Freaks v. 2

We here at Fegonomics are all about full disclosure, so let me share two little nuggets of wisdom for you before we get started with the freaks of huck:

1. I thought that this "Freaks of the Week" business was going to be a lot easier than it has turned out to be. You know, I thought that I'd see a Jarron Gilbert here and a little Heather Brooke there, and the article would write itself. What I failed to recognize is that we're currently in a Pro-Sports no man's land, especially with baseball at its All-star break. If you've had the misfortune of flipping to ESPN recently, you've probably realized that all they're showing right now is the World Look at My Pubes competition, and the Fossilman picking his ass. I guess what I'm saying is, enjoy the dregs, the best is yet to come.

2. (Unrelated to point 1) I got felt up in a restaurant by a kid who was twitching around in a wheelchair. I think we all recognize that this is the most action I've gotten in pretty much a year. I think the whole "FML" thing has jumped the shark, so here's its heir apparent: waaaoooowwwwwww.

Onto the freaks:

90 Inches of Pain Freak
Anthony Randolph

Don't let his Earthworm like physique fool you--Randolph is a straight up baller. I realize that it's kinda like saying that he won a Planet Fitness Body Building competition, but Randolph has been tearing up the NBA Summer league (Though there's a 60% chance that one of his opponents was the original Makhtar N'Diaye). The guys at FreeDarko have been rubbing themselves over him for quite some time, and it looks like their preoccupation has not been in vain. Brotha man tied the Vegas summer league record for points with 42 against the Bulls. Sure, the former record holder was the immortal Von "Necco" Wafer (Speaking of Wafer, he's part of the funniest look-a-like galleries I've ever seen, esp. Battier), but Randolph's summer league line is nonetheless impressive: 26.8 pts, 8.5 'bounds, 3 Blocks and 60.5% FG pct per game.

At 6'10" with a 7'6" wingspan, Randolph certainly has the measurables you'd want in a hybrid 3/4 (Aside from being built like Prancer). And the man can certainly show people how his ass tastes:



But certainly the big guy's best marginal advantage is his ability to handle the ball. How many 7 foot salamanders can do this:


And let's just be thankful that he shoots better then this Asian Guy from Saw.

Mass Monster Freak
Brock Lesnar - UFC Heavyweight Champion

Surprise, surprise, Makhtar dips from the wrestling well again. I mean just look at that picture, Brock has literally no neck--his massive, massive traps have simply devoured the area his neck used to occupy. Brock's doesn't have the size or definition of our favorite, Ronnie Coleman, or even his long-time rival, Jay "Soy Sauce" Cutler, but his functional strength is off the charts. How do I know? Well...last weekend he ANAL-yzed MMA legend Frank Mir to unify the UFC heavyweight titles. If you haven't seen the footage, here it is. The neckless one served up 10 minutes of utter domination. Here's what Frank Mir Looked like after the fight:
I haven't seen a piece of meat so old and broken down since the end of this Kimbo Slice fight (Borderline NSFW, hideous ending).

At 6'3", 265 lbs, Lesnar represents the new prototype for the burgeoning MMA's heavyweight division. Not only does he often outweigh his opponents by 30 or 40 pounds (Mir weighs in at 240), but he's also generally faster and more technically proficient than his counterparts. Lesnar was a legit collegiate wrestler, as runner up to future NFL'er Stephen Neal in 1999, and winning the NCAA Heavyweight championship in 2000. The Lesnar/Neal matchup is fairly ironic, as both men both went on to ply their trade in the NFL, with varying success. The fact that Brock made it to the last cut of Minnesota Vikings camp, despite not having played since sophomore year of high school is impressive. Though, perhaps not as impressive as this(GOTCHA!).

Oh yeah, this is fucking funny, too:

Freak in the Sheets
Emmanuelle Chriqui

The new season of Entourage premiered last weekend, and frat boys across the nation collectively jizzed their pants. By this point, the show's gotten pretty played out, primarily because the characters are so damn predictable. Vince is aloof, E is a meta beta, Lloyd is gay, Drama is dramatic, and Turtle is a worthless piece of shit. Plain and simple, that shit don't change. But, as flaccid and worthless as the guys on Entourage are, the girls are equally as FOINE. One needs to look no further than Sloane as proof of this point. I'd rather not devote more space to a show that's leapt well over the shark, so here's more Sloane to end the post. Soldiers OUT.

Over/Under, Volume III

Every day, attractive people of all genders, creeds and colors approach me with the same question: "Mr. Naked Warrior, sir, how do you come up with such fascinating Over/Unders?" This is usually followed by some sort of sexual proposition which, sadly, I'm forced to decline. 

The truth of it is--even I don't know. They just come to me. At work, in the shower, watching TV, swimming in the pool, whenever. I can't control it. Everybody's got a gift--Coolbaugh's smooth at trivia, Dream grows a mean dirty sanchez, even Makhtar's lightswitch is a fully-functioning Roto-Rooter--and mine happens to be Over/Unders. Lucky for all you fegos.

