Archive for the ‘Garden-variety snark’ Category

Bogey over ’Burque

February 10, 2023

Coloring between the lines.

This dude did not get shot down by the Pentagon, though his flight path took him dangerously close to the super-secret Mad Dog Media Institute for Gratuitous Bloggery.

• Saturday update: Jeebus. Now the Blue Zoomies have shot down another floater, this time over Canada. This is a slightly more expensive version of the old flaming bag of dogshit on the stoop. Whoever wants one is getting an up-close-and-personal look at a U.S. fighter aircraft that entered service about the same time as my Subaru.

Matt Foley, Mad Bomber

October 26, 2018

Looks like the John Laws have a suspect in the MAGAbomber case. And he lives in a van, down by the river.

Forget about the guns …

January 6, 2016
The Sandias are out there somewhere.

The Sandias are out there somewhere.

I'm pretty sure that this is unconstitutional.

I’m pretty sure that this is unconstitutional.

… some remorseless tyrant has snatched up our gorgeous Southwestern colors!

I should grab up the ol’ smokepole and go looking for them. Will y’all promise to send snacks? A federal disability check? The media?

Thanks, Obama!


And the winner isn’t. …

April 1, 2013
That's No. 2, a'ight.

That’s No. 2, a’ight. (I’d credit the shooter but I can’t nail down its source.)

I thought cycling fans worshiped the hard men at the spring classics until I endured the online wailing, the virtual gnashing of teeth and the rending of digital garments that accompanied Peter Sagan’s gruesomely juvenile fondling of a podium girl at the Ronde van Vlaanderen.

Heavens to Merckx. A 23-year-old jock does something knuckleheaded in front of the cameras and from the caterwauling you’d think HBO had canceled “Game of Thrones.”

Some perspective, if you please. Ours is a sport focused on men who compete wearing garments that would shame a Lexington Avenue shemale for the honor of getting trophies that look like Home Depot garden-center remainders and air kisses from killer hotties who are holding their breath until they can rub up against something that smells better, like the homeless guy talking to himself on the train, or maybe a paycheck.

Then the guys in the plastic pants work up a big one and ejaculate a frothy fluid all over anyone within range.

I mean, as George Carlin once quipped, you don’t have to be Fellini to figure this one out.

Was Sagan out of line? Of course. Did you ever do anything stupid in public without the questionable excuse of being The Next Big Thing In Pro Cycling at an age when many a young fellow has just graduated college and is trying to decide which Mickey D’s can make best use of his B.A. in English? Seems likely. I know that if Twitter had been around when I was 23 I’d never have lived to see 24.

Hot links

Hot links from two prominent bicycle-racing websites.

It would have been swell if the podium girl in question had swung around and slapped the smirk off Sagan’s face and hissed, “Only the winner gets to touch me!” Or if Bernard Hinault had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and hurled him off the stage. Then we could all move on from our long international nightmare.

But this tempest on Twitter strikes me as a bit over the top.

How about a little outrage over the lack of opportunities for (and coverage of) women racers? Doesn’t anyone find it disturbing that slender models smooching smelly Belgians get more TV time than women pros? Has anyone on the fainting couch noticed that certain bicycle-racing websites derive some of their revenue from links that could more charitably be described as “questionable?”

Maybe it’s time cycling did without the podium ceremony, in which beautiful women are among the spoils claimed by victorious male gladiators. It seems anachronistic, a bit of theater that has outlived its usefulness, a dinosaur long overdue for its date with the tar pits — you know, like the UCI.

The biting of the medals, the spraying of the bubbly, the raising of the arms (at which the podium girls take a few paces back) — it all makes for lousy imagery, until some hormone-crazed showboat decides to play a little grab-ass.

And then what on the cobbles is a thing of beauty starts to look like your cousin’s wedding, with drunk Uncle Buster mistaking a bridesmaid for an hors d’oeuvre.

• Late update: Young Master Sagan apparently has been taken to the woodshed, from whence issues this video apology.

• Even later update: Good lord, the putz has apologized and they’re still at it on Twitter. These people need to get laid. Get jobs. Get stuffed. Jaysis.

In which a rhetorical question is asked

February 28, 2013

Hey, kids, what’s Austerity Clause gonna bring you for Sequestermas?

I asked for a Mitch McConnell Inaction Figure.

Not gonna get it, of course.

20 minutes of 24 hours

September 29, 2012
Rock out, man

Stoned again.

The 24 Hours of COS, a.k.a. USA Cycling’s 24-Hour Mountain Bike National Championship, is going on as we speak in Palmer Park, so between paying chores I popped round for a peek, as I did last year.

And just like last year, the whole thing seemed rather underwhelming, spectacle-wise. Here’s one rider; there’s another. And another. And another.

No disrespect intended. It’s a race intended for participants, not spectators, and I’m sure things get much more interesting when the sun goes down and the wildlife comes out and that rocky stretch that seemed so eminently rideable just a dozen hours ago turns into a black-hole Stonehenge express elevator leading directly to Hell.

