Deadspin

How Is The Isiah Thomas Era Working Out For Florida International? [College Basketball]

Dashiell Bennett — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 17:25:22 EST

Not well: The Golden Panthers are 7-19 and "have sold a total of 1,075 individual tickets for nine home games." At least freshman Steven Miro—who turned down Columbia and Harvard to play for Thomas (seriously!)—is happy.

Erin Andrews Stalker Planned To Peep On Other Female Sports Reporters [Erin Andrews]

DAULERIO — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 16:35:46 EST

According to the sentencing memorandum, Michael David Barrett had planned on ruining the lives of at least 30 other women — including other female sports reporters and actresses. Also, Andrews is asking for $335,000 in restitution. [TSG]

Your Blizzard-Proof Biggest Mailbag Ever [Ballsdeep]

Drew Magary — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 16:25:11 EST

Time for your Deadspin Open Mailbag Tuesday. Email me here or submit your questions via Twitter. This week, we're covering the miso paste test, elevators, zombies, shoveling, and more.

Danger Guerrero:

We've covered the school shooting, home intruder, and convenience store hero fantasies, but how about the elevator one? Whenever I'm in an elevator that makes a funny noise, I always imagine a set of circumstances requiring me to crawl out the top of the elevator into the elevator shaft to help others to safety. Once I'm out, I reach a single arm back down into the elevator to pull the others up (an act that would surely dislocate my shoulder violently in real life) and shout, "COME WITH ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE!!". Once they're safe, I make my one-man assault against the squadron of mercenaries who have taken over whatever building I'm in.

I wouldn't even make it out of the top of the elevator in real life. You have to be able to do a pull up to be able to pull yourself up out of an elevator, and I lack that ability. But yes, whenever an elevator makes a funny noise or stops, I quickly imagine having to escape through the top, only to watch the elevator begin working again when I'm on top of the car. Thus, I must daringly jump from the top of a rising elevator car onto the top of a descending one. If I tried this in real life, both my ankles would shatter and I would get cable burn in 98 places on my body. Regardless, I handle this stunt flawlessly in the daydream.

Another rule of stopped elevators. If you're stuck in a stopped elevator with a woman or more than one, you immediately picture having sex with them. What if the elevator NEVER turns back on? Will you have to forsake your own family and make a new one with the hussy standing over in the corner? Will it come to that? When will your societal niceties break down and force you to make savage love to anyone else stuck in the car just to survive? YOU NEVER KNOW, DO YOU?! Hell, the elevator doesn't even have to be stopped. Porn training conditions you to picture elevator sex with virtually anyone swho steps on with you. Stupid Aerosmith video.

Also, if an elevator makes a weird noise, I always imagine it disconnecting from its cable and plummeting down to the ground. In that event, I always imagine timing a jump as the car hits the bottom of the shaft, avoiding the impact of the fall. Of course, this would do nothing in real life. My 3mm vertical would take care of that. Still, I would try and time my jump anyway if that happened. I really would. May as well.

Josh:

Is there anything more terrifying than when you blow your nose at work (or anywhere that personal appearance matters), you feel something exit your nose but then when you check the kleenex to assess the damage, it's pristine white and looks unused?

No, because you knew damn well that something came out. You could feel it exiting. Sometimes, before I blow my nose, I do a little pre-pick to assess just what kind of booger it is I'm dealing with. Then, after blowing my nose, I do a reconnaissance check of the nasal chamber to make sure the booger was evacuated. And if it's clear that it was, but that tissue is blank white, that is horrifying. WHERE'S THE BOOGER? IT COULD BE ANYWHERE! Good God, what if it's the size of a quarter? Is it on my keyboard? GAH!

CPH2133:

A female friend of mine was the middle of 6 girls in her family, all fairly close in age. Her dad installed a timer on the shower that would automatically shut off the water after 3 minutes of it being turned on. No time for the water to warm up, 3 minutes from the first to last drop. Have shampoo in your hair still? Tough shit, go use the sink.

As a result still to this day she takes the quickest showers ever, and thinks I am the crazy one for taking 10 minute showers. What is the acceptable length of shower? I'll stay in the shower for 20+ minutes if I have nothing to do.

That Dad is a fucker, I tell you that. I say ten to twenty minutes is just fine for a shower. Sometimes, you linger in the shower for too long, and you can feel yourself sweating even as you're being rinsed off. That's an odd feeling.

Gary:

What are your plans for when the world is overrun by zombies? My plan is to barricade myself in a baseball or football stadium. Three reasons: A) They have gates and are already designed to keep people from sneaking in; B) I can use the field to plant crops and/or graze animals, and C) There is probably a shitload of booze there.

I once read "World War Z" and it freaked me out so much that I wanted 80% of all government resources to be allocated to zombie prevention and defense. Because really, right now, our zombie defenses are pathetic. Are there emergency shotguns and Kevlar suits ready in our schools? Do we have the Redeker Plan in place?

There's only one good place to hide yourself during a zombie attack: a rural Wal Mart. There are fuckloads of guns in those stores. I already know I'd die in a Zombie War. I'd just want to shoot as many in the head as possible. Given my poor record in Lazer Tag, I would not rack up a very high body count.

Wes:

Why do all kids get sick in the middle of night? Why can't it be during the day when I am working and Mom is home with them?

I know! Little shits. "Lemme just wait until 3AM to start painting the crib with my insides."

Jack:

Have to disagree about the best movie to see in an all-black theater. In high school, I saw "Coach Carter" with my dad and brother (all big basketball fans) in an ABT. It felt like we were in the gym for each game scene. Yelling, cheering and whooping at every bucket, foul and steal. It was an awesome place to watch a movie. When Sam Jackson's team loses as the end, it was like everybody in the theater were students at the school. The disappointment was palpable. If you only saw the patrons walking out of the theater you would've thought it was a bunch of Knights of Columbus who just saw The Passion of the Christ.

That's the exact same reaction you got in any black theater where "Hoosiers" was played. Imagine if Coach Carter's team had won. I bet "Gridiron Gang" was the fucking tits in a Magic Johnson movie house.

Daniil:

I live in Queens and have countless "black movie theater" stories. I am Ukrainian myself, if that's relevant to the story.

My most memorable one is watching Return of the King. There is a scene where Gandalf (Ian McKellen) smacks Denethor (John Noble) with his staff. At that point you heard a loud OOHHH from the audience, then a really big black guy at the front of the theater stood up and said very loudly "That nigga Gandalf is fuckin' gangsta. You seen the way he smacked that other nigga?" to which his friend replied "That nigga Gandalf straight gangsta my nigga." I found the whole exchange interesting especially considering the words Gandalf, gangsta, and nigga were all said in the same sentence.

Agreed. Especially considering that, by the third film, Galdalf had already died and become Gandalf The White. His transition to Gandalf The Nigga after that was very subtle.

Brian:

Is it common knowledge that all married guys with young kids stretch every "alone" activity out as long as possible in an effort to maximize time away from kids? I hope so because I do. I get home from work. I head to bedroom. I take ten minutes just to get out of my work clothes and into my shorts/t-shirt. Something that would take me about ten seconds to do if I were alone and wanted get the TV on quickly to watch a game. Then, I might even brush my teeth, for no reason other than to get another sixty seconds of free time before heading upstairs. Sometimes I'll sit in the driveway, parked, radio off, and grab another sixty seconds before I hit the garage door opener. I love my kids, I do, but am I a huge ass for doing this?

No, because women milk the clock too. My wife will take a solid nine hours in the morning to shower because she knows, once that shower is over, CHAOS. I don't blame her. I do the exact same thing.

Stretching out alone time is a hallowed tradition among parents. It's not that you don't love your kid. It's that they're fucking exhausting. So you need that extra time to gather your strength before you head into the storm and threaten to beat the shit out of them to stop doing something before you pussy out on following through with it.

This weekend presented me with a brilliant milk the clock activity, and that was snow shoveling. Holy shit, did I milk that shoveling for all it was worth. I must have waited five minutes between individual shovelfuls. And when I walked back in, I was all tired and clearly was in no shape to care for the children. I JUST SHOVELED THE DRIVEWAY. DON'T YOU SEE HOW TIRING THAT IS?

My wife would have nothing of this and immediately grabbed the shovel and headed out for her own time in the sweet, delightful snowage. One of my friends was nearly murdered by his wife this weekend when he stayed out shoveling too long. She knew exactly what he was doing. It's snowing another foot again tonight. Tomorrow, the Mrs. And I will fight to death over the right to dislocate seven vertebrae moving that shit.

Chris:

Every now and then I daydream about how awesome it would be to be Spider-Man. Super-strength, Spider-sense, virtually no commuting time. But there's one sticking point: sticking to surfaces. How does Spider-Man surf the Internet, much less when he needs to "make web fluid"? Can he tell his hands to stop sticking to junk, especially when said junk is his junk? This is a serious drawback, and is getting in the way of my web-slinging through the air with the Black Cat fantasies.

Well, clearly he can, only nothing in the mythology delineates just how he goes about this. He must have some sort of mental off switch. This is much more prominent of a storyline with The Thing. Because The Thing is always this giant fucker made of rock, so he can't go out on dates and shit, because he's made of rock and very scary. Sometimes, it's only good to have a superpower if it operates AT YOUR CONVENIENCE ONLY. Like, imagine being the Human Torch all day long. That would be fucking terrible. I'd never want to be The Thing, or an all-day Human Torch. Or the Silver Surfer. He can never stop being silver. The whole surfing-for-poon angle is ruined by that.

Andy:

A brief word on old-school "pillows" of shredded wheat. While fundamentally insufferable on their own, they are instantaneously transformed into the greatest breakfast treat ever with the liberal drizzle of a UK import called "Lyle's Golden Syrup". In short, it is what I imagine God's ejaculate to be like, only thicker and sweeter.

Yeah, but who's this Lyle fellow? Is he Lyle: the Effeminate Heterosexual? And why is the syrup golden? There are too many unresolved questions about this syrup to trust it entirely.

Kevin D:

Am I the only douche canoe that uses the kiddy urinal because it's strangely empowering? I feel like Lord Thunderstream when I flop my bits and pieces out and tower over kiddy urinals.

Oh, it totally makes you feel like a giant. You feel like you're a thousand feet tall. LOOK OUT, LITTLE MAN URINAL. PAUL BUNYAN HAS COME TO DESTROY YOU.

Ward:

With Valentine's Day coming up I thought I'd ask you the proper protocol for dudes. No need to spend some serious cash for this "holiday" right? My college roommate bought his gf an expensive necklace once. Way too expensive. My woman is fine with a decent dinner out and a movie with no blood in it. Should it be anything more than that?