And, with that, we're off...

• 17.5 - number of technical fouls by Rasheed Wallace in 2009-10. Big Sheed, he of the bald spot and insatiable love of weed, has calmed down some since his Blazer days, when he set the record for technical fouls in 1999-00 with 38, only to break that record the very next year with 40. Still, he's been in the league's top three each of the last six seasons, with a high-water mark of 27 in 2004-05. Now, he's a member of the green and gold, meaning he's the newest lieutenant in KG's Army of Intensity. It seems to me this could go one of two ways: (1) Sheed is scared straight by KG's squeezing the air of a basketball during intrasquad practice and reforms his ways; (2) KG's intensity rubs off, but it has the opposite effect, and Sheed boils over like an unwatched pot. Regardless, the Celtics could use a little shake 'n bake, and Sheed's got it in spades. OVER/UNDER?

• 0.5 - number of high-fives for Juan Uribe after teammate Jonathan Sanchez threw a no-hitter. Sanchez, the least of the Giants' young flame-throwers, was thrust back into the rotation when Randy Johnson went on the DL for mullet withdrawal. Well, Sanchez did pretty good, throwing the first no-hitter of the 2009 season. Of course, it would've been even better, if not for the Giants shit-brick third baseman, Uribe. In the 8th inning, while working a perfect game--which would have been only the 16th of the modern era--Sanchez got Chase Headley to ground softly to third, where Uribe fumbled the ball like T-Wolf Bradley circa sophomore year. Now, I'm mostly an arm-chair third baseman, but I think Oden can confirm that this was a pretty routine play. Watch the video. HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN? Uribe, who is by all accounts a fat, moldy piece of shit, can't step up when his pitcher is five outs away from immortality and pitching in front of his father for the first time? Bravo, Juan, bravo. You just made my list of finalists for Fego of the Year. OVER/UNDER?

• 165 - number of minutes spent in the bathroom by Joey Chestnut on the Fourth of July. Chestnut--aka "The All-American Feedbag" aka "The Human Trough"--took home his third consecutive Mustard Belt in the annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest, consuming a record 68 snausage links in ten minutes. Afterward, the Chesty said he had room for more, setting his sights firmly on the Big Seven-Oh, once thought unreachable, the holy grail of hot dog eating. However, given that JC doesn't surge-and-purge like these worthless chodes, he must log some serious toilet time dropping those 68 kids off at the pool. My question is, how much? Chestnut is a power-eater--but is he a power-pooper? It takes me a solid 35 minutes to evacuate my system after eating at Golden Corral. Hell, Butters needs an hour after meals, easy, and that's when he doesn't eat dairy. How much can the human anus even handle? Is it like that episode of South Park where Stan's dad goes toe-to-toe with Bono? Are any of Chestnut's logs roasting on the open fire that is Mr. Poop? This real-life Chest Rockwell consumed almost 21,000 calories in one sitting, so how much can he poop? (BONUS FACT: His dad's name is Merlin Chestnut. Suck on that, Tim Duncan). OVER/UNDER?

• 9.5 - number of gay players currently on NFL rosters. This question might be considered an extension of the NBA virgins Over/Under, but really, it deserves its own discussion. Now, I don't think anyone would dispute that the NFL is generally regarded as the "manliest" of the four major sports, though this might be splitting hairs since they are all pretty fucking manly. What this manliness means, however, is potentially debatable. Yes, the game has its Travis Henrys, men who unabashedly impregnate different women in a stunning displays of virility and stupidity. At the same time, though, Queer Studies professors at liberal universities everywhere (don't worry, College of the Ozarks, I know you're good to go) have begun to speculate about the homo-erotic overtones inherent in male bonding and the locker room lifestyle, causing Makhtar to further question his sexuality as his examines the chiseled physiques of this week's Freaks. Statistically speaking, studies have shown that between 2 and 3 percent of the population admit to being openly gay, though there may be just as many who remain closeted for fear of being stigmatized. With almost 1,700 players on NFL rosters, some have to be light in the loafers (not that there's anything wrong with that). In 2007, John Amaechi became the first openly gay man to have played in the NBA, prompting Tim Hardaway to tarnish his outstanding reputation as a player by exposing himself as the black John Rocker. Methinks, despite the Hardaways of the world, an ex-NFL player isn't far from following in Amaechi's footsteps. (Note: there's actually already been one). OVER/UNDER?

• 38.5 - combined number of times the Jonas Brothers masturbate in an average week. I'll try to keep my comments as brief as possible, but for me, there's a lot to be said here. For those you without TV, without internet, without radio, and who go grocery shopping only at co-ops and farmers markets, the Jonas Brothers are the latest sensation created by the people at Disney responsible for corrupting America's youth. They consist of three members: Nick, the "talented" one; Joe, the frontman; and Kevin, the creepy one along for the ride. Nick, the youngest, is 15, while Joe and Kevin are 19 and 21, respectively. Now, ordinarily, Trips Right Jonas wouldn't be any more interesting than other shitty boy bands like O-Town, LFO, and Frosted Tips (look for them next fall!), save for one thing:

OMG!!@! WTF IS THAT AWESOMENESS??!/?

