Dawgs Bitch Slap Skanks To Go 4-0

The Dawgs I squad continued their perfect start to the winter EAHL campaign Tuesday night, breaking open a close game in the third period and romping to a convincing 9-2 win against the Skanks. It was a small measure of revenge for the Dawgs, as they defeated the team that took them out of the summer league playoffs back in August.

The Dawgs featured a balanced attack, getting goals from seven different players. Only centers Dan Pham and Nathaniel Akell scored more than once, and the team played solid defense, holding the high-scoring Skanks to just a pair.

The Dawgs jumped out early Tuesday night, when Akell found himself skating in on a breakaway, and completely undressed opposing goalie Mark Jacobsen, tucking the puck past his quivering carcass.

A few minutes later, Pham doubled the lead for the Dawgs, poking home a rebound from rookie linemate Tyson Dale. Whether playing center or defense, as he did last week against Dr. Five Hole, Pham has managed to remain consistently Asian for the entire season. And just cute as a button.


Pham

Before the end of the period, the Skanks struck back to cut the lead in half, as forward Eric Allen tipped a centering pass by Dawgs goalie Al Sterner.

A few minutes into the second, Dawgs forward Matt McGarvey banged one past Jacobsen to restore the two goal lead. Then, after Skanks winger Spencer Tscherpel made Sterner look like a complete boner on a breakaway, finding his massive five-hole, the Dawgs went back up again by a pair when Danny Packard scored his fourth of the young season.

Packard is playing his first winter season in several years after finally graduating from the Colorado State University at Pueblo. Packard is the first member of his family to achieve a four year degree, although it did take him just a shade under a decade to get it.


Future business giant

So beginning the third, it was 4-2 and still anyone's contest. But matters were quickly settled when the Dawgs exploded for five unanswered goals to put the game way out of reach. Akell scored his second of the game, new linemates Dennis Heaton and rookie Josh Adams each got one, Dale stuffed in his fourth of the season, and Pham completed the romp with his second of the contest and fourth of the winter campaign.

Heaton's goal was especially satifying, considering that he is 15 years older than the combined age of his two linemates.


Heaton, right

Now 4-0 on the new season, the Dawgs are the only undefeated team in the league. They face their toughest test of the fall this coming Tuesday night, when they play against an Ozone squad that has put up 12 and 13 goals in their last two contests. Which means:


There could be a lot of this...

In other Dawgs news:

Dawg Nation would like to give belated congratulations to the Dawgs II squad, who won another Edge Cup, taking home the 2009 summer league championship. It is quite an achievement, especially since the combined age of the team is 1639.


Click to enlarge. On second thought, don't. Jesus Christ...

Kelly Fraser, the teenaged girlfriend of Dawgs II defenseman Nigel Richardson, left her job as a stockbroker last week. She will now follow her lifelong dream of being a simple country hooker.


Will accept cash, hogs and chickens

Dawgs captain Marty Richardson rented his home in Ft. Collins this week to a group of Colorado State University cheerleaders. There was only one small stipulation as part of the lease.

Bending over was the easy part...

Because of a recent weight loss, a whole new career opportunity has opened up for Dawgs goalie Al Sterner.


Just try to get this image out of your head

Recent health problems have begun to plague the career of Marty Richardson. First, he received an arm injury that has hindered an already weak wrist shot:


Shake it off, pussy...

Then he received a high stick during a game that broke his front tooth:

In a totally unrelated matter, there has been a recent flood of visits to emergency rooms all over Denver, with hundreds of men suffering from a lacerated penis.

The Marine At Red Rocks

(Writer's note: For both of you out there that read this blog, you're probably used to a certain style of writing from me. I guess the best way to describe it would be "potty humor". But today I need to step away from the dick jokes for just a little bit. I promise I'll get back to the usual smut, but something happened a couple of weeks ago. And it wasn't funny. But I can't stop thinking about it, and I feel like the story needs to be told, so bear with me, okay? Thanks.)

So a few Saturday nights ago, I was working a concession stand at Red Rocks Ampitheater for the last concert event of the season, featuring the Irish punk band, Flogging Molly. Annie and I volunteer periodically to work there, because the funds that are raised benefit our kids' soccer and hockey programs.

For those of you that aren't from around here, if you're ever in Denver, you need to experience a concert at Red Rocks. It's a beautiful natural ampitheater, and the acoustics are terrific. Even if there's no concert, just go up to the park and walk around. Just trust your little pal on this- you have to see it.

Anyway, the concert was nearing the end (surprisingly entertaining- great combination of Irish music and rock), and I was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for Annie to finish up with some paperwork. She's our stand manager- just another excuse for her to tell me what to do.

While I was waiting, this kid came walking up to me, saw my Red Rocks hat, and I guess assumed that I worked there. He asked, "Sir, is there anywhere here that I can still get a beer?" I flinched a little bit from being called "sir", but I explained to him that alchohol was cut off an hour before the end of the concert, so that everyone could sober up a bit before they drove down the mountain and went back to Denver. So no beer in the whole park.

The kid was bummed, just like everyone is when I tell them that alchohol is cut off. "Sir, is there a bar around here? I'm not ready to stop partying yet- this is so great up here! I've only been in town a couple of days."

He seemed like a nice kid- honestly, I was surprised that he was old enough to be able to buy a beer. Big boy- around 6'2", maybe 210 pounds, and built like a brick shithouse. But he had a teenage kid's face. I asked him why he was in town.

"I just got stationed here, sir. I'm a Marine."

Well, at least that explained why he kept calling me "sir", instead of "dude", which was my usual moniker at Red Rocks. And for the first time, I didn't mind it a bit. Kind of seemed right coming from him.

Then I did what I always do when I meet a member of our Armed Services. I looked him in the eye, shook his hand, and thanked him for his service. They don't hear that nearly enough, and they deserve to. When I'm volunteering at Red Rocks, and I see a military ID when I'm carding for alchohol, I almost always find a way to give them a free beer or two.

Because I love these guys.

Without launching into a big flag waving musical number, these young men and women, along with cops and firefighters, are my heroes. I mean, how can you not love people that will put their lives on the line every day for somebody that they don't even know? It boggles my mind how they can go to work knowing that there is a chance that they won't come home that night. And what it must be like to be a member of their family.

Anyway, I introduced myself, and found out that his name was Joe, and he was from Atlanta. I asked him if he was having fun at the concert.

"I was, sir, but I got into a little fight with a guy a few minutes ago. The guy was drunk, and bumped into me while my friend and I were watching the show. Next thing I know, he's jumping around, showing me these karate moves, and asking me if I want to "go" with him."

I laughed. "He must have been plastered. You're the size of a Chevy."

He smiled. "I identified myself as a Marine, and told him that I didn't want to fight. Then the security guys came over, and it looked like everything was calmed down. Then the guy breaks away from the guard, rushes over and tries to take a swing at me."

"Big mistake?"