Fuck and no. I barely even know what day Valentine's Day falls on anymore. V-Day is strictly a boyfriend/girlfriend racket. Most married couples barely even bother. "Hey, we should have sex or something." That about covers it. Mrs. Drew would go batshit if I bought her a pricey Valentine's Day gift. "FOOL! WE COULD USE THAT MONEY FOR NEW WINDOWS!"

Nick:

There's a guy at my office who, at the urinal, always leans forward resting his forehead on his arm against the wall, like a drunk hobo pissing in an alley. This makes me feel uncomfortable/embarassed on his behalf. It's worse because he's sort of fat and shambling and I feel like he might actually fall over if he didn't steady himself while pissing.

Yeah, but pulling that move while you're extremely drunk is something I quite enjoy. You amble into the bathroom, and you've had roughly 18 shots too many, and you rest your head there thinking to yourself OH DEAR LORD WHAT HAVE I FUCKING DONE? It's a real treat.

Keep in mind, also, that your co-worker is pulling this move at work. So there's a very good chance he's using that move for the sake of catharsis. That's a real, "Please God, give me the strength to not buy a gun and shoot everyone in this fucking building" move. Or he's drunk

Steve:

I don't know what to do. I am sitting in my chair at work and I have terrible stomach cramps and have been ripping ass into my chair cushion for over an hour straight. I work in an open area with 4 desk mates who are inevitably going to smell the rancidness of my body. What am I supposed to do? As soon as I stand up, I know this wave of stench will poor out of my ass and chair. Need help...

This is why bullpens are fucking stupid. I hate these commie office spaces that are like, "Look how open we are! Everyone is equal in our company!" Bullshit. Now everyone has to smell each other's farts and listen in as Sue from Accounting tells her Verizon rep how angry she is that she's been on hold for an hour and can't get anyone to help her.

I say you stand up and wave that gas all around the bullpen. Get your arms down and give that gas a nice lift in the air. Let your superiors know how fucking bullshit it is that you have no private space at work to call your own.

I heard about an agency once that had a "virtual office". Everyone had a locker and a cell phone at that was it. You had no desk. The whole office was just free conference room space. Mutiny occurred within a month.

Otto Man:

A friend of mine had to take an epic shit during a swank meal in the Hays-Adams hotel in D.C. They only had a little one-seater bathroom, and he went in an absolutely stunk up the place. (Trust me, this was bad. He's a guy who once offended a homeless man with his farts.) After he double flushes, he has to get out of there before the HAZMAT team shows up. And who's waiting outside, next in line and about to get hit in the face with a stench worse than death? Wolf Blitzer. Welcome to the Shituation Room, Wolf.

There is nothing quite like a really nice hotel bathroom. I love going to weddings and shit like that for precisely this reason. Ever go to a hotel or a house and encounter a really nice bathroom, and milk it for all it's worth? I hadn't PLANNED on shitting here. I was just gonna piss. But God DAMN, not shitting in here would be a waste of precious opportunity. Sometimes, I'll hit a nice hotel bathroom and think to myself, "Oh, I'm coming back here." And I'll make a point of hitting it again an hour or so later. I try and get EVERYTHING out of a nice bathroom.

Same thing if I check into a hotel room, and the bathroom is all spacious and marbley. First thing I'll do is take a shit in that bathroom, and then just linger there. I could stay in a fancy bathroom for fucking ages.

Gabe:

Does your wife ever leave the shower curtain closed, and then when you go to shower you have to tear it open extremely quickly for fear of finding a dead body? Shower mold be damned, when I get to the bathroom and I can't see into the shower in my mind there has to be some thing murdered in there. Always, always scary.

I have the inverse nightmare, which is the Psycho scenario, where I'm in the shower and a stranger runs in to stab the shit out of me. I'm always on guard in the shower, because you never know if that'll happen. What will you do in the event of a shower knife attack? I'd use the shampoo bottle. It's heavy.

Runelvs:

Did you ever live or hang out in a walkup apartment during your time in NYC? I just moved from a 5-floor walkup into a 3-floor walkup, and without those last two floors it sucks 90% less. Also, my 5-floor walkup had the most horrifically tiny bathroom sink in the history of the world. I had to move the shower mat over to the sink (about 4 inches) every time I shaved, because enough water to halve Haiti's problems was about to hit the floor, and there was nothing I could do about it. Except shave in the shower, which is almost as ridiculous as standing and wiping.

I loved living in New York, but it's amazing the shit you'll put up with to live there. "Oh, this apartment is on the fifth floor of a five-story walkup. It has no closets, no windows, a gas stove that can only be lit with a match, and serves as a storage area for the rest of the building. I'LL TAKE IT!"

Those walkups are fucking brutal. Ever move someone in or out of a walkup? It's agony. If someone living in a walkup asks you to help them move, demand $1,000 up front.

Mack:

The chick in the Scorpions' "Rhythm of Love" video is Joan Severance. She was nails throughout the late 80's and 90's. She starred in a skin flick called "Lake Consequence" with that fuck Billy Zane. To round out her acting career, she starred with Hulk Hogan in "No Holds Barred", which I will not hold against her in any way.

She was also on an episode of Red Shoe Diaries. GRRR!!!!!

Robert:

Is it ever appropriate to try and solicit prostitution for a friend without his knowledge? I have a good friend, who has been on a little cold streak with the ladies. He was the best man at my wedding, and I feel I owe it to him to try and help him get some ass here and there. Fast forward (or rewind) to this past Saturday, and obnoxiously hammered me offered to pay a woman at the bar $100 to take him home and give him a blow job. Now, I don't remember any of this, as I was completely wasted. My buddy told me about it the next day. I think I'm a good friend for attempting to do this, he thinks I'm an asshole for even offering. Would you mind settling this for us?

Well, was the woman you asked to do this an actual hooker? Because you should probably make sure she's a hooker before you ask her to perform hooker-related duties.

Now, turning down a paid-for blowjob sounds dopey. Your friend, in theory, should be grateful for this. That could be Alabama Worley you sent in. But consider it from his point of view. His luck with women has been so shitty of late that his own friend took enough pity on him to dole out a hundred bucks just so he could get a blowjob. That's a huge blow to the friend's self esteem. So he has a right to take some issue with it. He should take the blowjob, AND be mad at you. That's okay.

Greg:

Not sure if you've covered this yet, but seemingly every time I'm on the treadmill at the gym I am overcome with the need to take a shit.

That's the worst, the mid-workout urge. Because then you have to pause the workout, run down to the john, take the shit while sitting with your thighs all moist on the seat, wipe your sweaty ass, and then go right back to working out, while you know damn well there are all kinds of assy horrors going on in your shorts. It's a terrible feeling, which is why I make it a point to hit the pooper before any extended workout. Even if you know there's nothing in there. Better safe than sorry.

Sometimes, you have that urge to piss at the gym too, and you go to take a piss, then you run back, and now all the machines are occupied. I wanna punch myself in the dick when that happens.

Alex:

Do you know why office and public restrooms always have toilet seats that are horseshoe shaped?

For good luck. And so your dick touches the ice cold front of the rim and fuses to it.

Mike:

My girlfriend will ask me to make her cereal - so I pour the cereal and milk, then stand over the bowl and scarf down half the bowl like I'm in a pie eating contest. Then I fill it up back up to the optimum new bowl-level and bring it to her as if nothing ever happened.

Referee Mills Lane says he will allow it. I do that with any food I serve to my wife or kids. I make Kraft Mac for the kids, half the box is eaten before their plate touches the fucking table.

On the flipside, I will get enraged whenever my wife surprises me by taking a generous portion of food from my plate. Like, the other day, I made bacon. Two strips. I put it on my plate, get ready to enjoy it, and the wife come by and is like OOOOH BACON! So she takes a strip. And I stare at her like she just murdered our kids in front of me. I am a hypocrite. Lady, that was 50% of my bacon. That's more than a bite. YOU ARE OUT OF ORDER.

My dad is even worse because he'll ask for a bite of your food, and then take the biggest fucking bite you have ever seen. The man could eat half a bagel in one mouthful. It's terrifying.

Lebowski:

I am a first time father and my son is 11 months old. His favorite show is Jacks Big Music show on Nick Jr. It is fucking brutal. God I hate children's television. Anyways, on one particular episode Lisa Loeb does a little music video. I found myself thinking that she looked pretty damned cute. I think it's something about the glasses. Am I a horrible person for wanting to fire off some knuckle children to a children's show? Will I now be on some sort of government list for even asking the question?

No, it's okay. You are an adult, and that means you are allowed to enjoy children's shows on an adult level, even if that includes picturing Lisa Loeb as a very sexy librarian who is about to throw back her hair and ride you like a carousel. YOU SAY…

Pedro CC:

So I was just on the stall and leaned forward for whatever reason and realized that I could, thanks to the angle of the light, actually see my poop descending in the reflection in the water. I thought this would be fun. It wasn't. Fun to do, fun to think about, fun to argue about, fun to read about, NOT fun to watch, even if it's your own.

I can only imagine. I have not had the privilege. But I have seen other animals poop, like horses. When a horse poops, you actually see their asshole "blossom," expanding and then opening to let the poop out. Looks like a piece of rotten cauliflower. It's terrifying, and seeing the same action coming from a human body would change me forevermore.

Reggie:

Showering while high is great. Brushing your teeth on acid is fucking transcendental.

But what if the toothbrush grows teeth and begins brushing ITSELF? Scary.

InSinSeer:

Peeing through the fly…balls in or out of underwear?

I got this question a lot this week, because that's the kind of question we get here at the Deadspin mailbag. I go through the boxer hole, and the reason why is because, despite my fatness, I have NO ass. At all. Flat as a pancake. So if I unbuckled and flapped my bits out over the gate, my pants would fall down. They must stay buttoned. Plus, the pressure exerted by the boxer elastic on my taint sometimes serves to stanch flow. At least, that's my amateur medical opinion.

HOWEVER, if it's nighttime and I have only underwear on, I go over the gate. Go figure. I think having fabric completely surrounding your penis while you urinate feels like more of a wetness hazard. Like you're playing a game of "Operation."

FEAST:

In every other episode of Chopped, a contestant will nick a finger while trying to hastily break down a vegetable I've never heard of. They will ignore the cut/blood and continue cooking. The judges will collectively sigh and whisper quietly about the blood contaminating their food.

If these chefs are willing to serve food with BLOOD IN IT on NATIONAL TV, how many times has a chef nicked a finger at [your favorite restaurant] and served the food anyway?