That, my fellow fegos, is a purity ring. We won't go into the specifics because, mercifully, the good people at South Park have already done that for us, but the basic idea is that wearing one signifies that you are foregoing sex until marriage. Now, okay, this is a basic Christian value. Well and good. And, you know, fine if Triforce Jonas wants to wait, I don't really care. It's even cool with me for Disney to manipulate little kids using the purity rings (see: the episode of SP). But here's what I wonder about: if Three Sheets to the Wind Jonas really aren't having sex, how often are they beating it? Because it must be fucking often. Like, seriously, two of them are probably beating it right now. Consider that this group is among the most popular in the country amongst girls ages 14-25. Thousands upon thousands of young girls pack their concerts on a nightly basis. They are newly minted Hollywood A-listers, despite their morals, and could probably be living an Entourage lifestyle if it wasn't for those fucking purity rings. Google "Jonas Crush" and you get 1,800,000 hits (just don't tell anyone you did it). These Jesus Freaks could be knee-deep if pussy, but... Frankly, I don't care how religious you are, that shit has got to gnaw at you day in and day out. God might give you comfort, but he doesn't give hand jobs. If you assume they each beat it once a day, we're already up to 27 times per week, but why stop there? Nick is 15, still in throes of puberty and hormones, and probably beats it at least twice a day. Joe's the most popular, as far as I can tell, and probably gets the most attention from hot female celebs his age. He's gotta be good for ten sessions per week. And then, of course, there's Kevin, the wild card. At 21, he's the elder Jonai, which means he's been putting up with not putting out for the longest time. Multiply that by the fact that he's the least recognizable, the creepiest, and the fact that he's gotta know his 15 minutes are rapidly dwindling, as he's clearly holding his brothers back. It's only a matter of time until Three's Company Jonas becomes Just the Two of Us Jonas, and he knows it. If he wants to capitalize on being famous and land some pussy that is undeniable out of his league- -cough Turtle cough--it has to be NOW. And he can't. And it must be KILLING him. As I see it, he could be anywhere from 15 to 30 chokes per week, and even that might not be enough. But enough analysis. Time to decide. OVER/UNDER?

Alright, brosefs, that's it for me. I'm out like Jeff Garcia leaving the closet.

(Addendum: apologize for some weird formatting. Actually, no, I don't. Fuck you guys).

I'm starting with that Man in the Mirror

Glad we finally got a defibrillator (RB1 on the DL, fantasy muses teasing you with glory, you know who you went to...) to this blog, let's hope we can keep the pacemaker thumping.

One day I was casually watching "the Answer" play haplessly off-kilter in Detroit, looking like he could've used a Phone-A-Friend, when an epiphany struck me that there was also a Curtis Jackson Jr. doin' work on the court. I noticed the uncanny resemblance of Rodney Stuckey and Fifty Cent for the first time, and suddenly my freshmen All-look-same dabbling experiences returned in a rush. I've always been fascinated by the physical similarities between different people, considering that we, as humans, were built with the genetic capability to diversify the population. And yet with even with all the freaks of nature (sorry, infringing on Freaks of the Week copyright) that exemplify this genetic uniqueness, nature's randomness still manages to churn out several individuals who are indistinguishable from each other: society dubs them "Look-a-likes."

The great thing about look-a-likes is that they are as prevalent as Travis Henry's children. Every person we've ever encountered has at one point been anointed with an an alternate alias, in reference to a celebrity/athlete/sludge monster. It occurs so frequently that even I myself sometimes fall into the Parent Trap Syndrome, where I can't tell one Lohan from the other (SFW but you will get an insta-chode). The general public's desire to raise themselves up from a plebian existence, to even be remotely similar in looks/style and be recognized because of it, can be witnessed just about anywhere. Needless to say that there are a plethora of lookalike sites already floating about the web, but I wanted to bring this back to a personal level. How many times have you been roaming the lines at Dewick, sharting your pants in anticipation for the Vanilla/Choco Twist, when you spotted the girl that looks like Natalie Portman? The Ivan Drago in the gym? Biggie Smalls and her Big Juicy arms swaying to Olin? The Gila Monster slithering around town? You know you've had those moments. And wouldn't it be convenient to collect them all in one place?


Our first sample here compares the seductive CJ from Real World Cancun, and a well-known icon of the disc-throwing community. Wonder why your neck's so sore, huh guy?
(answer: sucking cock).

On a side note, when I realized they were in Cancun, I couldn't fathom why this location hadn't already been done. Hmm let's see. Sloots (NSFW)? Check. Obscene amounts of alcohol? Check. Dirty Sanchezes? Check. It really trumps every other location for the modern-Real World era in terms of potential rowdiness. OR MTV could do a tranny rehash season in the shittiest part of NYC:
Chet: I want to apply to be host of TRL.
MTV Director: TRL is already canceled. You know this show is already on MTV, right?
Chet: ....KATELYN'S A DUDE!