"Yes, sir. I had to put him into the ground. His face was bleeding a little bit when security took him out."

"You're still here, though. You didn't catch any shit?"

"The security guy was pretty pissed when the other guy broke away from him. He told me that he heard me identify myself, and that he was actually happy that the guy got fucked up. I wish it hadn't happened, though. I don't like to fight."

Then he apologized for his language, and I explained to him that I was a hockey goalie, and have invented more ways to say "fuck" than he could ever imagine. He smiled again.

I continued with Joe while I wondered how drunk a guy has to be in order to take a swing at a big mother-ripper that has identified himself as a Marine. Holy cow, I've been drunk, but I've never been that drunk.

"Have you done a tour in Iraq yet, Joe?"

"No sir-I just got back from Afghanistan. I was there for nine months."

"See any action?"

"I'm a sniper, sir. It's my job to make sure that our patrols can go from one place to another without being shot at or bombed. It's really hard, though, because there are mountains everywhere, and it's pretty easy for the enemy to hide."

"They don't let just anybody be a sniper, do they?"

"No sir. There were 300 in my training class, and only 12 of us made it all the way through. It's all I ever wanted to do." I could tell he was proud of that.

I know a little bit about guns- not because I ever shoot, but because my dad and brother are big-time hunters. Myself, I never really got that gene. I can knock the shit out of spiders, but other than that, I'm not real big on making other things die. I don't have a problem at all with the concept of hunting, and I very much enjoy a big juicy steak- it's just not my thing. Anyway, we talked a little bit about his weapon, and how hard it is to shoot accurately from great distances.

I asked, "Can you tell if you've made an accurate shot, other than that their shooting stops?"

"I have a partner, sir. He's my spotter. He has a high powered scope, so when I take a shot, he looks for a puff of blood. That's how we know if I got him."

At that very moment the entire tone of our conversation changed. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, but it hit me right then that I was speaking to a kid that had killed another human being. As far as I know, that was a first for me.

"Does that happen a lot, Joe?"

"Yes, sir. I have 22 confirmed kills, but I know it's a lot more than that." And as much as I could tell that he was proud to have been selected as a sniper, I knew from his tone and his facial expression that he was absolutely not proud of that fact.

Quietly, I said, "Well, your fellow soldiers are pretty lucky to have a guy like you watching their backs, Joe."

That's all it took. It was like I flipped a switch. Maybe it was because Joe had a few beers in him, but he certainly wasn't drunk. Maybe it was because I'm probably around his dad's age. Maybe it was because I'm pretty easy to talk to. But whatever the reason, Joe needed to let some things out, even it was to a total stranger.

So I did what I thought was the best thing I could do. I listened to the kid.

He spent the next 15 or 20 minutes talking to me about some of his experiences over there.

"Sir, I know it's my job, and I know they're the enemy, but I can't explain how it feels to kill a guy. It just doesn't seem right. I mean, I've taken maybe 50 guys out since I've been a Marine, and I think about it every day. I have nightmares. I try to put it out of my mind, but it never leaves me. "

I said that it must help knowing that he's protecting his brothers from potential harm.

"It's how I get through, sir. The guys in my unit are my family. We don't ever call anyone by their last names. It's way too impersonal. I'm closer to those guys than I'll ever be with my own family. They're the only ones that understand how I feel."

He hesitated a second, and looked down at the ground. I could tell there was something specific on his mind, and it wasn't good. I was torn between wanting him to tell me, and dreading what he might say. But it was clear that he needed to get something off his chest, and the absolute least I could do was give him my ear.

"What are you thinking, Joe?"

"This one day, we were on patrol, and the guys on the ground spotted an abandoned car. That's where the enemy will plant IED's (improvised explosive devices), so they approached, while my partner and I were up in the hills, looking for snipers. My best friend Michael was one of the guys by the car.

"Then I heard some shots from the mountains, but my partner and I couldn't find where they were coming from. The only way to really spot a sniper is to look for the flash from his rifle when he shoots. Otherwise, it's just too hard to find them in all those rocks. We knew the general direction, but we just couldn't find the shooter.

"I radioed down that we couldn't spot the gun yet, and they needed to take cover. Then I looked through my scope down at our guys, and..."

He stopped. I looked up at him, and this poor, tortured, giant kid was choking back tears. Oh, no...

"Mike got hit. I saw his chest explode. I watched my best friend die, sir. He got killed because I couldn't find the sniper in time."

By the way, my oldest son is called Mike. I thought about him right then.

I tried, "Joe, you can't blame yourself because you couldn't find a gunbarrel that was 1000 yards away. You just can't."

"It's my job, sir. I have to keep my guys safe."

Holy shit, this kid was in a lot of pain. "Joe, you need to talk to somebody about this. You can't just bottle it all up, and hope it gets easier. You have to talk to somebody."

"I can't, sir. I'm afraid they won't let me be a Marine anymore. It's all I know. I drink a lot, sir. It helps me forget for awhile sometimes."

I found myself thinking, how many of these kids have the same stories, and the same memories? I grew up watching war movies, and the soldiers were all like John Wayne, or Henry Fonda. They were all in their 30's or 40's, and tougher than hell. The movies made it look like it was almost romantic, going to war.

But it's not like that at all, is it? The majority of today's soldiers are children, most just a year or two out of high school. They've had their friggin' driver's license for two or three years. And I know the Army needs them to be young because they're in their physical prime, and can be easily molded to do what they're told.

But what happens to these kids when they get back from battle? How do they reconcile what they've seen, and what they've done? There has to be thousands of young men and women like Joe, that will be seeing enemies die by their hands, and watching their friends die over and over in their minds for the rest of their lives. How is it possible to ever live a normal life after that horror?

I'm sure this problem has existed as long as there have been soldiers going to war. But it never really hit home for me until my conversation with Joe. These kids don't stop being soldiers when their service ends, and they come back to the real world. They're soldiers for the rest of their lives, and I'll never be able to repay the sacrifice they've made to keep all of us safe.

I've thought a lot about Joe since that Saturday night at Red Rocks. The last thing I did was shook his hand again, put my hand on his shoulder, and thanked him a last time for so bravely serving his country. I wish we would have exchanged phone numbers, so that I could have called and checked on him every once in awhile. Or he could have called me if he needed someone to talk to again, since he was so far from home in Atlanta. I really regret that. I wish there was a way I could find him, but I never even got his last name. But I'll never forget that night, and that Marine.

And one thought keeps going through my mind over and over again.

God, please make sure my kids never have to go to war.

They Should Call It the South Bitch Diet

So a few months ago I had just gotten home from playing hockey with my Dawgs team, and I was feeling worse than I ever had after a game. I was exhausted, my arthritic knees were killing me, and I had played like warmed-over shit. Saves that used to be routine were now really hard, and I just didn't have the same old jump.

I thought to myself, "Is this it? Are you finally getting to the part where you can't do this anymore? You're 50, for Christ's sake- it's going to have to happen sooner or later."