Or worse. I mean, none of those chefs use gloves, and chefs are fucking repulsive human beings. I've worked for plenty of them. Ever seen under a chef's fingernails? It's terrifying. These guys are staying up until 3AM cooking and drinking and banging whatever stray pussy is around. Lord only knows what stray toxins they've leeched into your veal medallions. Particularly the Italians.

Will:

I'm at work and I was just eating a sausage and cheese biscuit from Dunkin Donuts while washing it down with an iced coffee (Cream and sugar added). Being slightly overweight, I somewhat try to watch what I eat. I was enjoying my biscuit when I started to feel full. There were about 2 bites left- remainder had the circumference of a 50 cent coin.

In an attempt to make myself feel better about my fast food purchase by saving a few calories, I decided that I didn't need those final bites. So I crumbled up the paper with the biscuit and threw it my half-full trash can next to my desk.

I immediately had remorse for this decision.

I knew it was sitting in the trash can wrapped in crumbled up paper - biscuit, cheese, and sausage mashed but still slightly warm. It was practically staring at me. My co-worker sits behind me so she has full view of my actions. I called her desk so she would focus on her phone. I hung up, she answers hello a few times. Diversion successful. I quickly slide my chair 2 feet to my trash can and scoop the crumbled paper of mashed glory. I finished it and I was pretty happy. Have you ever entered your trash can to finish food that you previously tossed away?

Yes. And I think we should all congratulate Will here for the successful diversion tactic he deployed to prevent any sort of Costanza éclair situation. This is the kind of shit you have to deal with when you're fat. Your urge to be responsible is ALWAYS trumped by your urge for more sausage.

I used to buy a bag of chips to keep at the office. I'd have a few, and then close the bag, as if to say, "The bag is now closed. No more eating from here today." That, of course, never deterred me, so I'd immediately open the bag up and eat more. Then, I would close the bag and place it FARTHER AWAY on my desk. Oh, I'll never touch it now. It's by the stapler! May as well be in Russia! I would go through this process a dozen times in the space of an hour before the bag was all gone. And then there is nothing but shame and anger, mostly because it feels like I just reenacted a "Cathy" strip.

HALFTIME!

Anon:

Have you ever had to poo while in the shower, didn't feel like getting out and going to the toilet, so you just let it go? Bombs away! Sure, it's disgusting to have to help it all make it down the drain, but it's liberating at the same time, no? Society won't impose it's rules on me!

I have NOT done this. And I'm pleased to know that my scatological proclivities do not represent the rock bottom of humanity.

Myotherrideisyourmom:

Were you aware that Canadians drink milk from a bag? We discussed this at length among the regular Deadspin readers here in the office and decided that this is quite disturbing.

Agreed. YOU WOULDN'T DRINK WINE OUT OF A BAG, WOULD YOU? You would? Yeah, I guess I would too. I'll drink wine and fruit punch out of a bag, but no milk. Milk is where I draw the line.

They should sell whiskey in bags. Sometimes, I like to drink the cheapest shit on Earth just to feel like a homeless person, and whiskey in a bag would really add to the effect. Tell me you wouldn't feel gangsta drinking bagged whiskey. You'd feel just like Gandalf.

Michael:

So recently, our building changed cleaning services, and rather than wait until after hours, the new cleaning crew inexplicably chooses just after lunch to clean the bathrooms. It's a female that cleans the bathrooms...she'll knock, and you then give the previously discussed awkward "someone's...i'm...hold on", and then this horrible woman will wait outside the door until you come out, each time grinning mischievously with that "my my, what were YOU doing in there for so long" grin. At least two or three days a week, I'll sit down, make it halfway through the first article or game, and then hear the dreaded ding of the elevator followed by the rolling wheels of her cleaning cart...and then...the knock. Completely ruins my day, multiple times a week.

This is grounds for a formal complaint to building management, right?

Yes. She's way out of order giving you that look. Completely unprofessional. Our cleaning crew at the office used to always put the little yellow pylon outside the bathroom door, telling you couldn't go in to take a shit because they were cleaning it. And they always, always did this right at the moment when you had to go to the bathroom. Sometimes, the woman was nice enough to step out and let you do your thing. But then you're on the clock and that kind of ruins it. Other times, we'd get hardliners who would not allow you in until they were finished. And that would send you scrambling to another floor, or to the other bathroom on the opposite side of the building, roughly 7,000 yards away.

One aside completely irrelevant to this: One of the great innovations of the past few years is the shitter light on airplanes that tell you, from your seat, if the bathrooms are occupied. Planes didn't always have these, so you'd have to take your chances and get up (sometimes doing a head count of the rest of the plane to determine if any has left their seats) and check to see if the shitters were occupied. And they always were. And then you had to wait there, like an asshole. The shitter light defines clutch.

Joe:

When I fold my laundry, I throw all my socks in one large drawer without sorting. I bet I have 200 individual pieces of sock. Then, from time to time, most often when I am actually looking for a matched pair, I will get matches for 2 or 3 pairs to, kindof, build up the inventory.

The game, of course, is finding the matches. Sometimes, I can get on a real roll, and find matches for 5 or 6 pairs in a row.

As you say, it's the small victories that add up.

Yeah, but you must be single, because no woman would allow you to have a drawer filled with individual socks. I match all my socks and then leave the stray ones in my drawer in the hopes their true matches will one day resurface and they can live happily once again. I used to pair up mismatching socks anyway, because I didn't give a shit if my socks didn't match. But then those mismatched pairs were the first ones I grabbed out of the drawer because they were the last ones I folded and placed in the drawer. Annoying.

Matt:

The plural of dwarf was dwarfs until JRR Tolkien wrote Lord of the Rings and changed the plural to dwarves to match the plural of elf: elves.

Not that anyone gives a shit.

I do!

Tom:

Is there any warning sign more effective than the NO DIVING sign? That guy is so done his head is now flat on the top. When you see this you are not going to go head first into that pool.

CAUTION: DEER is also an effective one. When that sign pops up, I instantly become horrified that a deer will come charging out of the woods and ruin the shit out of my car. I look through the trees. I barely even watch the road at that point. Same with CAUTION: FALLING OBJECTS. What can you do? Stop? All you can do is sit there and envision a fucking "Sexy Beast" boulder coming down and flattening you to death.

Andy:

Is it possible to be good at pretending to lose to a child in something? Don't get me wrong, the kid buys it for sure, but I feel like I'm Freddie Prinze Jr. trying to play Daniel Planview when I fake incredulousness at losing a game of tic-tac-toe.

Well, they buy it when I pretend to lose, but inside I can't help but be annoyed. I never got to beat anyone at anything in my whole athletic career, and now comes some helpless little kid who I can fucking DESTROY at virtually everything, yet I cannot take advantage. I can even outrun these kids. I can't outrun anyone. But I can smoke these little fuckers. Stupid nice daddying.

LJ:

I didn't want to out my sisters-in-arms (who, no doubt, deny having them so that their friends/coworkers/whoever-you-are will, they hope, stop picturing them masturbating) but OF COURSE we have spank banks. I don't watch porn, but I've been blessed with countless great orgasms in my life, and they're exhaustingly cataloged for access during Me Time. Anything is fair game: phone sex with the ex 2 years ago or doggy style with my boyfriend last week. I have a fairly vivid imagination, but I usually stick to guys I've given access to my Lady Gaga instead of friends/roommates/coworkers/etc. Moral of the story: we're imagining the exact same things you are when you get off.

Bidding on LJ's email address begins at $500.

Presidente:

What's your opinion of plugging up the drain in the shower (bathtub showers only, obviously) so lukewarm, soapy water just soaks your feet and ankles the entire time? I've been told by practically everyone I've shared this with that I'm basically soaking my feet in filth and that I'm an abomination. There's gotta be someone else out there that knows what I'm talking about.

I only did that as a kid. Stephen Wright used to say he liked filling the tub and turning on the shower, then acting like he was in a submarine that had just been hit. You're supposed to outgrow that.

Walter:

Every night since high school (maybe earlier) I've used the same pillow. Did I mention I'm 42? That thing is browned like the Shroud of Turin and couldn't possibly be flatter, so I have to use a fluffier pillow below it so that my neck stays nice and level. The second pillow is going on like ten years. They're turning into the Newman-Woodward of pillows.

My wife started with the whole, "You should get rid of this, it's nasty." No way, I cling to that like Linus clutches his blanket. The day I die that pillow will still be on my bed.

A lady wrote in to counter this email.

El:

Dude, seriously, BUY A NEW PILLOW. Those yellow stains are fucking nasty. I don't understand why dudes never replace their pillows. I helped a friend of mine move recently, and I thought this was one of my more neat and orderly male friends, but his pillow was so old and dirty it was practically brown. That shit is unsanitary. Do you know how much pillows cost at Target and Ikea? TEN DOLLARS. There is no reason not to buy a new pillow, or two, or three.

Yes, there is. MY pillow has spent the past decade conforming specifically to my giant tard head. Some new pillow from fucking Target has not. That is why Walter is clutching to his pillow until he hits his deathbed, as will I. We men make a firm commitment to our pillows. We love them, warts and all. Yet you ladyfolk seem all to pleased to drop your old pillow for any new floozy pillow that comes along. Well, I guess I see where your priorities lie. Where's the loyalty, I ask you?

Justice:

Just reading a story about how Charlie Sheen's car was stolen and then found the next morning at the bottom of a cliff. This has to go right into the same lines as your imagining what you would do when trapped in a bank during a robbery: what would you do if you stole a famous person's car? Because I would suspect I would drive around for a while, check the glove compartment for a cell phone containing the numbers of other famous people and then drive it off a cliff at the end of the night, hoping for a Hollywood explosion. These robbers are my heroes.

If it were Sheen's car, I'd check for the phone and then take down the number of every hooker service he used. Because Sheen uses good hookers, and that's a good service to have at your fingertips.

I have stood outside while a mail carrier or someone else gets out of their truck or car and leaves it running. And every time that happens, a little voice in my head urges to me to jump in, pound the gas, and drive it to Mexico. No warning. No planning ahead. Just steal it, driveto a tropical country, grow a mustache, and become an agave farmer. Those running cars are just begging you to do it. How far would you get? Would you even make it fifty miles before you were busted or your conscience fucked with you?