But in the daylight it had all the excitement of a strip-mall carnival’s merry-go-round.

It’s a shame nobody was passing out prizes for abusing yourself over a 24-hour period back in the Eighties. I’d have a walk-in closet full of stars-and-stripes jerseys.

Pro cycling challenged

August 24, 2012

The peloton rockets down Tejon Street in Bibleburg during stage five of the 2012 USA Pro Challenge. Photo: Herself | Mad Dog Media

Well, shucks. I didn’t have a chance to observe first-hand the USA Pro Challenge as it barreled through Bibleburg.

I’m often critical of pro cycling, but I still like to watch it, the way some guys like to look at fake tits. Happily, Herself, who has neither need nor desire for surgical enhancement — not that this is any of your business — cycled downtown to observe the festivities on my behalf, as I was buried in chores that reminded me of the time I tried to dig my way out of the Supermax in Florence wielding only a cracked plastic spoon, a Mason jar of pruno and a finely honed sense of moral superiority.

Still, I was able to watch stage five from Chez Dog, via Adobe Tour Tracker, and as I had anticipated, spectatorship seemed sparse, confined mostly to Bibleburg’s infamous drinkin’-an’-fightin’ ghetto on Tejon, between Bijou and Colorado. Happily for those who earn a living from such things, the camera adds 10 pounds to everything, including crowd estimates.

Damiano Caruso (Liquigas-Cannondale) screwed the pooch on the finishing circuit, sprinting to victory a lap before everyone else even bothered to queue up. And who can blame him? Given the altitude at home, he might as well be racing on Mars against the Curiosity rover, sans spacesuit.

Tyler Farrar won, with Taylor Phinney second, and now everything shifts north to the People’s Republic, where I expect the crowds will turn out for real on Flagstaff Mountain. I won’t be there, either. But I will be watching via streaming video between chores, if only because Herself won’t let me watch videos of … well … you know.

Training for his urine test

August 10, 2012

Color me cynical, but I do believe Belgian trackie Gijs Van Hoecke will test positive for tonsil polish — that is, if he has any fluids remaining inside his body for testing purposes.

The Belgian federation shitcanned Van Hoecke from the 2012 Olympics after the Limey scandal sheet The Daily Mail ran pix of Olympians leaving a London club earlier this week. The sopping wet, sleepily smiling 20-year-old was snapped as his mates fetched him to a waiting cab, the driver of which I trust they tipped handsomely.

Van Hoecke issued an apology of sorts in a chat with RTBF television. “What happened is a pity. I am sorry, this should not have happened,” he said. “But I also think that after two years of relentless work, I have the right to let my hair down.

“It would have been better if it had not happened here in London. I chose the wrong moment. Having said that, it was outside the Olympic Village, I wasn’t disturbing other athletes, they didn’t say anything about it.”

Word. I wonder how many esteemed Daily Mail scribes have had to be carried from pubs to cabs after concluding their little bit of business at day’s end.


July 14, 2012

Oy. Long day on the job for a variety of reasons, and no, don’t ask.

Nice to see Bradley Wiggins try to lead out Edvald Boassen Hagen for the stage win, but I’m still having trouble warming up to ‘Is Lordship for some reason.

Maybe it’s racial memory. He is English, after all. But then I always liked the Beatles, Stones, Python, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, etc.

Maybe it’s his manner with the sporting press. Pro athletes often forget that if they didn’t get any media coverage many of them would be wearing paper hats and throwing packets of spuds at strangers through a drive-up window, or standing up to their hips in something nasty with only a shovel for company.

Nah. It’s the sideburns. That shit has to go. Wiggo’ makes Bob Roll look like James Bond, f’fucksake.

Sky high

July 9, 2012

Wow. Bradley Wiggins and Chris Froome crushed it today in the Tour’s first big time trial, opening up a 10-gallon-can of whup-ass on Cadel Evans and everyone else — including El Fabuloso, Fabian Cancellara, who must be pinching himself to see whether he’s still asleep and having a nightmare.

I was over at Red Kite Prayer, helping Charles “Live Update Guy” Pelkey track the race for our friends sentenced to cubicle farms worldwide, and we had a record haul in terms of contributions to the tip jar— in no small part to some silly little hooter logged on as Two700c, who complained about “politics” being injected into the play-by-play (oddly enough, it was one of our least political live updates ever).

Two700c slagged me in a snippy note to Charles, which goes to show you that not even the anonymity of the Internet is comfort enough for at least one timid Tea Bagger. Still, I feel obliged to thank him for helping us rake in a pile of coin. I’ll be donating a portion of the proceeds to the Democratic Socialists of America.

If you’re not already joining us for the daily live updates, swing on by. Always room for another pinko in the Party photo.

But it’s not all politics, all the time. Today, for example, I reprised one of my favorite National Lampoon covers to urge readers to contribute to the Cause.

If you don’t support this website, we’ll kill this dog.