Then, just on a whim, I jumped on the scale in the bathroom. I hadn't weighed in for almost a year, because I normally avoid that thing like the Black Death. The scale and I have always had a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. But it was right there, and for some reason, I needed to know what the damage was.

So I crossed my fingers, and stepped on. I looked down at the dial, and it said "tilt". That may have been a bad sign. So I stepped on again. The dial went back and forth, back and forth, until the needle finally settled on:

Drum roll, please...

202.

Have you ever seen "Ferris Bueller's Day Off"? There's a part where Cameron looks at the odometer of his dad's Porsche, and discovers that the guys in the parking garage put three hundred miles on it, and his dad is going to kill him when he gets home. You can hear him scream all over Chicago- it's funnier than shit.



Well, that's kind of what happened after I made sure that number on the scale was right. Yep, it really said 202, and nope, I didn't have an anvil shoved up my ass.

Fuuuuuuuuuuccccccckkkkkkkkk!!! Meeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

My friends, 202 would be pretty good if I was, say, six foot three. But your Uncle Al comes in at a little under five foot seven, so those numbers just don't really add up, do they?

So after I stopped sobbing, I figured that I had three choices. The first was to change my blogsite name from "Short Fat Goalie" to "Short Morbidly Obese Goalie". While I was intrigued with the handle of SMOG, that didn't seem like the right decision.

The second was to develop a Scottish accent, and learn to yell the phrase "Get in my belly!" at midgets. That sounded like fun, but you almost never see a midget in this part of town, so that was out.

So I was left with the least attractive of my choices: get my head out of my chubby white ass and lose some goddamn weight.

I had a pretty good "Come To Jesus" meeting with myself right there in the bathroom at midnight.

I know I don't have much time left to play at a decent level. I mean, come on, who am I kidding? I'm 50, have arthritis in both knees, a bad back, and a torn rotator cuff in my left shoulder. Between 40 years of competitive soccer, baseball, softball, hockey, and acrobatic sex, I'm pretty much physically beat to shit. The morning after games, I look like a walking question mark.

But you know what? Every now and again, when I find just the right combination of Advil and Red Bull, I can still play a little bit, even in the higher leagues, and that's what keeps me going. Plus I still have that little tingle in my enormous belly on game days- I love playing so very much.

So I decided right there that if I'm going out, it's not going to be because I'm a fat fuck. I'll be going out because I'm a broken down, old fuck, thank you very much. I can live with that.

Lose the weight, bitch...

But how? For those of you that don't know me very well, I have about the same level of will power as golfer John Daly (that's funny if you know who he is- he's a smokin'/drinkin'/gamblin' train wreck). I've never smoked one cigarette, hit one bong, or done one drug. Not because I think there's anything wrong with it- shit, I think marijuana should be legal. It's because I always knew that if I started, there would be no fuckin' way I could ever stop, and I'd spend all my money on that shit, instead of the Eskimo porn that I invest in now.

(Don't laugh- Eskimo porn is way underrated. There's something special about a girl with four teeth, having skin tone that looks like a baseball mitt, and wearing nothing but mukluks- always good for a "totem pole", if you know what I mean. Uh, that may have been an overshare. Let's just move on...)

Anyway, I had done the Atkins diet before with some moderate success, but that is one boring mother-ripper. If you're not familiar, with it, you can basically eat all the meat, cheese, eggs, and salads you want, but there are no carbs allowed. So no breads, pastas, any fruits or vegetables with sugar in it, and anything potato related is out. So basically, nothing good to eat.

Now kids, there are only so many ham and cheese omelets a guy can consume, and as much as I am a huge carnivore, meat and then more meat gets pretty old quickly. There had to be a better way to go.

Then I read about the South Beach Diet. It's pretty similar to Atkins, but you get a few more liberties with some fruits, cereals, and pasta. It's like you get a little reward every once in awhile for dealing with the boring shit the rest of the time.

I thought, what the hell? The diets like Weightwatchers and Nutrisystems let you eat a better variety of foods, but the portions are so goddamn small, there would be no friggin' way I would make it. Homeboy needs a full belly, even if it's enough meat and cheese to stop my heart.

So I bit the bullet (no carbs in bullets, by the way), and started on my journey. Since I'd been down this road before, I knew the first couple of weeks would be the toughest. That's when you go cold turkey on the carbs, and your body has to kind of filter all the bad shit out. In case you were wondering, it's not a barrel of laughs.

I'm struggling to find the best way I can to describe those first two weeks. When I can't find the right words, I usually fall back on one of my dad's old sayings. Here goes:

You ever get a thumbtack in your pecker? It was a little like that...

When you're used to bad eating habits, it's really hard to adjust to a new regimen. The worst time was at night, when I was watching TV. I drink gallons and gallons of Diet Pepsi, so thank God that didn't have to change. No fuckin' way I make it if I would have had to give up the Diet Pepsi.

But it was the things that went with the Diet Pepsi that had to go. Chips, cookies, crackers- all that shit. Plus, I had to give up that bowl of Fruit Loops that I had almost every night before I went to sleep. I've loved cereal since I was a little kid, and that was probably the hardest thing to let go.

Now, I had to find something else that would keep my hands occupied and my mind off of the Fruit Loops, etc. It would have to be something tasty, and preferably, something salty. I love salt almost as much as I love the Diet Pepsi. And to boot, it had to be something low in carbs.

I found just the thing a week into the program, and it saved my ass. It was David's Pumpkin Seeds. I've always hated sunflower seeds, because they're like being married. It's way too much work for the little that you get out of it.

(I love that joke-I've been telling that one for years. Annie doesn't think it's nearly as funny as I do. She really needs to lighten up.)

But pumpkin seeds have a little more substance once you crack them open, plus they are a salty sonofabitch. The problem is, once you've eaten a few million of them, the salt wears a big hole in your tongue and the inside of your cheeks. Totally worth it- those fuckers are good.

So the seeds became my nighttime snack. But I still missed the cereal. How much, you ask? Well, every night, during those first couple of weeks, I'd have this ongoing dream of me being in a love threesome with Cap'n Crunch and Tony the Tiger, while Snap, Crackle and Pop sat on a couch beside the bed, watched us and whacked off. Did I mention that I really love cereal?

(I may need to talk to a professional about that someday. Again, let's move on. Quickly.)

So I made it through the first two weeks, eating basically nothing but meat, cheese, eggs, salads and vegetables. Plus those beautiful, beautiful, pumpkin seeds. How was my mood, you ask? Well, let's just say that there have been bears caught in traps that have had a happier outlook on life than I did in that time frame. It was a bitch (and I was a bitch), but it helped when some of the weight started coming off.

Shit, I was just happy to be back under two bills- I still can't believe I let myself get that fuckin' big. I guess I should have noticed something was wrong when my heart would beat like a hummingbird when I brushed my teeth. Live and learn, I guess...