Going along with the RW theme:


Jonna is perhaps the lowest common denominator of the "Bang Bus-able" females that have passed through this show. But hey, if she ever says she wants an Asian Lightswitch, just paint on a couple of dark bruises and we're set to go.

BONUS LOOK-A-LIKE!!!!!

BUT WAIT! Besides both being Jumbo-AzNs and former lax enforcers, they both possess impeccable dress sense and velvety hair. I'm probably one step from being in the center of a bukkake/circle jerk after putting this picture together.

Freaks of the Week v. 1

Leave it to Charles Haley's di-ack to resurrect the blog from Bolivian. Following his lead, I thought it appropriate that I trot out my newest creature feature. I shall call him....FREAKS OF THE WEEK.

By this point, I think that we've all written paeans about the perfection of the human form(yeah, really pretty much as NSFW as you can get), but I think that I am an especially frequent offender. Hell, my favorite sporting event of the year is the NFL combine. Other people will dismiss the combine as a meaningless event, pointing to combine warriors like Mike Mamula and Brian Bosworth who ended up getting ram jammed in the League, and they're probably right. However, I love the mere concept of the combine--everything from the subtley racist overtones of having rich, white team owners watching freakishly athletic black men run around in Under Armour spandex to the NFL network's coverage. Sure, it's a meat market, but that's exactly why I love it.

So what better way to honor something you love than institutionalizing it and writing about it in near pornographic detail? From here on out, I'll send weekly reports from the trenches about who's moving on up (Note: I reserve the right to use the term "Freak" liberally. Athletic freaks, freaks of cock, freaky deaky girls, freaks who piss me off--nothing's off limits. Ah, fuck, we all know I'll probably just end up writing about people who piss me every time). Let's see where this goes:

Specimen #1:

Jordan Crawford

Ok, Jordan Crawford may sound like fegolicious, teeny-bopping Aaron Carter wannabe. But who is he really? Well, he's the baaaaad man who eviscerated Lebron James at LBJ's own camp. Unfortunately, we'll never be able to rub ourselves to the Zapruder film of the slam, as Nike has destroyed all traces of the event, like some sort of Men in Black.

I'm a little surprised at Nike's short-sightedness on this. What, they didn't realize that by making a big deal out of the dunk, and confiscating all evidence, Crawford's feat would take on Digglerian proportions (really NSFW)? I realize that he's called King James, but this isn't actual fucking regicide. Would having some footage of the Chosen One getting dunked on really damage his legacy that badly? You know what hurts his cred even more? Building an entire ad campaign around cha man and the man of a thousand faces, only to have Bron Bron not even make the finals. We may never see the dunk in question, so I made the mixtape to watch in its stead, sure it's not a perfect replacement, but it's sure to go over better than the famous Fresh Prince Aunt Viv swap. (Edit: That first dunk is the definition of a Video Game Dunk. I can't even do that shit in NBA 2k9's dunk contest functionality).

New Prototype #2
Greg Jones - FB, Jacksonville Jaguars *Former RB at FSU

Full disclosure, Greg Jones hasn't really done anything special this week. I was just watching some of his videos in gathering material for this post, and I thought that he needed a shout-out. The big guy was patient zero for the term "Pumpkin Shoulders". He looks like a mix between Scott Steiner and the Black guy from Northeastern's Ultimate team. Unfortunately, he made the switch to FB in coming to the NFL, and nothing's really been heard of him since. Sure, he is one of the best FB's in the League, but that's like saying you're the hottest girl at Tufts. A true 6 becomes a 9 like that. I love power runners, after all I am the Tony Hunt of this blog, so enjoy the meast in his element:

Freaks and Geeks #3
The Fetus Bodies of Planet Fitness

Some trusted affiliates on the inside sent me this link. A little background for those too lazy to read a New York Times column: Planet Fitness is the real life equivalent of Average Joe's from Dodgeball, a gym built on the "We love you just the way you are" ethos. Deeming its confines a "Judgment Free Zone," Planet Fitness is designed for the people who love the concept of getting in shape more than the actual process.

Some of their rules, such as prohibiting lifters from dropping weights, are pretty standard. But others, such as the ban on grunting or weights over 60 pounds, are just downright ridiculous. Whats more, based on the article, it sounds as though Planet Fitness denizens are indoctrinated with the idea that it's bad to be big. To be too cut or too strong is a primal character flaw to these people. This flips the very idea of going to the gym on its head. So if the end result of legitimately lifting weights is mocked, then what is the end game these lightweight babys are looking for? This "gym" just doesn't make any sense.