Phil:

Ever had your ears flushed? If you use Q-tips long enough, they will push your ear gunk to the back of your ear canal and over time, there's a serious build-up. The ear flush involves a nurse sticking a baster of warm water into your ear and squeezing it through your canal. It's quite possibly one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world, but it yields golden wax nuggets one could only dream of. Most legit doctors won't do this procedure anymore because it makes you susceptible to an ear infection, but those sketchy 24-7 Pediatric Clinics will definitely do it. Bonus: your auditory range increases ten-fold after everything is flushed out.

As someone who has an inordinate amount of wax buildup, I've had this procedure done multiple times and never told anyone about it.

Now I wonder how bad my hearing is, because I use Q-Tips all the time, even though I know damn well it pushes wax back into your ear. If I'm missing a solid bassline in that one Mastodon song, I'll never forgive myself.

Ben:

Do you ever get annoyed by how some people reply to Evites? I understand that it's necessary to reply No to provide an accurate headcount, but people just seem to get a LITTLE too much satisfaction with explaining the better things they will be doing instead of attending the party. It's never a simple "We'll be out of town". Instead, it's "Jim and I have a wedding in Palm Beach that weekend". Big bonus points for exotic locations. Even more obnoxious is when the invitation comes in the form of a mass email, and these people choose to Reply to All, so you end up with a dozen of these emails from people you don't even know.

I also get frustrated with Evite because I want to know the exact guest list for the party, but some people have their user names listed on the Evite, and I can't parse them for shit. Who is JK098? Is that Jim? Or is that Jen? Because Jim is cool, and Jen is a total cunt. I don't want to go to that party if I know some shithead will be there. I demand greater transparency from Evite.

There are also people who never respond to the Evite, which will completely freak you out as the party grows closer and closer. Are these fuckers even coming or not? Why couldn't they click a button? And who's that prick that answered MAYBE? Fuck him in the pants.

Also, I've noticed that, as a married person, every party of every year falls on the same fucking date. No one spaces out their parties. I'll have a dry run for months where I'm not invited to jack shit. Then, when two assholes finally do decide to throw a party, they pick the same day. Space that shit out, people.

Jeff:

I can comfortably withstand the rumble of an impending dump for hours without a problem. But when I get anywhere near a bathroom it seems like the shit is often times bursting out of me before I can even get my ass down on the bowl. My question…is there some kind of toilet recognition system hardwired into the human anatomy that would explain my frequent close calls or am I just really good at waiting until the very last second to hit the can? Personally I think there must me some kind of sphincter sonar mechanism at play. I'd have to be the Kobe Bryant of crapping to keep sinking all of these buzzer beaters.

You do have a toilet recognition system. It's called your eyes. When they see the toilet is near, that tells the brain you can begin the process of declenching.

Ken:

I dated a woman named Ruth a number of years ago. After her and her husband got divorced he a few years earlier, he bought a boat, and named it RUTHLESS.

I thought that was the funniest thing ever, and deep down she did also.

Well played, divorced man. Very well played.

Foreskin Gump:

What's the deal with guys who cross their legs in the feminine, non figure-four position? The girth of my legs makes attempting it impossible, but there's no way that anyone with even one ball can find it comfortable to sit like that. Not to mention that doing so makes you look like a prick.

Know who does that all the time? LUPICA. Watch the Sports Reporters and you'll see it. It's a pretentious move because it's done solely for the sake of shoe display. Lupica wants you to know those Kenneth Coles ran him $400.

On the flipside, there is something most awesome about watching a woman assume that position. "Basic Instinct" aside, there are few things more satisfying than a very hot woman going on a late night show wearing a short skirt, then she sits down and makes the move to that pose. I could replay that 1,000 times.

Richard:

I have dated a girl since 2006, we got engaged in 2008, we're getting married in 4 months and we have yet to kiss. We both wanted to forgo sex until marriage for religious reasons, and thus we (was a mutual decision and I had the final say either way) decided that the thought of years of kissing and making out with no sex would be more frustrating than enjoyable.

That being said, I can tell you the number of days, hours, and minutes until the wedding night.

Enjoy the crushing bout of impotence, brother. That's what happens when you don't practice.

Alex:

Q-Tips suck. If you want pure bliss, try using a paperclip to scrape the orange matter from your inner ear. It's like scratching that one place on your back that you can't reach (you know that place). As an added bonus, you can see the fruits of your labor immediately. Try it, you won't be disappointed.

The rounded end? He has to mean the rounded end. Undoing it and using the sharp end would be like playing Russian Roulette. I dislike the idea of wiry, metal objects entering my body.

Zach:

When you're in the bathroom and both you and a neighbor are finishing up (ie: you hear the toilet paper rolling, toilet flushing, belts being buckled) at the same time, do you try and stagger your exit so that you don't have that awkward moment at the sink with the other person? I will stand in my stall, peering through the crack and waiting for the other person to leave before I show my face.

Only if there's just one sink. Standing behind the guy waiting to use the sink feels like it takes a million years.

Smokey:

Last week my buddy Brian stopped by his usual liquor store to get his usual post-work sixer of beer before heading home. He gets in line to check out when this hand grabs his shoulder and spins him around. Turning, he finds a middle-aged Hispanic guy staring back at him. The man speaks very defiantly and says, "Tomorrow: you wear red and you take a different route to work," and with that, he leaves the store. Since we live in Hollywood, my first reaction was that this was something gang-related, but not Brian. Brian could not discount the possibility that this guy might be a time-traveler from the future and he could be saving his life. If he was a time-traveler: do you think he was trying to help Brian, or are the odds greater that he was just fucking with someone in the past because he could?

I think the guy behind him as high as fuck, is what I think. Still, I'd heed his advice. What's the harm? Red flatters most men.

I would like to work up the nerve to do this to people at random points. I could get away with this if I were 90 years old and Romanian. When I'm an old man, I'm just going to walk up to people at the bank and say to them BEWARE THE CRIMSON MOON. My old age will lend my warning credence. It'll completely fuck up the person I've warned. "What did he mean? What will happen when the crimson moon hits? Fuck, is it going to snow AGAIN?"

Brock:

After going through a drive-thru, is it humanly possible to NOT eat the french fries straight out of the bag when driving?

No. And I always make it a point to dig into someone else's serving, so that mine remains full until proper eating time.

Anonymous:

I work for an arm of the Justice Department. Through the work I'm assigned I sometimes find myself in meetings with operational staff from the various clandestined service agencies. Being a lower-level grunt in the DOJ I'm never really privy to the exact position that these folks hold but rumors float that some of them are former spooks (not in that way, racist). One woman in particular is rumored to have been a total bad-ass during the Cold War. She is a heavyset, mid/late 40's-ish lesbian and she looks EXACTLY like you. Dead f'n ringer. When she walks into the room my buddy and I spend the next 45 minutes trying to contain our collective shit so as not to wind up with some cyanide in our Splenda.

Assuming that rumors of her former experience are true, it is possible that someone from the Eastern European intelligence community could mistake you for her (again, the likeness is unf'ncanny). If I'm you, I stay away from Eastern Europe for the foreseeable future.

P.S. If this is woman your mom, I'm sorry I called your mom a lesbian.

It's not my mom. IT'S ME. And I'm a double agent! You fools! You have all been deceived! Your candid confessions about shitting and masturbating are just what Mother Russia needs to rule the world once more!

Anon:

I figured that, since you're such a big fan of toilets, I'd give you some insight into how they're "performance tested" by the toilet makers. I work in the plumbing industry, so I have way too much insight into how this works. There are a bunch of different tests that manufacturers do to test toilet performance, including flushing down large marbles (the "hard poop" test), flushing tiny little granules (the "poop dust" test) and flushing wads of paper (the "tampon" test). While these tests are fun to perform in our lab, none of them compare to the mother of all toilet tests: The miso paste test.

The idea for this test is to simulate as closely as possible how a toilet flushes real poop. Obviously, they can't have somebody drop a deuce for test purposes on a consistent basis, so you need to find a compound that is as close to poop as possible. A couple of guys discovered that the closest they could get to the real thing was a certain brand of miso paste (the stuff that the Japanese make soup with). What makes this version special versus other kinds is that it's density is the rough equivalent to human poop, so it's the ideal ingredient to make a simulated turd. Of course, since it's meant to dissolve in water, you have to put the miso paste into something to prevent it from creating toilet soup. You needed something that was durable enough not to leak, something that was pliable enough that it could be molded a little and something that was as close in natural shape as possible to a real log. There is one product available out there that fit the bill perfectly: condoms. Yes, they take a rubber, stuff it with the fake crap, tie the condom up and then drop it into the bowl. They even have a cutout that sits on the seat to simulate an ass, so the poop is dropped in where it usually would be. They flush the toilet and make sure that everything goes down exactly the way it should.

As if the test isn't fun enough, they track exactly how much poop (in grams) a toilet can suck down in a single flush. Your top end toilets have to be able to flush 1,000 grams worth of fake crap down without clogging or floating up after the flush. That's 2.2 pounds of shit. Most people don't produce that in a day, let alone in one sitting, but it's a good thing to know for the morning after a bad night at the local Mexican joint.

All of this testing is meant to guarantee that your toilet can handle anything you can drop into it, from the usual solid logs to the most liquidy, disgusting diarrhea. Something to think about the next time you're sitting on the throne (or eating miso soup).

That is the most fascinating thing I've ever read. I also, I can never drink miso soup with my Japanese takeout again. Such a shame. It was like drinking salt. I liked that.

Wahoo:

You wrote about the joys of Q-tips, well allow me to tell you a cautionary tale. My buddy Keith was digging deep for a chunk of wax recently when the phone rang. Without thinking he spun to go get it, catching his elbow on the door frame and jamming the q-tip in his ear. Punctured eardrum. Worst pain he ever felt, blood gushing out of his ear and it screwed up his equilibrium so he fell several times on the way to the emergency room. After 45 minutes of bleeding all over the ER and suffering awful pain he got to see a doc. The doc said "Yep, punctured ear drum." and sent him to see a specialist. Another hour of bleeding and screaming later the ear doctor had to hold Keith's head down while sticking a long needle into his ear so he could push the small flap of skin back in place. It took a half dozen attempts.

Then I'll skip using the paper clip, thank you very much.

Dead Wrestler Of The Week: "Mr. Perfect" Curt Hennig [Rip]

The Masked Man — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 16:05:52 EST

Every week, the Masked Man, Deadspin's pro wrestling correspondent, honors the sport's fallen and examines their legacies — famous and obscure alike. Today: "Mr. Perfect" Curt Hennig, who died Feb. 10, 2003, of acute cocaine intoxication.