So the weeks went on, and I was finally able to introduce a few fun foods into the diet. There were three things that helped get me through the program without killing myself or one of my children:

Balsamic vinegar dressing- Boys and girls, I've eaten so much lettuce in the past few months, that last week, I actually shit a rabbit. But Wendy's balsamic vinegar dressing on their BLT salad is really tasty, and pretty low in carbs. Dave Thomas would have been making big bucks off me, but he sort of went "tits up" a couple of years ago. Bummer for Dave.

South Beach Granola Bars- They make a cinnamon-raisin bar with only 15 grams of carbs that is a decent breakfast. They're a little expensive, but at least it was something sweet. You don't realize how much you miss sweets until you don't have them for awhile.

Breyers Low-Carb Ice Cream Bars- These are a little gift from God. They only have five grams of carbs, and they are fucking brilliant. Satified every sweet craving I had. Now, I imagine there are enough chemicals in them to render my liver and kidneys useless, but let's address one problem at a time, shall we?

I continued on the diet, and let those three things I mentioned above serve as my South Beach "rewards". In the meantime, I would continue to play hockey at least three times a week, but there was one problem. "No carbs" means "no fuel", and it's tough to find energy to play when there's nothing stoking the old furnace. I was more sluggish than Detroit's housing market, and believe me, I need all the pep I can get on game nights.

So, once a week on Tuesday afternoon, before I would play in summer league with my Dawgs brothers, I would allow myself to have a bowl of oatmeal before the games. Oh, and I'd slam a couple of sugar free Red Bulls on the way to the rink. The pregame meal of champions.

After not having anything with sugar for a few months, eating that first bowl of oatmeal was kind of like being paroled from prison after 10 years and then getting laid. I mean, laid by a girl instead of a triple axe murderer named Bubba. Well, you know what I mean. It just tasted real good, okay?

Anyway, I kept going, and after awhile, I could really start to see some changes. My clothes fit much better, I was moving a lot faster in goal, and I got to have a sweet, tearful reunion with my dork. We hadn't seen each other in a long time, but there he was again, right where I left him before I got so goddamn fat. Hadn't changed a bit.

For those of you out there that have been on a diet and seen some results, you know that once you make decent progress, you kind of get a little obsessed. That was me after I got down to 185 (still can't believe I'm writing down to 185). Even though by that time I was allowed to have 60 grams of carbs per day (that's the equivalent of four pieces of bread, or one serving of spaghetti, in case you were wondering), I kept down to around 20 most of the time. I was pretty religious about everything- I didn't want to take the chance of going back the other direction, and I still had a long way to go.

A couple of more months passed, and more and more people started to notice that I wasn't quite the giant blob of shit that I used to be. Trust me- that helped a bunch. I was starting to feel like those people on "The Biggest Fatty", or whatever the hell that show is on TV. Except without all the crying, and that horrible, loudmouthed female trainer that looks like a dude. Fuck, I hate her...

See? She looks like Steven Tyler's little brother

Then, at the end of July, I jumped back on the scale one day to see where I was. I hadn't looked in awhile- just got busy with other things. The dial went back and forth, only this time without the sheer centrifugal force of that first time I weighed myself. It gave me hope.

Drum roll, please...

165.

Now for those of you not so good with the math (and if you're spending your time reading this bullshit, you can't be too fuckin' smart), that's a total weight loss of 37 pounds. Or approximately 1/5 of my body weight. Or a small child. Or Barry Bonds' head.

Kids, I haven't been this low in many, many years. And I'm pretty close to where I want to be- maybe five more pounds if I could somehow manage it. The only bad part about a low carb diet is that if you start eating bad shit again, you'll put the weight right back on. Been there, done that. So it's going to be a constant battle against my willpower, and Toucan Sam.

(Writer's note: Stop scratching your head-Toucan Sam is the Fruit Loops mascot. Yeah-I've had sex with him in my dreams as well. Snap, Crackle and Pop waited outside.)

I know I'll get enough exercise- shit, I'll continue to play three or four times a week, and be on the ice another four times a week coaching my kid's team. He's a goalie too, except he can play circles around my sorry old ass. 13 year old legs can bend in ways 50 year old legs can't- but that's a whole other article.

Now, I have no excuses. I guess I'm in decent shape considering Eisenhower was president when I was born, and there were only 48 states (that's not a joke, by the way). My weight is at an acceptable level. My knees, shoulder and back are still fucked up, but the strain is a lot lower with 37 less pounds to carry around. This is probably as good as it's going to get.

Can I still play? Winter season starts in two weeks. I guess we'll find out soon.

Fuck, I hope so.

Family Night and the Spelling Bee II

So the other night, the family and I sat down to continue our yearly tradition of watching the Scripps-Howard National Spelling Bee. To be fair, this is only the second year we've watched, but for us, this event is right up there with Christmas, Easter, and Billy Mays' birthday.

Why, you ask? Because this is by far the largest gathering of mutants and dorks on the planet, and it is a gold mine for making fun of people. We're talkin' motherlode.

You see, to put it in medical terms, my family and I are what has been diagnosed as "insecure assholes", and we just aren't happy unless we are making sport of others to feel better about ourselves.

I believe it's healthy that we at least recognize and embrace this character flaw.

Anyway, last year I kept a running diary of the event, and it went over pretty well with other dickheads like myself. So let's try it again, shall we? Once again, we have your little pal, his wife Annie, and the two oldest boys, Mike-14, and Sam-13. So grab your Funk and Wagnalls, and button the top button on your shirt- it's party time! Here we go...

7:00- Jesus Tap Dancin' Christ, does Tom Bergeron have to host everything? Oh, I'm sure he'll just keep me a chucklin' all night with his folksy humor. What a cumspot that guy is...

Oh well, buckle up kids- it's time to meet the 11 finalists! Now, just like last year, I'm going to give most of them nicknames, and you'll see why in a moment. Some of the names are a little excessive on the number of letters, and to be honest, I type like old people screw.

Gee, come to think of it, I screw like old people screw. I just figured out what people mean when they use that expression. Damn, that's a little depressing. We'd better just move on...

There are three finalists that were here last year. They are:

Kyle Mou- Last year, he was 12, and looked like he was seven. This year, he's 13, and looks like he's seven. Tiny little fella- can't weigh more than 50 pounds. Has a perfectly round head, and his dad still looks like the Donger from "16 Candles". NO MORE YANKIE MY WANKIE! THE DONGER NEED FOOD!

Kavya Shivashankar- See what I mean about typing all the letters? It gets worse. Kavya is from Kansas, her dad's name is Merle, and her little sister is still a dead ringer for Dora the Explorer. She's very sweet, and as close to normal as you can get in this group. This makes her a longshot for success.

(Quick note if I could, please. There is no fuckin' way her dad's real name is Merle. It's like when you call one of those help lines, and some dude answers with a thick Indian accent, and says, "This is Jimmy, may I help you?" Bullshit- he's not Jimmy, his name is dizxsfdhgsgfhysojsan. I'm just saying...)