And for those of you who think that the New York Times article is an isolated case built on hyperbole, my source on the inside says this is not the case. In his first few months at Planet Lightweight, not only has he been accosted for making too much noise while lifting a rather pedestrian weight (read: 40 pound bench.), but he's taken part in their Pizzeria Uno's giveaways. Yes, you read that right jortsfans, they give away pieces of Uno's in the gym. What's next, Milkshake water coolers? Fucking Cookie Dough Sport vending machines? Oh, I get it, you want to make this a reality.

Stay Small, Planet Fatness. (Edit: I was just kidding about the 40 pound bench. It was more like 60).

Over/Under, Volume II

It's a new week, and you know what that means: a new set of Over/Unders for all you fegos out there.

Addendum to Volume I, courtesy of my girlfriend: an article indicating that Shaun Alexander was a virgin until 2002, when he wed his current wife, Valerie. Not only did the Alexanders abstain from sex, but even stranger, their first kiss wasn't until after their vows were spoken. Now, I know he's a football player and the question was about basketball, but--daaaaaamn. This evidence is definitely eye-opening, when you consider that Alexander went to the University of Alabama (maybe NSFW), and was starring in the NFL for two years before he earned his wings. Food for thought.

Second thing to note is that the fifth Over/Under in this set includes some spoiler information regarding the finale of Friday Night Lights' third season. If you are a fan of FNL but still haven't watched the last season in its entirety, which is really a contradiction in terms, skip the last Over/Under.

And now, let's ring the bell for round two:

• 8.5 - number of starts made by Matthew Stafford for the 2009 Detroit Lions. The Lions obviously loved Stafford enough to make him the number one overall pick, and they loved him enough to give him $41.7M in guaranteed money, but do they love him enough to make him hold the clipboard this season? The Lions are going to be a terrible, terrible team in 2009, whether or not Stafford plays major minutes. Detroit QBs were sacked 52 times last season, the second-most in the NFL, and its likely that whoever steps under center this year will be subjected to similar abuse. Why not let Daunte Culpepper absorb the brunt of this? Culpepper is a former fantasy darling, once projected by Makhtar to throw for 48 TDs and 4,900 yards, but at this point he's just an old, broken down piece of meat. It seems obvious that the Lions ought to heed the cautionary tale of David Carr, another number one pick who was immediately asked to right a sinking ship, only to end up a part of the wreckage. (Note: This commercial is probably the best thing to come out of David Carr's NFL career. Seriously. Also, isn't to funny to think that, at the time this commercial aired, both of the Clemenses were taking HGH? I bet they had to do a few takes because Roger kept accidentally crushing the glass of iced tea he's holding). Still, despite all this, there's every indication that fans, sportswriters, and even the Detroit brass want Stafford to win the starting job. If he does, it'll be about five weeks before he's wishing he was back in college, doing old-fashioned strength and conditioning. OVER/UNDER?

• 495 - number of days remaining on the Scott Steiner Doomsday Clock. I invented the SSDC about 18 months ago, and since Makhtar requested an update, this Over/Under goes out to him. The purpose of the Doomsday Clock is simple: to accurately predict how many days Scott Steiner, known affectionately by his fans as Big Poppa Pump, has to live. It's obvious he doesn't have long, and frankly, I'm surprised he's made it this far. He's a walking, talking, flesh balloon, inflated by every steroid and hormone known to man or beast. Just consider the before and after photos. Even Barry Bonds and Sammy Sosa would be embarrassed. At its inception, the Doomsday Clock was around 1,000 days, and so I'd say a generous estimate puts his current death expectancy around Thanksgiving 2010. Enjoy yourself, Scott Steiner, because I'll be buying your Best of Big Poppa Pump Memorial DVD for Makhtar next Christmas. OVER/UNDER?

• 15,000,000 - number of domestic copies sold of a new Michael Jackson album. This is unconfirmed, but rumors are circulating that the late King of Pop had been working on a new album, his first since 2001. Collaborators have been said to include Akon, Kanye West, will.i.am, and possibly others. Given that Mike-love is at an all-time high--his weirdness in life forgiven but not forgotten in death--what type of sales might be expected from a posthumous album? I'm setting the bar awfully high, as 10 million copies is enough for diamond status, and 15 million would put the album even with classics like Born in the USA and Dark Side of the Moon. Still, when you consider the explosion of record sales in the wake of his death and the fact that Thriller remains the best-selling album of all-time, it's hard to bet against him. OVER/UNDER?

• 1.5 - number of sexual partners for Jessica Biel at Tufts University. This is a pretty interesting question and one that will never be answered to my satisfaction. Biel (maybe NSFW), who defies every stereotype about Tufts girls and was named the Sexiest Woman in the World by Esquire in 2005, attended Tufts for three semesters between 2000 and 2002. By the time she got to Tufts, she was already something of a star, having starred in 7th Heaven as a teenager, though her film career didn't take off until after she left. By the time I got to Tufts, her legacy was mostly forgotten, but I've heard whispers that her decision to take a year off and ultimately leave school was the result of some stalker-ish behavior. I also heard that, while living in Tilton as a freshman, she was treated as something of a spectacle, as football players would bring pre-frosh to see her as incentive to come to Tufts. Again, I'm not sure if any of this is really true, but it would certainly explain why she didn't want to remain in Medford. At any rate, my question is this: how many former Tufts students can honestly say they hooked it with the Sexiest Woman Alive? She was here for three semesters and, despite her celebrity status, must've had something resembling a normal college experience. While I can't imagine her dating anyone at Tufts, she must've gotten horny enough to go slumming once in a while, although it probably wasn't anything like this scene (maybe NSFW) from Rules of Attraction. OVER/UNDER?

