want some viewers?  Your answer lies in the garden.

That's right, tomatoes.  And don't dice them up, use cherry or Roma tomatoes, or have a tomato sauce competition.  The competitors have to place a whole large tomato in their mouth and bite down.  If competitors take a bite out of the tomato without shoving the whole thing in his or her mouth, he/she is disqualified.  You may ask, "Why try tomatoes Tim?"

First, I'll respond by complimenting you on your alliteration.  Then I'll tell you what to do if you can't get someone else to eat a whole tomato while you watch.

Go stand in front of a mirror.  Place a whole tomato in your mouth.  You watching?  Now bite down.

(Disclaimer: This will cause a mess, and no, I will not clean it up.)

I don't know what it is, but watching someone attempt to eat a whole tomato is amazing.  It's one of the few things I can think of that is kind of gross, but it's just so damn entertaining.  Maybe it's the way no matter what you do, half the tomato will end up hanging out of your mouth.  Maybe it's the red geyser that erupts from your mouth and flows over your chin like when a drunk guy pulls a "Hey guys look at this!!" and tries to pour a whole beer in his mouth.

All I know is the pageantry of such an entertaining phenomenon will be increased when the competitive eaters try to shove the tomatoes in there as quickly as possible, hopefully via punching the fruit further in there.  Just picture it: the tomato gets put in there, and right as the eater is about to close his or her mouth around it, BOOM!!  He or she punches him/herself in the mouth to force it down further, creating a fountain of tomato juice that just goes EVERYWHERE!!!

Screw a ten minute competition.  I'd watch that for hours.  That's how you get people to watch.  You don't try to stir up some sort of a controversy.

In case you didn't hear, the big name in competitive eating, Kobayashi (a name so familiar that this program didn't try to auto-correct it), pulled out of the Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Championship yesterday due to contract disagreements with Major League Eating (which, apparently, is real).  Kobayashi wants to compete in events not sanctioned by the league, but according to his contract, he is not allowed to do so.

So here's the deal.  If you sign a contract to join a certain league, you can't participate in events for other leagues.  You don't hear Derek Jeter saying, "Sorry Skipper.  I know this is a big week of practice, but there's a softball beer league championship...so I'm gonna go."

It's called a contract.  You can't just get out of it.  You're basically owned.  It's how the business world works.  Even the big-time stars have to honor it.  You think Stephen Strasburg wants to pitch for the Nationals?  No.  But he is contractually obligated to do so.

And what's worse, you're acting like you're one of the biggest stars in the world.  If I saw you on the street, I wouldn't know it's you.  You called yourself one of the most dominant athletes ever.

YOU ARE NOT AN ATHLETE.  COMPETITIVE EATING IS NOT A SPORT.  ASK THIS KID:

Can anybody say "BOOM-bah-bah-BOOM-bah-bah-BOOM?"

That's right, if you're an athlete, then so is Lard-Ass from Stand By Me (arguably the greatest scene ever).  And you're calling yourself Kobi now.  Granted, it's with an "i" instead of an "e," but you are completely ripping off the brand name he's built for years.  There is only one Kobe or Kobi or whatever, and you, sir, are not it.  You calling yourself a professional athlete is like Kristen Stewart calling herself a good actress.

CAN ANYBODY SAY SEGUE?  It's "seg-way" in case you haven't ever had to spell it.

That's right, another event that took place over the holiday weekend is the premiere of Eclipse, the third installment in the Twilight series.  Honestly, I have no problem with the movies.  They aren't necessarily my cup of tea, but hey, I don't even like tea.  I don't have a problem with Robert Pattinson or Taylor Lautner.  They embrace the Twilight craze and their part in all of it.  They're along for the ride.

But not Kristen Stewart (above).  Apparently somebody somewhere told her that she is God's gift to the filmmaking industry.  And she acts the part too.  If you look up the word "pretentious" in the dictionary, you'll find a picture of Kristen Stewart wiping her ass (I don't entirely know what that means, but it sounds right).

Let me be unendingly clear with you, Miss Stewart (because I'm sure you're reading this...):  You're awful.  You are almost the worst actress ever (you can thank Anna Nicole for the "almost").  You play every single role with the same discontented look on your not-that-great face.  The only way you'd ever be able to successfully pull off a role is if you're playing someone who always wishes she was somewhere else...BECAUSE YOU ALWAYS LOOK LIKE THAT. 

I took the time to see Adventureland.  If I had the chance to go back in time, I'd go skip that pile of shit and get those 90 minutes of my life back.  But somehow I'd fuck time travel up and end up in the middle of watching the damn movie.

In which case I'd kill myself.

But I recently realized that this awful, awful woman is not the most pretentious person in the world.  She probably is the worst person in this fine nation of ours, but the most pretentious person in the world is Uruguay's Luis Suarez (below)

Suarez made the news for his game-saving save in the final seconds of the World Cup quarterfinal match between Uruguay and Ghana.  There's only one problem...he's not a keeper.  Ghana's shot had Suarez's keeper beat and should have locked up the match for the local favorite, until this pompous striker just reached on up and knocked the ball away.  He was ejected, leaving his team with the disadvantage of playing the rest of the match with only ten men.  The problem with that...the match was over...or at least the part where being a man down would be disadvantageous.

And the rest was history.  Ghana missed the penalty shot, and then they lost the shootout to Uruguay.  There's no questioning that Suarez's move was a cheap shot at the very least.  It's almost as dirty a move as kicking a man square in the balls.  But that's not the worst part.

Suarez was carried off the field following the match and treated like a hero.  In an interview, he described himself as "the hand of God."  The thought of that is more ridiculous than watching two porcupines have sex (think about it).  And the Uruguayan team is bashing media outlets around the world for calling them cheaters. That's like the Jersey Shore crew getting pissed off over being called guidos.

I one of the few that believes the goal still should have been awarded to Ghana.  Think about a similar scenario in baseball: It's a tie game in the bottom of the ninth.  There's a man on third with one out.  There's a deep fly ball.  The runner tags and heads for the plate.  The pitcher tackles the runner.

That's the same level of offense incurred by Suarez.  Guess what...they award the runner the base, which would be home, and thus a run.  They don't have a re-do and send the runner back to third to run it again.

Oh well, if you've kept up with my blog, you know how much poetic justice I find in England's exit from the World Cup, as it somehow turns out they didn't tie the match in their round-of-sixteen game against Germany.  Take that, Tony Heyward and the rest of your oil-soaked yachting croonies.  I know how much more this sport truly means to every one of you, and while a couple of calls screwed us in the first three games, you truly got screwed out of the tournament, AND YOU DESERVED IT!