Sidharth Chand- Sidharth was the runnerup last year. At that time, he looked like Pedro from "Napolean Dynamite". This year, his mustache is thicker, and he's wearing glasses and a rumpled suit. He looks like a little Jewish old man. We'll call him "Ira the Jew". He has to be the favorite tonight.

And here are the eight finalists that are here for the first time:

Tussah Heera- Age 13, from Las Vegas. Scared shitless- you can see it in her eyes. I'll be shocked if she gets very far. Like almost all the kids, she's homeschooled, which means she'll spend her life living alone with 17 cats, because she won't be able to interact with human beings. She'll kick ass when Jeopardy comes on, but only the cats will know. I'll take Old Maids for $200, Alex...

Aishwarya Pastapur- Her family may not be from around here. Every year, there is some poor Indian girl that has one giant eyebrow, and a distinctive mustache. This year, it's Aishwarya. Like my dad always said, "If your girlfriend can grow a better mustache than you, you might want to check under the hood". Her role model is Amelia Earhart. I have so many jokes my head is about to explode. We'll just call her "Wolf Girl". Yikes...

Neetu Chandak- Neetu's another tiny little bugger, has braces, and speaks with a distinctive lisp. My boys latch onto this straightaway, and say she sounds just like Stan Marsh's sister Shelly on "South Park". Mike does a terrific Shelly impression- God, I hope she stays in a long time; Mike's going to bust me up if she does. Of course, we'll call her "Shelly Marsh".

(Unless you watch South Park, you're probably not going to be that amused by this. But if you don't watch South Park, there's something wrong with you, and you probably shouldn't be reading my blog. So there.)

Anamika Veeramani- She's from Cleveland, and her eyes are way, way too far apart. She really looks familiar, though. We try for awhile, but can't quite put our finger on who she looks like. Then it finally dawns on me.

From now on, she'll be "E.T."

Kennyi Aouad- Is it legal to have a last name that starts with four vowels? Anywho, Kennyi has a Jamaican accent, and looks like a miniature Bill Cosby (ladies and gentlemen, please start your Bill Cosby impressions!). He is incredibly outgoing, and mugs for the camera a lot. We determine that he hit the bong before the telecast. He's "Jamaican Cosby".

Serena Skye-Laine Lobsinger- You gotta be shittin' me. She's 13, so I have to believe that she's not married. Why is her goddamn name so long? She's from West Palm Beach, Florida, and has to be the whitest girl ever from that state. She's a big girl, and has a mop of bleach-blonde hair that looks just like Jon Bon Jovi from 1983. She'll be "Plus Sized Bon Jovi".

Tim Ruiter- Sound the alarm! We have a Category 5 dork alert here, kids. Tim is 13, and looks like the love child of Milhouse from "The Simpsons", and Big Bird. He hikes his pants up all the way to his nipples, and has a hunch when he walks. His profile says "he's devoted a lot of time to Star Trek, Star Wars, and Lord of the Rings". Wow, what a fuckin' shocker that is. If this kid ever gets laid, I'll eat my goalie cup. He'll be "Frodo".

Ramya Auroprem- Holy Mother of God. Ramya's face droops to one side, her mouth hangs open, and she has the biggest teeth I have ever seen. John Elway would say, "Goddamn, those are big teeth". Even Hillary Swank would say, "Goddamn, those are big teeth". The boys and I work on a nickname for what seems like an eternity, and after heavy negotiations, we settle on "Seabisquit". I was lobbying for "Barbaro", just out of respect to a great champion, but I got overruled.

(Another quick note: I believe the phrase you're looking for is, "Wow-you're a bunch of dicks". Yeah, I know. But we're sure laughing our asses off over here. Did you laugh with your kids tonight? Didn't think so. Bite me.)

7:15- So we finally got through all the preliminary crap, and we're spelling words in the first round. Just like last year, the stage is set up so that all the spellers are on one side, and all the parents and family are sitting on the other. I'll tell you what, kids- this is one motley crew of parents. The old apples sure didn't fall far from the trees in this crowd.

Almost everyone makes it through the round, except poor little scared shitless Tussah Heera. She spoke like she was trying to pass a kidney stone, and couldn't make it through "herniorraphy". She stumbles to the other side of the stage, and collapses in tears into the arms of her father, who is wearing one of those funny nose and glasses disguises.

Holy shit- those aren't the funny nose and glasses. Dude...

7:25- Before the next round starts, they have the attractive Erin Andrews from ESPN backstage interviewing Jamaican Cosby. Right in the middle of the interview, he puts on glasses and stares directly at her boobs. Swear to God. She notices, cuts the talk short and sends it quickly back to Tom Bergeron. I do my best Cosby (which sucks, by the way) and say, "Ya see Erin, your breasts look just like... the Jello Pudding Pops". The boys crack up. The wife...not so much.

7:30- Right before Plus Sized Bon Jovi's turn, they do a little feature on her. Her hobby, when she's not spelling, is making pillows? When asked to describe herself in one word, she says "effervescent". Sam says, "Dad, does effervescent mean fat?"

I have to pause the DVR for several minutes because I'm laughing so hard, I'm crying like a little girl. This happens all the time, and annoys the shit out of Annie. It takes about 90 minutes to watch one episode of "Family Guy". I can't help it-I'm an easy laugher.

Anyway, of course ABC put the Kiss of Death on P.S. Bon Jovi, and she misses the word "conchyliated" right after the feature. So I guess you could say that she was shot through the heart, and ABC was to blame. You know what? They give TV....a BAD NAME!

(Sorry- it was right there...I had to.)

The round continues, and Shelly Marsh bombs out on "derriengue". I think it was because she lisped so badly when she said "Are there any other pronunciations?" that some drool hit the microphone and electricity arced straight to her braces, leaving her stunned for a minute. As she leaves the stage, Mike lisps "Go suck it, turds", and makes me stop the DVR again.

Goddamn, this is fun so far...

Next, in the most shocking development of the night, the heavy favorite, Ira the Jew, misses "apodyterium". He then shuffles over and sits between his parents, and holds his head in his hands. Mike says "oy- what a woid", and I mention that this is worst thing that's happened to his family since his great grandparents vacationed at Auschwitz during World War II. The Holocaust joke puts me in the early lead for Most Inappropriate Comment of the Evening. I've got my fingers crossed...

7:45- We're back for round three, and we're down to seven players. Erin Andrews interviews Plus Sized Bon Jovi, and when they're side by side, it looks like one of those before and after pictures. "In just 12 weeks you can go from this....to this!"

Seabisquit comes up for her word, and Sam says, "Hey, why the long face?" DVR pause again- that one just killed me. She spells "axolotl" correctly, sits down, and straps the feedbag back on.

There's been something wrong with little Kyle Mou all night. He spells his words quickly, and then sits right down without a trace of a smile. They go to his short feature, and he says that he doesn't really like spelling- he thinks it's boring. This explains a lot- I'll bet The Donger slaps him around at home. YOU WANT TO QUIT? NO WAY, JOSE!