(SPOILER ALERT)

• 2.5 - number of playoff victories by the East Dillon Lions in the upcoming season of Friday Night Lights. Clearly, the decision to bump Eric Taylor from Dillon High to East Dillon at the end of season three was a masterstroke by the FNL writers, who are among the best on TV. This was a move that had to be made. With Smash Williams and Jason Street long gone and Tim Riggins, Lyla Garrity, and Matt Saracen all moving on, the series had lost almost all of its original stars, with the exception of mainstays Eric and Tammi. They already fudged the ages once--Riggins and Lyla were seniors in Season One, juniors in Season Two, and a seniors again in Season Three--and couldn't afford to do it again. I mean, damn, how many years of eligibility can Riggins have? And how long can 28-year-old Taylor Kitsch be expected to play an 18-year-old farm boy with an advanced upper body? No, the show needed to grow, and that couldn't happen with the same setting and the same characters. That's the most interesting and unusual problem that FNL presents for its writers. Most shows follow the lives of people, meaning that they can change and grow with the characters, but FNL doesn't. Instead, it follows the life of a town--Dillon, Texas. Now, sure, Eric and Tammi are the main characters by default, but they are hardly the focus of the show. Remember in Season Two when Eric leaves to take the assistant coaching job at TMU? That didn't work in the long run because it took him out of Dillon. The series struggled that season in part because it's best and most effective character was isolated from the rest of the show. Eric Taylor isn't interesting enough to carry a series on his own. To be relevant, he needs Dillon, just like Dillon needs him. When characters leave Dillon, like Smash and Street have, they fade into obscurity, occasionally reappearing but remaining in the rearview mirror. This is tricky for the show, because it is constantly in need of new characters and can never rely on one character to carry the show for long, but it is also one of FNL's subtlest strengths. Unlike most TV shows, which run for years and years following the same characters in the same places, FNL is much more dynamic, more true to life. People don't stay in the same place for ten years. Friends don't live together, work together, get coffee together for ten years. People move. Jobs change. Life moves you. A show like Friends is comforting because it deludes you into believing you can live across the hall from your buddies forever. Scrubs gives you hope that you and your best friend can stick together--through college, through med school, through residency--and eventually end up working in the same place. FNL is different. It embraces the fact that people come and go through life, that as close as you might be to someone in a certain place or time, Texas doesn't last Forever. The only constant is Dillon, where the people change but the town stays the same, which makes the show so compelling. By moving Eric across town, Friday Night Lights has given itself a new lease on life, a new school with a new team and all new characters in the town we have come to know and love. The question now becomes: how far can he can lead them? This Over/Under assumes that East Dillon will make it to State--I can't imagine the writers will let them fall short of that--but how far can they go? The Texas State playoffs have four rounds: Regional Playoffs, Quarterfinals, Semifinals, and Finals. Four wins is a State Title. In his first two seasons as Coach, Eric has been to the State Finals twice, winning one and losing one (Season Two was cut short before State). Can he make it back a third time? Is it too unrealistic for the fledgling Lions to make the State Finals? Clearly, the football is the least realistic aspect of FNL, but this would be an especially tall order for a first-year team. Two wins means they lose in the semis, so if you take the over, you think Coach T is up the task. I know I can't wait to find out. OVER/UNDER?

Volume II is in the books, chodes. Get after it.

Over/Under, Volume I

In an attempt to breathe life back into this blog, I've resolved to write a weekly column, and this here is the inaugural edition of "Over/Under."

The premise is pretty simple: each week, I'm going to pick five pieces of miscellanea, and set an over/under line based on my analysis. My hope is that everyone else involved with this blog will weigh in as to whether they are taking the over or the under. As always, this will be restricted to sports and stupid shit, and is primarily designed to encourage participation in the blog.

And now, without further ado, let's get to this week's Over/Unders:

• 27.5 - number of touchdowns thrown by Tom Brady in 2009. With the exception of his 2007 MVP season, Brady has averaged around 25 touchdown tosses per year, but never been above 28. While Mr. Bundchen appears to be healthy again, speculation about his productivity has been rampant all off-season, and will be a major story on fantasy football forums all year. It's hard to imagine Brady will approach his record-breaking 2007, and equally hard to imagine that His Royal Hotness won't exceed Matt Cassel's 21 TD passes given that the Patriots' offense is mostly intact, so he'll probably fall somewhere in between. OVER/UNDER?