I know that Wikipedia isn't quite a treasure trove of contemporary photography, but at first glance it nonetheless strikes one as odd that the photo on "Mr. Perfect" Curt Hennig's page is one of him not in wrestling ring gear but instead in a referee's shirt. But it's fitting (no pun intended) — despite a fairly long career, much of it in the upper ranks of the industry, Hennig spent a large portion of his wrestling career, well, not wrestling. Hennig's WWF career was marked by injury the way that Bill Clinton's presidency was marked by controversy.

When he was in the ring, though, it was often a spectacular sight. Hennig was a top-shelf in-ring technician, and his résumé reads like a Who's Who of wrestling talent in the late '80s and '90s. He held the AWA World Tag Team Championship with Scott Hall, who was working a gimmick that was more of an anabolic Magnum P.I. than the Razor Ramon persona that would make him famous.

He beat the iconic Nick Bockwinkel for the AWA heavyweight title and lost it to Jerry "the King" Lawler. Even in his twilight days in WCW, he held the U.S. title and later was a tag team champion along with Barry Windham^{^[1]}.

During his WWF period — indubitably his heyday — he feuded with Kerry Von Erich, Shawn Michaels, Bret Hart, Hulk Hogan, Lex Luger, and Ric Flair. He was introduced to the masses as "Mr. Perfect" — a consummate athlete who was good at everything and who was well aware of that fact.

Hennig inhabited his character more fully than any wrestler this side of Kamala. He was "Mr. Perfect." But he missed large chunks of time due to injury, including almost all of the period from 1994 to 1997. He spent that time receiving millions of dollars in payment from a legendary Lloyd's of London insurance policy that Hennig had taken out after his first serious back injury. If he could have gotten a policy on what looked like a surefire Hall of Fame career, he would have made millions more.

Because in the ring, in his prime, Hennig had a magic that couldn't be duplicated and that can hardly be defined. His persona wasn't kitschy like Rick Rude's lothario act or absurdly contrived like Ted DiBiase's "Million Dollar Man" gimmick. Hennig was an asshole whom fans secretly loved, the showoff who was emulated by a cohort of little boys. As Rick Scaia, the Web's smartest (if most sporadic) wrestling writer, recently put it, "Mr. Perfect made me desperate to want to grow up to be him." And this adoration, which so many secretly harbored, came from a generation that simply did not root for the bad guy. Hennig's charisma defied that. (He didn't even change his character when he occasionally morphed into a good guy — he just started fighting bad guys.)

Little wonder, then, that those young boys grew up to be the generation of assholes. Mr. Perfect epitomized everything we wanted to be years before we could put it into words. (The prominent bulge in the front of his tights probably didn't hurt matters.) He was the harbinger for a generation of jackassery, of smart-guy sarcasm and holier-than-thou snark. We are the Mr. Perfect generation.

Which isn't to say that Hennig's career didn't have its lowlights: There was the episode of WCW Monday Nitro where he came to the ring drunk and cut a stuttering, stumbling promo. There was the "Plane Ride from Hell," in which he drunkenly brawled with Brock Lesnar^{^[2]}. And of course, there was the cocaine overdose in a Florida hotel room that ended his life.

Hennig's demise came in the midst of a wide-ranging series of wrestling deaths (Terry Gordy, Davey Boy Smith, Road Warrior Hawk, Hercules Hernandez, The Big Boss Man) that, even though fans knew wrestling was fake, destroyed once and for all the fantastic aspect of the enterprise. Hennig, I venture to say, was the most painful loss. Search the web and you'll see the level of passion in his obituaries and tributes. Hennig's death broke the hearts of all those little assholes.

So we bid you a belated farewell, Curt Hennig. You gave us all aspirations of perfection. I'll close with "Macho Man" Randy Savage's own tribute to Hennig — a song (or, rather, "song") during his short-lived music ("music") career.

FOOTNOTES:

^[1] This last run was part of a storyline that was preposterous even by WCW's nonexistent standards, when Hennig (who, let us remember, hailed from Minnesota), as part of a group called the West Texas Rednecks, took on rapper Master P and his No Limit Soldiers. Hennig and his posse even recorded a song to incite the feud:

The Atlanta-based writers of WCW somehow mistakenly thought the average wrestling fan would cheer for Master P and company. They were wrong.

^[2] Hennig was one of two wrestlers to be fired after the fabled airplane catastrophe — the other was his former partner Scott Hall — despite the fact that numerous wrestlers were at least as culpable in the madness, and so Hennig subsequently called himself the "Pete Rose of wrestling." Which is an apt comparison, except for the fact that there was a Pete Rose of wrestling: Pete Rose.

The Masked Man works in publishing.

Enraptured Saints Fans Decorate Drew Brees' Home With 'Thank You' Shrine [New Orleans Saints]

DAULERIO — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 15:35:04 EST

The front gates of Drew Brees' home near Uptown turned into one giant display of heartfelt gratitude for his quarterbacking service to Who Dat Nation. One reader, who lives close by, gave us some pictures. See more after the MORE.

Annals Of Improbable Bylines: Liz Phair In The Atlantic Monthly, Writing About NASCAR [Media Meltdowns]

Tommy Craggs — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 15:00:39 EST

The blowjob queen visits the Checker O'Reilly Auto Parts 500: "I've never been to a NASCAR race. I picture a bunch of rednecks dousing themselves with beer and slapping their wives on the ass." Strange loop, indeed. [The Atlantic]

Tall Car Salesman Is One Step Closer To Forever Changing College Sports [Ncaa]

Tommy Craggs — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 14:00:03 EST

A district court judge said yesterday that Ed O'Bannon, who sells Toyotas in Nevada when he's not revolutionizing amateur athletics, can press on with his class-action licensing suit against the NCAA. Let's just pause and marvel at this anew:

The César Chávez of amateur athletes is the guy offering you low APR financing on that late-model Camry. Amazing.

The case concerns the NCAA's use of former players' likenesses in commercials, video games, merchandise, etc., a $4 billion market of which those players see not a cent. (The NCAA is staunchly opposed to the commercialism of amateur athletics, and it will tell you as much in its many television commercials.) You can read more about the suit here. The upshot of the judge's ruling is that the NCAA will now have to crack open its books and for the first time explain, in the words of one of O'Bannon's attorneys, "how student-athletes' current and future rights in their images are divided up and sold." Dan Wetzel lays out what's at stake:

The case could lead to former student-athletes getting a cut of the multi-billion dollar college sports revenue pool and dramatically impact the way college athletics operates.

Consider a famous play such as Christian Laettner's buzzer-beating 3-pointer that lifted Duke past Kentucky in the 1992 NCAA tournament. The footage has been sold by the NCAA to be used in commercial advertisements for nearly two decades. In most cases, neither Laettner, nor any other player in the footage, has been paid. The O'Bannon lawsuit could cause the NCAA to retroactively compensate everyone in the highlight (the UK players guarding Laettner, the bench players, celebrating Duke teammates, etc.) for a cut of the revenue advertisements using that footage generated.

This is a heavy blow to the NCAA, which already is getting shoved around Capitol Hill over its tax-exempt status and which now faces the twin prospects of handing over fat piles of cash to Thomas Hill every time you see him cry on TV and of sharing revenue with all future players, too. Come on down to Crazy Ed O'Bannon's! This is a deal you can't miss out on!

O'Bannon case could be a game changer [Yahoo!]

The Curious Case Of Longhorn Girl [Deadspin I-Team]

Dashiell Bennett — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 13:20:06 EST

Who is this comely lass with the burnt-orange hair and why was she strategically placed behind the Kansas bench last night? Was she there to distract Jayhawk players from their defensive assignments or as ESPN's Valentine to lonely basketball fans?

I missed the Kansas-Texas broadcast last night so I don't know if her presence was specifically addressed on-air, but her all-too-snug t-shirt did seem to be perfectly positioned to catch the eyes of the Jayhawk bench. It would be hard for her not to stand out in that tiny sea of KU blue, but the Lawrence cagers were apparently not impressed.

However, she did tickle the fancy of at least a few Deadspin readers, one of whom saw fit to send us all six of these images, along with this uncomfortable mash note:

"A very good win made better. Not only did Kansas have to play on the road against a Top 15 team, they also had to overcome the distraction of this girl planted behind the KU bench. This girl needs some pub and an offer from Playboy."

How dare you, sir! That's America's new girlfriend you're talking about. If she (or someone who knows her) is reading this and would like to introduce herself, here's our number. I promise creepiness will be kept to a reasonable minimum.

UPDATE: The images actually come from a Kansas hoops message board, where thousands of Jayhawk fans continue to be overcome by the vapors.

Can Cable/Satellite Football Conglomerates Lure Chris Berman From Bristol? [Espn]

Dashiell Bennett — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 11:30:50 EST

Berman could go all the way to DirectTV or the NFL Network when his ESPN contract expires? It's probably just a negotiating ploy, but it sure would be neat to see him exclusively on channels my TV doesn't have. [TBL/SbB/PFT/MSF]

Last Night's Winner: Every Other Sport That's Not Football [Last Night's Winner]

Dashiell Bennett — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 10:45:07 EST

In sports, everyone is a winner—some people just win better than others. Like those who awoke from their post Super Bowl-hangover, rubbed their eyes and realized we've got a lot of time to fill between now and September.

That's good too, because lots of awesomeness is heading our way. The Opening Ceremonies of the Vancouver Olympics are on Friday. The NBA All-Star Game is Sunday, as is the Daytona 500. Pitchers and catchers report a week from Wednesday. The second half of the NHL season begins in a couple of weeks—right after you watch the best international hockey tournament ever. It's time to start paying attention to college basketball again. (Purdue-Michigan State is tonight; Duke-UNC tomorrow.) The Champions League round of 16 starts next Tuesday. There's bound to be some cricket or rugby on somewhere. Tiger's got to come back eventually, right?

Basically, all the stuff you've been not gambling on for the last six weeks is about to hit its stride. What convenient timing. Don't bother shoveling that snow, because you've got TV to watch.

Honorable Mention: Wait ... Vince Carter is alive?

Pretty Lady Will Be On Cover Of Sports Periodical [Smut]

Tommy Craggs — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 10:10:28 EST

Brooklyn Decker is the cover model of SI's ever-quaint Swimsuit Issue, which will also feature scandalous daguerreotypes of Lindsey Vonn, Ana Ivanovic, and other bathing beauties in their swimming-suits. [Sports Pros(e)]

Is That A Fleur de Lis In Your Throat Or Are You Just Drunk? [Wake Up Deadspin]

Dashiell Bennett — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 08:30:00 EST

Because no one reads the newspaper, and SportsCenter's anchors are too perky for this early in the morning, Deadspin combs the best of the broadsheets and the blogosphere to bring you everything you need to know to start your day.