Frodo comes up, and his pants are hiked up so high, he has to unzip his fly so he can speak into the microphone. He spells "byssinosis", and they get a shot of his parents on the other side of the stage. His dad has a giant beard, and looks just like Yukon Cornelius in "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer". This works out great, because his mom closely resembles the "Abominable Snowman" from the same show. This is not a small woman.

E.T. makes it through another round, correctly spelling "iliopsous". Her grandmother claps like she's on The Price Is Right. Settle the hell down, grandma...

8:00- Everyone made it through round three, so we're still at seven. Little Kyle Mou spells his word correctly, then goes back to his chair, sits down, and stares straight ahead without any emotion. He looks like he can't wait for this to be over. I know this look- my wife gets the same expression when we're making love.

Wolf Girl advances, but she's a little too intense. She yells into the microphone when she's asking for information, like "CAN YOU USE IT IN A SENTENCE!". I'll bet security guards are loading their guns with silver bullets, just in case she gets out of hand.

Jamaican Cosby gets the word "palatschinken" (a stuffed pancake, just in case you wanted to amaze your friends when you go to IHOP) , and stares at the judge like he just shit in his hat. He misses badly, and shuffles off the stage to see if he can share a doobie with Erin Andrews. I know he's going to try and "hit that" before the night's over.

Damn, there goes E.T.- she misses the word "fackeltanz". Mike says, "Ouch...". Her heartlight goes out, and she makes her way to the other side of the stage. It's too bad- with the prize money, she could have gotten surgery to bring her eyes closer to her nose, and away from her ears. What a bummer...

Dammit, down goes Seabisquit! She tanks the word "amarevole", and her dad immediately takes her out behind the barn and puts her down. I'll bet if she had won, they would have taken her to a stud farm, but instead, she'll be a bag of Dog Chow by next week. It's just tragic.

8:30- Down to four. Oops, I lied...now it's three. Kyle Mou just missed "schizaffin" (pronounced shiz-a fin), looks relieved that it's over, and then hesitantly walks to the other side of the stage, where The Donger is having a "shiz-a-fit". I'll bet a paycheck that Kyle gets beaten with a dictionary when they get back to the hotel room tonight. Nice parenting, Donger...

So we have our final three, and we immediately go to the Championship Round. They are:

Kavya- she's really flown under the radar tonight. Just pleasantly spells her words with a smile on her face, and waits for her next turn. We can't find any reason to crack on her. That pisses us off- we need to buckle down and work harder.

Wolf Girl- The eyebrows and mustache have filled out even more as the night has gone on. I'll tell you what- if she ever wants to wax that shit, the fuckin' bees are going to have to work overtime.

Frodo- He needs to lose. Instead of asking questions politely to the judges, he arrogantly says stuff like "What does that word mean?", and "Part of Speech". All the other kids say "please", but not our Frodo. I'll bet that little fucker has had more Melvins and Swirlies at school than you can count.

8:40- All three are doing great- they've coasted through the first six words. The camera pans over to Frodo's parents, and his mom is staring at Kyle Mou. It's been a few hours since she's eaten- I'll bet it's like the cartoons, and Kyle turns into a ham when she stares at him. Did I mention that she's kind of a big girl?

8:45- We have our first casualty of the final round. It's Wolf Girl- she can't negotiate "menhir". She's devastated, and can't be consoled by Wolf Parents. As a consolation prize, she is awarded a Weedeater so she can get to work on those eyebrows. Stat.

8:50- Now it's Kavya and Frodo, and we're all pulling for Kavya. We're tired of Frodo's dismissive bullshit attitude, and Kavya has remained pleasant all night.

When Frodo comes up for his word, we all start yelling "Noonan!", like when Denunzio is trying to make Danny Noonan miss his big putt in "Caddyshack" (again, if you haven't seen Caddyshack, I have no use for you).

It works! Frodo misses "maecenus" (pronounced my-seen-us), and Mike says "The sentence should have been, 'Hey! Why don't you suck maecenus!' " That was close to being over the line, but it was funnier than shit. There aren't any little kids in the room... fuck it, I'll go ahead and let him slide this time.

Okay, all Kavya has to do is spell one word, and she's the champion. That word is:

Laodicean

Kavya's dad Merle (or Shamalamadingdong, or whatever the fuck his real name is) gets a big old smile on his face. Kavya's had this word before. She nails it quickly, and she is our 2009 champion!

Back to the Klingon chat room, Frodo! You arrogant little pecker...

Kavya is quickly presented the Queen of the Dinks trophy by a guy named Richard Boehne. We can't help but wonder if his nickname growing up was "dickbone". Probably not...


Anyway, that's it for another year. Thanks for playing along once again. I think the next time we'll do something like this will be the Miss Universe pageant in August. See you then...

Family Night and the Beauty Pageant

So the other night we gathered the family around the magic box to share in what has become a fun tradition. It was the 2009 Miss USA Beauty Pageant!

Except for the national spelling bee finals, pageants are the best events for making fun of people, and if you're a regular reader, you know that the Sterner family never misses an opportunity to make fun of people. So here we are, your little pal, my wife Annie, and my two oldest boys Mike and Sam, ready to unleash a total shitstorm of wisecracks for the next two hours. Annie has intentionally given the two youngest kids something else to do, because she knows this crowd.

Yeah, we could probably be spending our family time doing something more constructive and educational than cracking beauty queens. We could maybe take a nice bike ride...

Fuck it- this is a lot more fun.

This year, mainly because we're between hockey seasons and I've been hurting for something to write about, I decided to keep a running diary of the big event. So buckle up, and paste on that big fake pageant smile. Here goes nothin'...

6:00- Sweet! Donald Trump's putting on the pageant from Las Vegas this year. I wonder if he might possibly work in a plug for his new casino out there. I'll tell you what, Trump might be the world's biggest boner, but he sure knows how to run a pageant. Forget about scholarships and talent, he knows why America watches this shit. Bring on the hot girls in skimpy outfits...

Speaking of which, here comes the Parade of States, otherwise known as the last time you'll see Miss Wyoming. Pretty slim pickin's in the old Cowboy State. Last year Miss Wyoming was a sheep. Not bad looking, though. I'd do her...

All the girls are wearing the same thing- a white halter top and a tiny little white skirt. You the man, Donald. This is our first chance to meet the contestants, and weed out the ones that have absolutely no chance. Also, we all try to pick out the winner, and call our shot right from the start.