• 0.5 - number of virgins currently playing in the NBA. This over/under is inspired by Portland-born, ex-Laker power forward A.C. Green, a bona fide glassman and admitted virgin. Now that Green has retired from the NBA to promote teen abstinence (seriously), my question is: has he been replaced? Are there any NBA virgins? On the one hand, NBA players are almost universally rich, super-athletic, and famous. Each of these traits is usually enough to drop a pair of panties by itself, but together, it seems inconceivable that any NBA baller would not have been initiated into manhood at some point. And yet, NBA players are younger now than they were in A.C.'s day, and is it plausible that some foreign-born draft prodigy entered the NBA before entering a woman? Some cultures are less permissive when it comes to premarital sex. Also, would anyone actually have sex with this? OVER/UNDER?

• 14 - number of additional weeks that Makhtar hangs onto the Agrazn's Hatch jersey. I didn't even notice this, but according to my sources, the jersey in question is still hanging in Makhtar's bathroom, some eight months after their breakup. And, if my source is right, she wants it back, but probably doesn't know how to ask because she's not good at expressing her emotions. Seriously, dude, WTF is that thing still doing in your bathroom? Do you try it on from time to time and look at yourself in the mirror, posing and flexing, faking backhand hucks and IO breaks like some overgrown she-male Buzz Bullet? Come on. OVER/UNDER?

• 3.5 - length, in inches, of platinum recording artist Enrique Iglesias' penis. As some of you may remember, the Latin heartthrob accidentally let the world know that he's hiding a lightswitch, baby! beneath those tight pants. He later tried to retract this statement, but if there's one thing you can't take back, it's admitting you've got a microscopic diack. Some cursory internet research revealed that LifeStyle condoms, who offered Enrique a deal worth $1M to be the image of their new line of extra small jimmy hats, conducted a "study" of college students on Spring Break in Cancun to determined the average size of the erect frat-boy pork sword. Since LifeStyle is a notoriously disreputable brand, these results aren't necessarily valid, especially since 400 of these guys isn't exactly an indicative sampling of the population at large. Still, the average was apparently between 5" and 6", which gives us something to work with. If normal condoms are honestly so big on Iglesias that he feels the need to find a different size all together, then we have to assume he isn't within two or three standard deviations of normal, meaning that he's probably somewhere in the 2" to 4" range. Now, he's been able to hold onto Anna Kournikova for over six years, so you know he's either got a magic tongue or she sleeps with the yard boy like Eva Longoria in Desperate Housewives. OVER/UNDER?

• 299.5 - number of future MLB home runs by 16-year-old Las Vegas high schooler Bryce Harper. Like many of you, I wasn't aware of Harper's existence until a few weeks ago, when Sports Illustrated made him the youngest baseball player to ever grace its cover. The article, which is a phenomenal read whether or not you like baseball, basically says that Harper defies comparison when it comes to baseball prospects. He's apparently more developed at 16 than Ken Griffey Jr., Alex Rodriguez, and Justin Upton were at 18. I mean, good God, just look at him--he could pass for 25 right now. Not to mention he already holds the record for longest home run ever hit in Tampa Bay's Tropicana Field (502 feet) and allegedly hit one that traveled more than 570 feet. Of course, none of this guarantees future success, but scouts are so baffled by his ability that they've abandoned baseball completely in search of a realistic comparison. The best they've done? LeBron James. If you watch the kid play, it's apparent he's for real, but how real? Baseball is less projectable than any other sport and there's more room for anyone, even a prodigy like Harper, to fall short. Many people would probably say 300 home runs is selling his talent short, but remember, just that many would put him in the top 10 all-time amongst catchers (if he stays behind the plate) and probably be enough to enshrine him in Cooperstown. OVER/UNDER? 

So that's your first edition of Over/Under. Let the debates begin. 

Albert Bell(e)wether

I have a well-documented feud with baseball. For years I've dogged the sport like Larry Holmes dogged Trevor Berbick, decrying its general lack of excitement and the less than inspiring physiques of some of its stars. I mean, any sport that lionizes a human chode like Tony Gwynn deserves to be mocked--homey couldn't even pull off five pushups. I know at least five non-Richard Sandrak infants that could do more than that. The fact that someone with the upperbody strength of an eight year old girl can be an all-time great leads me to believe that there is something inherently wrong with baseball.

But this post isn't another one of my profanity-laced diatribes railing against an institution all y'all hold near and dear. No, this is something completely different. If American History X has taught me anything, it's that sometimes you have to sober up and take down the Nazi posters. Like Danny says in the movie, "Life's too short to be pissed off all the time". Though I will always thumb my nose down at the disproportionate level of bitchtits wielded by its players, and the soporific properties of actually watching the game, for the first time I am willing to acknowledge baseball's relevance. This isn't because I now find the game any more entertaining than I have in the past, but rather now I recognize its importance as a bellwether for our society.