* A New Orleans woman swallowed her Saints earring last week (after thinking it was one of her vitamins), but doctors fished it out in time for her to wear it to a Super Bowl party. It's the grossest good luck charm ever. [WWL]

* Programming note: The victory parade starts at 5 p.m. today, so the people currently passed out in the gutter on St. Charles should have an excellent viewing spot. [NOLA.com]

* As for the Colts, they are still beloved in Indy. At least by the 11 people who showed up to greet them at the airport. Ouch. [Indy Star]

* Donte Stallworth was reinstated by commissioner Roger Goodell, just in time for the Browns to cut him lose. Good thing that team has so much talent to burn! [Bloomberg]

* The Brewers plan to build a statue in front of Miller Park to honor the organization (and baseball's!) greatest hero: Allan H. Selig. Please, hold your vomit until you get to a sink. [MLB]

* * * * *

Tuesday, huh? By the way, to anyone who thought The Who were dressed like silly old men the other night: Was it any worse than this? '80s Daltrey owns the casual scarf look.

Our Deadspin Super Bowl Bounty Hunt Claimed The Usual Suspect: Jay Mariotti [Duan!]

DAULERIO — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 19:30:39 EST

Even though I thought our Bounty Hunt post was pretty obviously tongue-in-cheek, some people did choose to participate. No, Joe Montana did not poop on Mark Schlereth's lap, but Jay Mariotti was (again) spotted, drink in hand. Oh, and mackin'.

So congratulations to Deadspin Bounty Hunter Chris H., who won $1.53 for photo evidence of "*ESPN personality drinking alcohol."

Here's his story:

OK, so I'm at The Clevelander last night/this morning in the midst of the SUPER annoying Who Dat Nation (they're everywhere; like roaches) and in comes Mr. Mariotti. Looking so very "This is beneath me" with his mildly attractive in a MILFy way lady friend. He's surveying the scenery, which was very limited, checking things out with his lady and sucking face in the corner. A few Whodater's drunkingly come up to him and try to chat him up or exchange pleasantries, and he's having none of it. I meanwhile snap a few stealth pics of the mercurial one. Then, almost beyond belief he starts walking straight towards me. I'm standing next to the scantily dressed cigarette/cigar girl, and he proceeds to buy a fat stogie. His lady friend then asks me for a light on his behalf (I was smoking a Newport). I say sure, if I can take a picture with Mr. Mariotti. She say: "That's going to be hard; he's kind of weird." So I say tell him I'm a huge fan, I read him on FanHouse and watch ATH everyday. Mind you, this entire exchange is happening right in front of him and he's just standing there with a "look" on his face. But, the mention of his work is a game changer. All of a sudden, the hand comes out the smile comes on and he chats me up for a few second (he like's the Colts; Warren Sapp's a moron). I light his stogie, and ask again about a picture. He politely declines, because "ESPN doesn't like for their personalities to have their picture's taken when it could be misconstrued that they were out drunk and behaving badly, then those pictures could end up on one of those dumbass blogs." All in all though, he was extremely and surprisingly nice. And his lady friend was super cool, and got a little flirty with my wingman who had no idea who Mr. Mariotti was.

Anyway enjoy the pics, and the Bowl. Please let me know when I'm getting my check for $1.53.

I'm thankful these are the only $ photos we received. One woman was a little too eager to make thousands of dollars last week:

Ha. How many dongs do you want??

What if they r reality/sports stars?

Ja Adande will be w porn stars so that's done.

I can definitely convince some athlete to grab my boob.

I have a clear advantage here.

Ill keep you abreast of the situation.
Ha. She said breast. He he heh heh

Alas, no dongs.

*****

Thanks for your continued support of Deadspin. Stay tuned later for a full gallery of NSFW photos we received from readers in South Beach this week. It'll give us both something to do during the whiskey hours.

Stephen A. Smith Is Back, And He Requires A Police Escort [Media Meltdowns]

Tommy Craggs — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 18:05:33 EST

Stephen A. is columnizing anew, but only on the condition that he pretend not to have any political opinions. Also, if his Twitter is to be believed, he is now a rock star. [Maynard Institute, Twitter]

Marisa Miller Was Also Wearing A Jockstrap During The Beach Football Game [Mediapantsdowns]

DAULERIO — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 17:50:54 EST

That is all. (Thanks to Gamboa Constrictor for his citizen journalism.)

I Was There: "It Was The First Time I Actually Saw Women Making Out With Cars" [#Iwasthere]

Tommy Craggs — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 16:45:06 EST

New Orleanian Christian Sauska was there, too, and he sends us the following account:

Super Bowl Sunday started for me in Florida. While for many that may have been the place to me, there was no doubt that I needed to leave and get back home to New Orleans for the main event. The day itself gave signals of different kinds of things happening from the get go, so it all made sense that it would end with the strangest of all being the Saints finally winning the Super Bowl.

I spent an hour of the morning with my father at a Starbucks, (That was the second strangest event of the day) before I headed to the airport. I was upgraded to first class, undoubtedly because I was wearing a Saints shirt, on my first leg to Atlanta. That's when I saw out of the corner of my eye John Bell, lead singer for Widespread Panic. While this isn't the first time I met him (The first was in a hotel lobby 5 years ago at 2am with half my pants ripped off and a phone cord wrapped around my head. I don't think he recognized me though) I was a bit nervous. I am known to make a fool of myself in front of famous or even quasi famous people. A couple of free vodkas in and I was ready to make my move. Still slightly shaking I went up and told him I look forward to seeing him at Jazzfest and would he mind a quick picture. Score! If I could summon the courage for this certainly the Saints could dig deep to stop Peyton Manning.

I made it home in time for kick off and shot over to my buddies house to join my wife and kids for the game. My 3 month old, a future footballer for sure, was showing his spirit and embrace of local flavor by drooling on his "Poo Dat" onesie. It's things like this that make a father proud.

After the onside kick and we knew the Saints would win creating the perfect trifecta of weird events for the day we started planning the assault on the French Quarter because,well because it is the French Quarter. Driving downtown was a trip in and of itself. Fireworks going off, people dancing and falling in the streets and the closer we got to the quarter the louder the ensemble of car horns blowing became. Only in New Orleans could all the horn blowing be in rhythm.

The closer we got the crazier it became. Coming up on Canal Street the police were in full force and smiling. This clearly had a different vibe than Mardi Gras. The streets were packed, people were dancing and drinking (obviously) and standing up and getting Crunk. A lot. Funny how that song doesn't get old down here and drives everyone nuts. Apparently it is an aphrodisiac as well because several of the tricked out and pimped out rides blaring the song were scoring with several women and it was the first time I actually saw women making out with cars. It was either the song or the Sprewell Rims on the car. I may never know.

From grown up man mime saints dressed as nuns scaring people from the windows of their French Quarter boutiques to the obligatory Bourbon Street rites of passage of a skinny black man in his underwear ...

... and a woman throwing up on the street ...

... I knew all was going to be okay and normalcy was soon to return.

Oh what a day and oh what a time to be in New Orleans. I hope the passion of the people comes through because it had been building for ever. There is a special bond that exists, the Saints went through Katrina and came back like a lot of these people. I love special things and this was special.

I can't believe my kids get to grow up here.

Got more? Submit to tips@deadspin.com or #iwasthere

Super Bowl 44: Most Watched TV Thing Ever [Television]

Dashiell Bennett — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 16:30:39 EST

Over 106 million American people watched the Big Game last night, breaking the U.S. audience record held by the series finale of M*A*S*H since 1983. Finally, someone put that smug Alan Alda in his place! [Hollywood Reporter/Gawker]

Merril Hoge: "Just A Jockstrap," Not Terrifying S&M South Beach Party Hammock [Mediapantsdowns]

DAULERIO — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 16:15:29 EST

One of the more haunting images from Super Bowl XLIV's celebrity-fueled weekend was ESPN's Merril Hoge's unfortunate de-pantsing. He's claimed "not through a spokesman because that would make it sound too serious" that it was just a jockstrap.

Give Hoge some credit— he's so old school. Even during celebrity beach football.

Your Inaugural A*HOLE BOSS DIGEST [Ballsdeep]

Drew Magary — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 15:45:16 EST

Welcome to Asshole Boss digest, where we regale you, the Deadspin reader, with stories of the meanest, cruelest, most batshit insane bosses you've ever worked under. Off we go.

Target: Not as charming as the ads may suggest

Anon:

In high school, I was employed by Target as a cashier/electronics associate. I'll spare you the sob story, but during the course of my employment there my grandmother became very ill unexpectedly, and the prognosis was very bad. One day while working my shift, I got a text from my uncle saying that things did not look good for my grandmother (who was in the hospital), and I should come say goodbye. I jogged over to my boss and explained the situation to her, and asked her if I could leave early. "No," she said, "Not unless I talk to one of her doctors on the phone to make sure you're not lying." I could only stare blankly for a minute, and then realized she wasn't, in fact, shitting me. I then basically turned around and left anyway.

Turns out my grandmother didn't pass away that day, but several days later. When I returned to work, I discovered that she had submitted a recommendation to her boss that I be fired for "Concocting an excuse to get out of work early." So, as a result of my fucking bitch of a boss, I had to go through a "coaching" (basically a management review board) explaining to my bosses that I wasn't in fact lying about the scope of my grandmother's illness. On the day after her funeral. Management sympathized with my situation, but my boss never faced any disciplinary action; In fact, she's now manager of the store. I know you're not supposed to name names in these things, but Michelle: Swallow a fucking knife, twat.

Friendly's: Come for the ice cream, stay for the unconscious groping

Terence:

My first job ever was as a dishwasher at a Friendly's restaurant. I, along with most of the staff (except for this shockingly terrifying fellow nicknamed 'X-Ray' who had a tattoo of a fucking bat on his shaved head, which like, holy shit) were in our mid-teens. I was around 15 personally. My boss at the time was a short middle-aged fat guy who looked like Ron Jeremy if he had been dipped in a vat of cooking oil and set out to dry for a few hours, a truly disgusting guy.