Some of the girls in the "No F-in Way" Group:

Miss Delaware- looks like Mr. Ed
Miss Idaho- they say she's 27; looks like 47
Miss Ohio- talks like Patty and Selma from The Simpsons; must be a heavy smoker
Miss Illinois- her eyes sit too low, like Mena Suvari; looks like she has a "five head" (that's bigger than a forehead- try to keep up)


See what I mean? You could land a plane on Mena's forehead

Miss Montana- usually just a little higher on the food chain than Miss Wyoming. Not this year...
Miss South Dakota- has Mount Rushmore sized boobs; other than that, nuh-uh...
Miss Wyoming- she's from my home town of Casper. If she was still in Casper, she'd be okay. In this crowd- not even close.
Miss New Mexico- holy jumpin' smokes! We rolled back the DVR three time to make sure she wasn't a dude. She's African-American, has a protruding orbital ridge and what appears to be fangs. Mike called her "Count Blacula". (Mike wins the silver medal for the Most Inappropriate Comment of the Evening)

Now we all pick our winner. This is really tough, because you only see the girls for a couple of seconds. But some just jump right out at you.

Sam takes West Virginia, Mike has Utah, Annie goes for Miss Texas, and I grab North Carolina. We'll see what happens.

6:10- The Parade of States finally ends, and we go live to the Planet Hollywood Theater, where the girls are all on stage for the opening dance number. Miss Wisconsin is completely lost- there are always a few girls that have no rhythm. We play that back a few times, taking a moment to point and laugh.

Our host for the evening? Aw, fuck- it's Billy Bush. He must have pictures of Trump banging a farm animal, because there's no other reason why he should get this gig. And co-hosting is Nadine Valasquez from My Name is Earl. Nobody in the room knows who she is, but she's currently grinding her crotch on Billy Bush to the beat of "That's Not My Name" by the Ting-Tings. I'll bet this is as close as Billy has ever gotten to female genitalia.

What a queef that guy is.

6:15- After a few minutes of banter and bullshit, they go straight to cutting the 51 contestants down to 15. All four of our girls that we picked to win are in this group. The only real surprise is that Miss Idaho made it. She squints, has huge hair, and looks like Stiffler's Mom from "American Pie".

6:30- All-righty, here comes the swimsuit competition! They'll be parading around to the sound of Kevin Rudolph singing "Let It Rock". I really like this song, except Kevin looks like a fat Damone from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High", and has this stringy black hair hanging down from under his stupid Damone hat. Here he is:



We determine that he has no chance of scoring with any of the girls, except possibly Count Blacula. Oh, and the live version of his song sucks.

After each of the girls do their strutting thing, the judges' scores are flashed on the screen. They range from my pick, Miss North Carolina (9.19- see below), all the way down to Stiffler's Mom (7.80- should have been lower).



Miss South Carolina, the only girl with that sassy, short blonde hairdo, walks like she's holding in a fart. We decide that she'll be Fart Girl for the rest of the pageant.

6:50- I guess the judges have seen everything they need to see, and as you can tell from the bikinis, everything they don't need to see. Again, bless your heart, Donald Trump. They're ready to cut the group down from 15 to 10.

I haven't seen either one of my teenage boys for the last 10 minutes since the swimsuit contest ended. Hmmm...

No real surprises here, except Fart Girl got through. I thought it would be the end of the line for her, and then she could excuse herself, go outside, and let 'er rip.

(While we're on the subject- is it me, or does everyone find it difficult to imagine a great looking girl cheesin' a big old fart? I know they do just like everyone else, but I just won't allow myself to consider that possibility. Like, does Jessica Biel run up to Timberlake and say, "Hey, Justin, pull my finger!"? No way, right? These are the things that go through my mind on a regular basis. And yes, I do realize I'm a twisted little fucker. Let's just move on...)

By the way, Stiffler's Mom is out of here. She did pretty well considering we both were born in 1958. 27 years old, my ass...

7:00- Now that they're down to 10, we're getting to know the contestants in a little more detail. All 10 are between 5'7" and 5"10", and they're pretty well divided between blondes and brunettes. On their profiles, they showed some of their favorite hobbies, which is always good for a joke or two. For example:

Miss Arkansas- her name is Chanley Pointer (Chanley?), and her hobbies are "playing the fiddle, and armadillo watching". Now if she fiddled with armadillos, then we'd really have something interesting to watch.

Miss Tennesee- Kristen Motil loves baking cupcakes. Wow, way to challenge yourself, Kristen. Next, she'll really push the envelope and hard-boil an egg. See, this is why assholes like me make fun of pageant contestants. Plus Kristen looks like Denise Richards, complete with the bitchy look on her face. She needs to lose.

Miss Utah- Laura Chukanov (pronounced chuck-un-off) enjoys belly dancing. You know, my mom caught me Chukanov one time, and told me I'd go blind if I didn't stop. She was wrong- I have 20/300 vision. Totally worth it.

Miss South Carolina (Fart Girl)- Stephanie Smith likes to teach Sunday school, and walk like she's smuggling six kilos of cocaine up her ass. Okay, I made that last part up, but she really needs to unclench.


See, she's clenching right now

7:15- Nadine Velasquez is getting on my nerves. She keeps twitching like Michael J. Fox on a bad day, and she's trying to be funny, and not pulling it off. I'm guessing she performed a "Rusty Trombone" on Donald Trump to get this job tonight (Google Rusty Trombone if you don't understand). It makes me wish that Marie Osmond were still alive so she could have done this instead.

7:20- More Las Vegas promotional bullshit (way too much of that), and we're on to the evening gown competition. And while they're walking out and showing off the goodies, it's The Veronicas singing "Untouched". I love that song, and just let out a squeal like a 14 year old girl.

My boy Sam told me that I was way too excited about a song for middle school girls, and he's never been more disappointed to be my son. Now that hurts- it's a song for high school girls, and he knows it. He's now my least favorite child, replacing my daughter, who's held the title for a long, long time.

I've never seen The Veronicas before, and they look quite a little bit like, well, crack whores. Plus they're lip-synching the song, which always sucks. Shit, Kevin Rudolph was awful, but at least he gave it a try live.


Yikes...

Anyway, my girl from North Carolina is stunning again, and wins with a 9.47. Fart Girl is all the way down at 8.33, because by now she's walking so funny, the judges aren't even looking at the dress anymore. Just blow the butt bugle already, Stephanie. We'll all feel better...

Chanley from Arkansas is wearing a gown that's a two-piece, with a red halter top. She must have thought it was the Lady of the Evening Gown competition. Bad idea. She gets an 8.41, and my TV just made a sound like when Pac Man gets eaten by one of the ghosts. She's done.

7:40- Before we get down to the five finalists, they need to award Miss Congeniality, otherwise known as "51st Place".

And the winner is: Holy shit- it's Miss Wyoming!

She must not have been expecting to be onstage any more tonight. She comes back holding a bottle of vodka and a five gallon bucket of Haagen-Dazs. She snatches her trophy, gives Billy Bush the finger, and walks off chugging the vodka like Gatorade.

7:45- Okay kids, here's the top five. Of course, Miss North Carolina gets in, and is joined by Miss Arizona, Alicia Monique Blanco. Nadine Velasquez has a small Hispanic orgasm when she announces that name- it's pretty obvious who she's rooting for.