For better or worse, baseball is our national pastime

Not because of the ridiculous umpire calls and not because of its bastard child--dizzy bat. No, I can reasonably call baseball the American pastime because its events take on more cultural importance than any other sport, though I'm not exactly sure why this is. I suspect a decent portion of baseball's universality comes from the fact that it's the one major sport that everyone can actually envision themselves playing at a high level. Both basketball and football are populated by genetic freaks of cock--7'7", 300 pound foreigners who look like the chinkified version of the Shawn Bradley MonSTAR...or, in football, Broderick Bunkley. To wit:



Yeah, I can imagine being slow, Chinese and uncoordinated. But slow, Chinese, uncoordinated and playing defense like a renegade windmill? That's just too rich for me.

In contrast, baseball has everyman heroes. This characteristic, which makes me revile the game is the exact reason that so many people can appreciate it. The only differences (Purely superficial) between the 5'7" bulldog at home plate and the spud snorting peanuts in the stands is the increased propensity to grab their junk and a big hankering for snus.

[Now for my whitewashed version of history]
The fact that baseball's demigods so closely resemble the average American gives the game its cultural significance. Some of the most culturally relevant moments in all of sport came from baseball. For example, Jackie Robinson's breaking down of the color line in baseball galvanized the civil rights movement and embodied the gradual softening of American racial attitudes.



(Wait, did I just sneak in two "Five for Fighting" videos in one post? Stttttrrrriiiiiii) And President Bush's first pitch at the first game following 9/11 has become the defining sports moment of the recovery period.



Of course, you guys probably realized this relationship long ago. However, I did not realize the entanglement of baseball's cultural and that of America at large until Manny Ramirez was suspended for juicing up with women's fertility drugs. At first I was in denial. I mean how could the man responsible for a commercial this brilliant be a cheater?

Then it dawned on me: We are all cheaters. Ok, that was a little dramatic. What I really mean is, we are all either cheats, or people too busy reaping the rewards of these shysters to punish their crimes. In this way, the spread of steroids and the public's reluctance to acknowledge the tarnished sanctity of the game mirror the ongoing problems in the American economy.

To illustrate my point, let's go back to baseball's late 90's/early 2000's apex. Baseball, suffering from post '94 strike cynicism and general ennui from the young fan base, was in a bad place. Enter the pine tar Cerberus--the troika of sluggers that electrified the fan base into returning to the nearly comatose game: Sosa, McGwire, and Bonds. Through Sosa and McGwire's home run chase, and Bonds' evisceration of previous slugging records, these guys made baseball relevant again. However, now all three are out of the game, with nothing but tarnished reputations and bacne to show for their troubles.

There were warning signs during their glory days--Sosa's corked bat and the rapid metamorphosis of Barry Bonds into a Ronnie Coleman-esque monster should have tipped us off. Unfortunately, lost amongst all the media clamor was the fact that these titan's feats were simply superhuman, buoyed doctored bats and doctored body chemistries (There are those who say that McGwire was merely using Andro, but I liken his refusal to "talk about the past" to this. By dancing around admission, you're merely proving that something is amiss. The exception proves the rule....or something like that).

It's hard not to look back on that era of baseball and not feel foolish. If someone sat you down fifteen years ago and told you that someone who'd never hit 50 homers in a season would suddenly reinvent themself to bash 73, while looking like a black Joey Kovar, you would have instantly cried foul. But somehow, with all the world watching, the ridiculousness of their deceits was obscured. In retrospect, it was an insult to our intelligence for these men to think that the rapid changes in their body and the mercurial rise in their production wouldn't be questioned. And yet they got away with it, at least for a little bit.

And this problem stretches beyond the aforementioned trio. Now, everyone in baseball is suspect, even the White Knight who everyone thought was above artificial enhancement. Even the dude who we all thought was too busy getting high to worry about 'roids. From here on out, any sudden fluctuation in production or additional striation in the ass will be met by scrutiny under the juice lens (See: David Ortiz).

The economic downturn parallels this pattern of performance and denial. Greedy people buying houses well beyond their means and snakes at investment banks like Bear Stearns making a profit off shitty investments were the McGwire and Bonds of this saga; Mortgage-backed securities and exotic loans their cream and their clear. All the while, we were all too busy reaping the profits of these people's labor to ask the critical questions: What is a mortgage-backed security, exactly? What happens if the housing market stalls? Can I really afford this house? The dollar signs in our eyes made us blind. The crisis even has its own Alex Rodriguez in Bernie Madoff, the man who made so many look foolish for believing in his clockwork-like yearly returns.

The story goes for both baseball and the economy: we should have seen this coming. At this point all we can do is acknowledge our past ignorance, trying to pick up the pieces where we can, and learn from our mistakes. I think it's high time that baseball expunge itself of all these cheatadores, and that the fan's learn to process information more critically, calling out inequities if they see them. I'm only really saying this because I hope Americans can learn to do the same.



[Addendum: This song played at the end of the Cubs game I went to last week. It's really annoying and pretty stupid, but I love it.]