What made this guy even MORE disgusting is that he quite obviously had a thing for underage girls. A particularly harrowing tale comes from one evening when I was forced to go to the emergency room. I had slashed open a finger on a broken coke glass and was bleeding quite a bit. Now, one of the waitresses I worked with was terrified of blood and couldn't stand to see a scratch let alone the horror show that my finger had become. I called for help and she was the first person to arrive and, because of the gore, promptly passed the fuck out on the floor. My horrid boss was the next to show up in the backroom and, after assessing my injury and it's immediate need of an emergency room, went over to the waitress, who was maybe 16, and tried to help her up. He pretty much groped every inch of her body in the most horrifically disgusting manner possible. She was barely coming out of her stupor when he finally got her into a chair having thoroughly violated every moral and ethical code I would have thought possible in the workplace. Soon after, as he was driving me to the emergency room, he explained to me the merits of one of his life long codes, which was, as you could guess, "if there's grass on the field, play ball". I gained more than one scar for sure that night. What a fucking douchebag.

I do not care for your clicking

Mike:

My boss is so critical, he once told me that I double-clicked my mouse too fast. As in, my double-click was so quick that my computer couldn't register/process it. So he had me double-click the program on my desktop again, this time "more deliberately". Of course, my computer was simply being slow, and after several minutes of waiting the same program opened up twice.

"Your daughter's a whore."

Joe:

This guy would pick one employee at random each week to dress down in front of everyone else. He'd thunder into the room where all the desks were, park himself in front of someone's desk and lay into them. Sometimes it would be about their actual work performance, stuff like, "Your sales numbers are pathetic. What are you doing all day, jacking off in the men's room?" But most of the time it was personal stuff. There was one woman there who was going through a messy divorce and her teenage daughter was acting out because of all the stress at home. The boss guy stood at the entrance to her workstation, with his considerable girth blocking any exit, and started in with stuff like, "So, I hear your daughter is fucking half the basketball team just to piss you off now. You're a great fucking mother, aren't you?"

Some of the shit this guy did was just unbelievable and incredibly hateful. One day, he walked up to a the woman who managed the office, a very meek and mild mannered lady who everyone in the office loved, and he just started mocking how she was dressed, how she'd put on weight (like he had room to criticize anyone for gaining weight) how ridiculous her hair style was, making fun of the decorations on her desk and even going so far as to pick up a picture of one of her kids and say something like, "How'd your boy end up so good looking? I've met your husband. What'd you do, fuck the mailman?" With that, the woman he was harassing snapped. She stood up, grabbed the fresh cup of hot coffee from her desk and threw it into his face. Then she told him to shove his fucking job up his ass so far that it came out his mouth and left. We never saw her again. It was weeks before he went back to his weekly pattern of fucking with some random person after that.

Eventually, it was my turn. But on the day he decided to dump on me I guess he'd ran out of ammo and just stood at my desk and said, "You're useless. You're fired." For years after working there I would daydream of the massive coronary that I'm certain killed that bastard.

Peyton Manning: Yep, Still A Choker [Super Bowl XLIV]

Dashiell Bennett — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 14:45:07 EST

Before the Super Bowl, two versions of this post were already written. One where Peyton Manning becomes the greatest quarterback ever and one where he comes up just short. I didn't expect to write one where he crashes and burns.

I got called names last year for saying that Peyton Manning was a choker after he lost a game where he never got to touch the ball in overtime. This time, it was his comeback-killing interception that sealed the Saints' Super Bowl victory. Is it fair that one errant pass—on a route the receiver probably botched—should determine a player's legacy? No, of course not. But sports are not fair. There can be no doubt that if his team had won last night, Manning would have received all of the credit and no one would have objected.

But that does that make him a total failure? After all, you can't blow a big game without being good enough to put yourself in a position to blow it. Most NFL quarterbacks will never even see nine playoffs games; forget about screwing them up. But the truth is that Manning has indeed lost the same number of playoff games that he's won. (He needed two wins this year just to get back to .500.) Even the greatest of the greats don't win them all, but we're talking Buffalo Bills/Atlanta Braves territory here. Nothing against Bobby Cox, but egghead authors aren't exactly lining up to write books about his genius.

Peyton Manning is a phenomenal quarterback. His mastery of signal-calling and his understanding of the mathematics of football is unrivaled. Replace him with Curtis Painter and the Colts are lucky to win three games this year. After surrendering a ten-point lead in the Super Bowl, he calmly marched his team down the field and took it back. He played a great game last night. But in the biggest possible moment he made the worst possible mistake. Like it or not, that's choking. It's not the first time it's happened and it may not be the last. One Super Bowl win is great, but it doesn't mean those nine losses didn't happen.

Yesterday was a reminder that Peyton Manning, as great as he is, still doesn't quite belong in that truly elite category of winners. Maybe he's more like ... gasp ... Brett Favre. An insanely talented playmaker whose greatest strength—his willingness to place his team's entire fortunes on his throwing shoulder—is also his greatest weakness. Because you cannot win a Super Bowl that way. You can't win it by yourself.

Manning has tried desperately to raise everyone else on the Colts to his level—and done a pretty decent job, actually. But in the end, they all choke together. Again.

Saints trash Peyton Manning's legacy [Jason Whitlock]
Another disappointment for Peyton [Joe Posnanski]
Lone fourth-quarter turnover haunts Peyton Manning after loss [USA Today]
Manning beats an unhappy, hasty retreat [FoxNews]
Poll: Is Peyton Manning's legacy tarnished if he doesn't win another Super Bowl? [LA Times]

You, Dim PR Person, Are Dumb And Should Be Fired From Your Job [PR Dummies]

DAULERIO — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 13:30:29 EST

PR people are stupid. Not all of them, just some of them. Like this person, who just sent this pitch into our tips box multiple times for a Valentine's Day tie-in. Because they are dumb.

[Sic'd]

Hi There,

I've got an idea for a quirky Valentine's Day story I thought you might be interested in. Folks are obviously not willing to fork out as much money this year, but they can still show their sweethearts a little TLC by spending good quality time together. And with statistics showing that year over year more and more females are picking up videogame's it seems that perhaps a good quality date might be to stay in and share some time playing a game together.

We took a poll of the best games to play with your sweetheart on Valentine's Day and here's what we found.

Top 10 Games to play with your Valentine:

1. The Beatles: Rock Band – What's better than busting out "I Want To Hold Your Hand" with your true love?

2. Mario Kart – Mario, Luigi and good ‘ol fashion racing competition – she'll dig it and maybe even beat you at it!

3. Grand Theft Auto (series) – Let your innocent darling transform into your bad girl fantasy as she takes on the role of a hardened criminal!

4. Super Smash Bros. Brawl – In a tense relationship? Release the aggression by taking out your sweetheart in this free-for-all. Once you get it all out there'll be nothing left but time for cuddling

5. Resident Evil 5 – Zombies, guns and a creepy village! Nothing better than getting a little back up from your sweetie!

6. Dragonica Online – Not ready to settle down in real life? Show your sweetie you're not afraid of commitment and tie the knot virtually in this fun, free-to-play online game full of fantasy and adventures!

7. bittos+- Nothing like doing a good puzzle with your mate, can't afford diamonds? Give her all the diamonds in the world in this puzzler!

8. Fairytale Fights – Let your shnookems hack n' slash you all night in the shoes of a sick and twisted Little Red Riding Hood or Snow White!

9. Dance Dance Revolution – The best way to get a private dance from your mate and a great workout all at the same time!

10. A Perfect Massage – After a long gaming session with your significant other, why not settle down for a nice massage session using nothing, but this software and your XBOX 360 controller!

Would love to talk to you more about a possible Valentine's Day story stemming off of this… I'm here if you want to chat.
Thanks,
[Redacted] Reverb Communications-

So there's your link.

Meanwhile, Florida State Oh So Quietly Vacates A Bunch Of Bobby Bowden's Victories [College Football]

Tommy Craggs — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 13:20:54 EST

FSU, in a fit of Super Bowl Sunday housecleaning, throws out 12 football victories, 22 men's basketball victories, a track championship, some old Sam Cassell photos, and a bunch of expired Foot Locker coupons. [Orlando Sentinel, Daily Fix]

Lord, How I Want To Be In That Number [Bon Temps]

Tommy Craggs — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 12:05:29 EST

I could watch videos like this all day long. [Vimeo, h/t reader Jay]

Cameron Diaz Has Unenviable Task Of Bringing Yankees 28th World Series [Tmzishsports]

DAULERIO — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 11:57:28 EST

According to Ok! magazine, Cameron Diaz has hopped on the Blue-Lipped Express that is Alex Rodriguez. The two were seen dancing and being flirty with each other over the weekend. So that means they're totally doing it. [OK!]

I Was There: The Happiest Abandoned Streetcar In New Orleans [#Iwasthere]

DAULERIO — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 11:20:45 EST

In the fourth quarter, after the Saints had pulled ahead 24-17, (I'm told) I ran into Carrollton Ave and stopped a streetcar by standing in front of it and waving my arms...

I told the operator the score. She promptly fled her post and came into the bar with us. Attached is a picture of the abandoned streetcar.

Later, I was outside Molly's in the French Quarter. At one point, a lady in a sexy dress climbed onto the roof of a truck, denting it badly, and did what I can only assume was an unlicensed fire dance. Picture also attached.

Capt M.D./NMCI

Got more? Submit to tips@deadspin.com or #iwasthere

Steve Phillips "Moves On" By Spilling His Guts To Matt Lauer [Media Meltdowns]

Dashiell Bennett — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 11:00:57 EST

Steve Phillips made it out of sex rehab alive and has definitely seen the error of having sex with people who aren't your wife. So he went on "Today," because this is information that America needs to hear.

You see, sex addiction rehab is traditionally followed by "image rehabilitation" and that begins with a mealy-mouthed pseudo-apology on national TV. Sex addiction is not an excuse, except when you need to explain away a single extra-marital affair and maybe try to convince someone to give you a job. The worst part, however, is all the media attention that gets placed on your family three months after everyone stopped talking about you. Why won't these vultures stop conducting live one-on-one interviews with him?

"Baseball Tonight" probably isn't calling back, but maybe he and Eliot Spitzer can start a scouting service together.

[Thanks to Gawker.tv and NBC for the clips]

And On Cue, Rick Reilly® Says Something Stupid About New Orleans [Media Meltdowns]

Tommy Craggs — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 09:35:22 EST

ESPN let Reilly talk on the television again, and he spoke grandly of "St. Bernard's [sic] Parish" (over B-roll of the Garden District) and the "bars all over the Latin Quarter," which is in Paris. [ESPN]

New Orleans Wins The Weekend [Super Bowl XLIV]

Dashiell Bennett — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 08:40:50 EST

In sports, everyone is a winner—some people just win better than others. Like the City of New Orleans, which overcame the devastation of blah, blah, blah. When does Mardi Gras start?