(One quick note. I just looked it up, and the Spanish word for orgasm is...orgasmo. I thought it would be something a lot more colorful, like "explodo magnifico". Oh, well...)

Next, it's Miss California, whom I haven't mentioned yet, but she's a whole lot of good looking. Then Miss Kentucky, who's a real sleeper pick, because she has that "girl next door" quality about her. And finally, Chukanov from Utah, whom Mike picked right from the start.

I think it's North Carolina's to lose, but they still have to answer that nasty final question. Believe it or not, some of these girls have a little problem when they have to think on their feet.

No, it's true...

7:50- Here come the questions. North Carolina gets one about the bailout, and says all that money should go towards education. Good, safe answer- she has been coached well.

Next, Miss Arizona is asked about health care, and goes into some bullshit about her integrity. She never came close to answering the question, but Nadine still gushes about how terrific it was.

Nadine Velasquez cannot get the fuck off my TV screen soon enough.

Chukanov for some reason is asked about elections in Afghanistan, and actually does pretty well. She may have been talking about the Afghan dogs instead of the people, but still...

Miss California comes up, and the question is asked by the always annoying and exceptionally gay blogger Perez Hilton. My kids ask Annie who Perez Hilton is, and she says that he "blogs like Dad does, only he knows how to write". Now, was that necessary?

Without even thinking, I say, "He may be able to write better, but at least I won't wake up tomorrow morning with a butthole the size of the Eisenhower Tunnel". Annie immediately yells, "Allen!", and I then realize that I still have two teenage sons in the room. I look over, and both of them are literally rolling on the floor laughing, which doesn't help my cause one little bit.

Al, meet the doghouse. Doghouse, Al. You'll be spending some time together.

If nothing else, I got the gold medal for the Most Inappropriate Comment of the Evening. I've missed out the past few family nights, and it was time for that baby to come home. Doghouse, schmoghouse...I regret nothing.

Anywho, Perez of course asks a question about gay marriage, and Miss California has the audacity to say that she thinks marriage should be between a man and a woman. Wow, what a bitch. Well, Perez gets a look on his face like he just smelled Miss South Carolina's long-overdue fart, and you can actually hear his ass tighten up. And for him, that has to be a bunch of tightening.

I tell Annie, "She's dead". Annie doesn't answer- she's still unhappy about that butthole joke.

Finally, the smoke clears, and Miss Kentucky gives a great answer about domestic violence. She sounds like Holly Hunter. Which for me, is a big plus.


Mmmm...Holly Hunter...

7:55- So we're back from the commercial, and they get the envelope to announce the winners. Drumroll, please:

4th Runnerup- Miss Kentucky. I think she got screwed- she was easily in the top three.

3rd Runnerup- Miss Utah. Mike's pissed- he thought she was going to win. I think it's about right.

2nd Runnerup- Miss Arizona. Nadine is visibly pissed when she reads the name. Alicia's answer to the last question killed her. Jesus, Nadine is a twitching moron.

Now we have Miss California, whom I can't believe is still here after the controversial answer, and North Carolina. While Billy is droning on about what happens with the runnerup if the winner can't fulfill her duties or has a major cocaine problem like that girl from two years ago, the two finalists are holding hands, and staring into each other's eyes.

It's actually pretty hot.

Annie and I notice that while they're holding hands, Miss North Carolina's hands are resting on Miss California's boobs. I'll bet that half the males watching never hear who wins, because they had to leave the room to go "take a shower".

Finally, Billy reads the winner, and it's...Miss North Carolina! For the second time since Annie and I have been watching pageants (and that's around 15 years), I picked her out of the parade of 51 states. So I have bragging rights until Miss Universe, which is sometime in July, I think.

So thanks for spending the evening with my demented little family. The real fun is next month, when the National Spelling Bee is on- otherwise known as the Night of a Thousand Dorks. That there is a good family night. Now if you'll all excuse me, I have to go kick the dog off the couch. Annie just informed me that I'm going to be sleeping there and Chukanov for the foreseeable future.

Dawg Nation Suffers Shocking Death

The Bible, or possibly Hannah Montana says, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away". This has never been more true than the last couple of weeks in Dawg Nation.

On April 6th, Dawgs II goalie Brian Harvey welcomed his first child into the world, a stunning little girl named Emily. Since then, however, DNA tests have finally revealed the true father of the beautiful young lady.


Everyone knew there was something fishy. She's way too cute to belong to a goalie.

Well, the other shoe dropped last weekend, as Dawgs captain and former anal warrior Marty Richardson lost his favorite girl in the world. No, not his wife-for-tax-purposes-only Cindy, but his beloved 1986 Ford Bronco II, AKA the Dawgmobile.

Richardson claims that during last week's massive storm, a tree branch that was weighed down with wet snow crashed down on top of the Dawgmobile, collapsing the roof and shattering the surrounding windows.

But further investigation showed that Richardson's story wasn't quite true. It turns out that Richardson destroyed the roof himself, while attempting to make sweet, acrobatic love with Dawgs II forward Nick Cortese.


"Nick, get down here and help me get the glass out of my colon, goddammit!"

Caught red-handed, Richardson tearfully explained why he made up the story about the snow. "It was kind of a grey area in my car insurance policy. I couldn't find anything about damage to my vehicle while bangin' dudes. I'm not sure, but they may have disallowed the claim. Fuckin' State Farm!"

The week continued to get worse for Richardson, as he lost power to his stately mountain castle west of Denver. For five long days, his entire family went without basic necessities, including running water. Marty was able to struggle through, but not being able to shower had an adverse effect on Cindy's general appearance.


Xcel Energy may owe Cindy an apology

Meanwhile, Richardson's brother Nigel, who lives in the same area, also lost power to his house. But instead of suffering like his brother, he dealt with the problem in a slightly different manner. He spent the week in Hawaii rubbing suntan lotion all over his teenage girlfriend Kelly. This only adds to the legend of Nigel Richardson, the current title holder of The Luckiest Son of a Bitch on the face of the Earth.

There are several great mysteries in life:

Is there a God?

Is there life after death?

How does a blind guy know when he's done wiping his ass?

But life's biggest mystery remains:

How does Nigel Richardson get to wake up next to this every day?


Nigel must have a dong like Man O'War

New Dawg Enters World

Dawg Nation got a little bit bigger this week, as Emily Harvey was born on Monday, April 6th. She weighed 6 lbs, 3 ozs, and measured 19" in length, which makes her officially half the height of Dawgs captain Marty Richardson.



Emily is the daughter of Dawgs II goalie Brian Harvey, who recently led his team to the finals of the Pepsi Center shootout. They finished second, but nobody was really to blame.


Well, go ahead and blame these guys

However, there is some controversy to Emily's birth. It seems very illogical that something as beautiful as this:



can possibly be related to this:



Testing is currently underway for positive identification. The only way to know for sure is if Emily has a crappy glove hand.