Yes, there isn't much to say about rebuilding the spirit of a city that hasn't already been covered, so I'll just go ahead and agree with our commenter who pointed out that the guy who created this sign probably doesn't live in Louisiana. If he does, he should be beaten with a muffaletta. I know Drew Brees totally spun the Earth backwards last night and undid that terrible storm, but for a lot of people it's still very real so don't ruin this otherwise happy moment by being a overzealous jackass about it.

I've spent most of the last week arguing that the people of New Orleans are nothing if not realistic. A loss would not have sent the city into a tailspin of despair and a win wouldn't fool residents into believing all their problems are over. That's why it was so easy for the nation to get behind them. They are very, very happy at the moment, and rightfully so, but when these long-suffering fans finally wake up from their post-game slumber (I'm guessing that will be sometime around 10:00 a.m. ... on Tuesday) they'll go back to being the same old jazz-loving freaks they normally are. Life goes on in the Big Easy.

After all, those parade floats won't build themselves.

* * * * *

Here are some other big winners who did not win quite as big:

Sean Payton: The only thing that could have made that onside kick better was if the coach had done the Sam Cassell "big balls" dance afterward. Payton worked his four quarters game plan to perfection, and every big decision he made paid off handsomely. Even if he hadn't been squared off against an inanimate object, it's hard to imagine a better coaching job in a bigger spot. Free gumbo for life!

Drew Brees: Wow. I remember when the prize for Super Bowl MVP was just a Pontiac Aztec.

Pasty white asses: There were no fewer than six commercials last night that prominently featured unattractive dudes without pants on. That's not funny. That's a sickness. And I'm pretty sure that Africa commercial was racist.

Jeremy Shockey: How did the least likable Saint—and the guy that you probably forgot was still on the team—end up with the ball in hands at such a key moment? Eh, let him have it. It's a celebration!

Hangers-on: One unfortunate side effect of the sentimental favorite actually winning? Annoying bandwagony a-holes who couldn't give two shits about football or the Saints got to celebrate "their" incredible victory last night. I was reminded of this semi-annual occurrence at the terrible scenester Super Bowl party I ended up at, when the girl who sat next to me the entire game and didn't watch a single frame of the action, finally turned on me during the Colts' final drive and demanded that I explain to her what was going on. When the game ended she cheered louder than anybody. I hate people so much sometimes.

Tracy Porter: In the span of just three Sundays, the man has permanently blemished two of the greatest careers in football history. Do not cross him.

[Top photo credit: BRETT DUKE / THE TIMES-PICAYUNE. Bottom: AP]

Was You There? A Reminder [Announcements]

Barry Petchesky — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 01:00:00 EST

From ground zero in Miami to Bourbon Street, we know you've got stories. Tell 'em in the comments and tag them #iwasthere, and send in your photos to tips@deadspin.com — we'll be featuring the best.

Bourbon Street Has Not Been Set On Fire (Yet) [New Orleans]

DAULERIO — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 22:59:41 EST

If you go to NOLA.com right now, you can watch their live Bourbon Street cam, which is a little sluggish because most of America is clicking on it, hoping to catch a stray boob.

For now, though, it's just a lot of slow-walking celebrations and occasional beads being chucked from buildings. No real signs of fights, no marching bands, no flashing, no public urination: it's like the most boring episode of "Cops" ever. But it's a happy one.

I'm sure in the next few hours, the photos will start to flow in, chronicling the joyful chaos. Until then, enjoy the afterglow of the third consecutive great Super Bowl.

If anyone else has front-line photos, send them to our tips line, please. If you're in New Orleans, be sure to file reports in our #iwasthere section.

Congratulations, New Orleans. You have exactly one hour left to keep "Who Dat?!" chants adorable and not annoying.

Super Bowl Comment Party [Super Bowl]

Barry Petchesky — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 18:00:00 EST

Join your frenemies from Deadspin, Gawker and Jezebel for our own little Super Bowl mixer. Football! Commercials! Booze, if you've got it! Play nice with each other, children.

Before The Spectacle, A Reminder Of What It's About [Nfl]

Barry Petchesky — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 17:15:00 EST

Please go read the story of Dexter Manley, his addiction, and the man to whom he entrusted his Super Bowl ring to protect it from his demons. [Houston Chronicle]

Watch The Tebow Ad Now: Much Ado About Nothing (Update: With Behind The Scenes Commentary) [Politics]

Barry Petchesky — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 16:07:49 EST

And, here it is. After much kicking and screaming, it turns out to be wholly innocuous, with an invite to read "the full story" on their website. Now go send Craggs some hate mail.

Right On Schedule, Here's The "Kid Teased For His Loyalty" Article [Nfl]

Barry Petchesky — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 15:45:00 EST

I feel like we get this story four times a year (once for each sport), but let's be dutiful bloggers and tell you about the Colts fan who got sent home from school during a Saints rally. Sigh.

Maurepas High School is only an hour from New Orleans, so it's natural they would do something to support the local team. They relaxed the school uniform policy for Friday's Black And Gold Day, but only for Saints jerseys. Larry Frost wore his Joseph Addai jersey, and had to go home early.

Frost only moved from Indianapolis three years ago, so it's not like he's the usual punk just trying to stir up shit. He's an honest-to-god fifth column in their midst.

You can't offer other people a chance to celebrate their heritage and not offer it to someone else because they like another team," [father] Brandon Frost said.

I didn't know a geographic pro sports team was included in heritage, but the ACLU's involved. (Somehow they sent a letter on Friday afternoon, which would appear to be mere minutes after Frost went home from school. Makes me think this was a planned protest; he's the Rosa Parks of meaningless shit.)

Problem is, Frost's not really in any trouble. The school board says they never told him to go home, just to remove the jersey. The night before his father told him if they gave him hassle, to just come home. So this is all just some overblown mini-tempest, good for filling column inches before the game. Nothing wrong with that.

Jersey yields controversy [The Advocate]

I Went To A UFC Match, And A Fight Broke Out [MMA]

Barry Petchesky — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 15:00:00 EST

As Mark Coleman transitioned into forced retirement, Tito Ortiz cursed him out from cageside, while girlfriend Jenna Jameson gave the finger. That's probably not a first for Jenna, if "Where The Boys Aren't 17" is any indication. [cagewriter]

Reggie Bush's Self-Proclaimed Jump-Off Would Like To Show You Some Proof [Nfl]

Barry Petchesky — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 14:15:00 EST

The woman who claims she came between Reggie and Kim Kardashian has released a video of her in a bikini at Bush's home. Also, she's gotten a creepily Kim K-like makeover. Fatal Attraction stuff, after the jump.

Carmen Ortega's name surfaced soon after Reggie and Kim's temporary split this summer, as the rumored homewrecker. Well, she's back, claiming to set the record straight. She does this by showing footage of her lounging around his Hollywood Hills home.

First things first: that is definitely Reggie's house. Compare:

And if you've got any lingering doubts, check out his custom made Suzuki in the video. But, interestingly, that bike was auctioned off in April, and Kim and Reggie didn't split until late July. Make of that what you will.

We're not sold yet. It's good timing for Ms. Ortega, the one-time "stripper/professional escort," if she's looking to make some fame. It's curious that the video is sponsored by a shady-looking ringtone company. And, above all, consider how much worth you assign to the word of someone who'll willingly tell the world she's the other woman.

When You Don't Need To Read Past The Headline [Sad? Whimsy?]

Barry Petchesky — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 13:30:00 EST

"Gay, Mentally Challenged Biracial Male Cheerleader Claims Discrimination." I gotta be honest, I don't feel completely right throwing this piece of meat to you commenter dogs. Be kind. [Seattle Weekly]

Worst Piece Of Journalism From Super Bowl XLIV — Indianapolis Edition [Media Meltdowns]

Barry Petchesky — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 12:45:00 EST

With all due respect to Tommy, I think this idiotic screed painting Sean Payton as a modern Benedict Arnold is as bad as anything that's been produced this week. Bob Kravitz from the Indianapolis Star, come on down!

Before a big game, wanting to win isn't enough. You have to really want to beat the other team, and drum up hatred for their players, their city, and everything they stand for. (New York Magazine has the excellently named feature "The Evil People Who Are Attempting to Take What Is Rightfully Ours.")

But it can be tough to find something to hate about the Saints. They stay out of legal trouble (the closest would be Donté Stallworth). They avoid the drugs (sure Charles Grant and Will Smith took StarCaps, but who hasn't?). And yes, the whole Katrina thing.

But Bob Kravitz has found a unique angle. One sure to make any undecided fan turn rabidly against the Saints, for their transgressions against football — nay, against America itself.

You see, Sean Payton was a replacement player in 1987.

Crapping your pants in indignation yet?

A scab.

Actually, a backup scab — he played quarterback behind starting scab Mike Hohensee — who undermined the NFL Players Association and crossed the picket line so he could chase some kind of dubious dream of wearing an NFL uniform.

Some decisions can be forgiven as youthful indiscretions, lapses in judgment. This is not one of them. Payton is getting a lot of cheers this week for his coaching acumen — all of them are deserved — but his entrée into this league came at the expense of the same union members who now put their bodies on the line for him and his staff.

Now, because any good columnist will do some actually reporting to back up their assertions, Kravitz spoke to four players: two former Bears whose picket line Payton crossed, and two current Saints involved with the players' union. Think they had Kravitz's back?

Jim McMahon:

Really? I didn't even know that. Makes no difference to me."

Dan Hampton:

Kids like Payton, they were chasing a dream. I can't be too hard on them. And the important thing is, he used that opportunity and was fearless about it. Look what he's become. I look at the union now, and it only enhances (Payton's) stature in my eyes.''

Drew Brees:

I don't think our generation looks at those (replacement players) like it was their fault or anything like that."

Jon Stinchcomb:

How are you going to ask somebody to give up an opportunity to play in the league that otherwise they might not have?"

Holy shit. To sum up, here's how the writing of Bob Kravitz's column went.

1) Decide Sean Payton's a traitor
2) Talk to the people he supposedly betrayed
3) Find out that none of them consider him a traitor
4) Write the column anyway
5) ???
6) Profit

Kravitz's aim was to get your bile rising, and to be honest, it worked. But something's wrong when that ill feeling is caused by self-righteous lines like "my version of the American Dream doesn't involve crossing a picket line. But that's just me." and "there are certain life choices that speak to a man's essential character, whether he's 23 or 53."

Congratulations, Bob Kravitz. You somehow wrote a column worse than "I don't hate pizza anymore."

Kravitz: Payton's start a shocker [Indy Star]