AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.
Yesterday, I attended the "BlogPhiladelphia Unconference", owing my alleged blogworthyness partly to Philadelphia magazine's supposed blog that was supposed to launch three months ago, but mostly because of my affiliation with Deadspin nation thanks to this here column. For, as I've pointed out on numerous occasions, my blogging abilities since the time of Oddjack are very suspect, considering that site shut down due to lack of traffic. In one of the many interviews I conducted yesterday at the event, I expounded upon why I thought I was such a terrible blogger. One of the reasons: My lack of discipline and attention span, two things that are pretty much required when you're a full-time employee of Gawker Media, which, as you may know, requires a quota for monthly posting. (Ed. Note: We happily soar past this number every month. We like our job a little too much.)
At Oddjack, I was terrible at doing the required 12 posts per day — some days there would 12, some days 8— but I would make sure that, come the end of the month, I would always make my quota somehow. During one of the early months, I realized that I was coming up incredibly short and needed 32 posts in one day in order to get paid the full amount. 32. But after 16 furious hours, I completed it.
Another thing I mentioned about guaranteed traffic killers was an utter lack of expertise on a chosen subject matter. At the time, poker was extremely popular and was expected to be a significant portion of Oddjack's daily coverage. The extent of my poker knowledge consisted of the stupid home games I played in junior high like Acey Duecy, Indian and the always rollicking "Pants Off, Who's Knockin'?", which can only be played with five jokers and at a location that has Dutch doors. Thankfully, I had the criminally underrated (but nonetheless brilliant) BG pulling together all the poker and horse racing stuff while I dicked around all day, sometimes chiming in with the occasional poker post that consisted of talking about the obesity of poker players.
Which gets to my point. (Finally. Apologies. Hungover like a motherfucker.) Charlie Weis has reopened his lawsuit against the surgeons that botched his own fatty suck surgery which he had five years ago and experienced deadly complications afterwards. Although Weis is not expected to be in playing shape his whole life, he should be able to keep his weight from spiraling so far out of control again that he's forced to staple two tablecloths to his thighs in order to wear pants. Mr. Weis is not alone in his offensive corpulence, however, and will surely not be the last person actively involved in the sports world to take such measures.
So this week, I'm blow-drying my banana trail, moisturizing my stretch marks and placing odds on the next sports-related individual to have gastric bypass surgery.
Commence stick-poking after this MORE.
Phil Mickelson: 4/1
Even though he's de-boobed himself a little bit in an attempt to better his game, Mickelson appears to have the genetic makeup to gain 14 pounds after eating one Fig Newton. He also appears to be incredibly vain, and in an effort to stave off being dangerously obese, his date with GBS is imminent. If he doesn't, Mickelson can look forward to being a 450-pound golfer on the Senior PGA tour, whose lone endorsement money will come from Hamburger Helper and mobility scooter companies.
Tonya Harding: 3/1
Did anybody else think for a second that Tonya Harding was playing the salad-tossing old broad on Entourage a couple weeks ago? She wasn't, but thanks to a post-skating career that's morphed her into the Butterbean of female boxing, Harding could've easily played the part. However, if Harding wants to regain even a smidgen of that trailer park sexuality that briefly made her appealing to meth lab owners, she'll have to get pumped. Hooray for Rim Jobs.
Andy Reid: 1/1
Reid's been teetering on the brink of obesity for so long, even his mustache has 65 percent body fat. And given his recent family troubles, look for Reid to find solace in a bathtub full of Touchdown Sundae. Reid, who seems to be the type of guy that enjoys his girth, will most likely not willingly have this surgery. So look for the Eagles to resort to blow-darting Reid at Lehigh this summer and then airlifting him to Thomas Jefferson hospital to undergo the procedure.
His glory days of Sumo dominance are behind him, leaving him only fading memories and a closet full of flag-sized kimonos. What can Akebono do with all that junk now that he's no longer wrestling? Leaving it behind is the only option. But a 20-year diet of fetal pig sandwiches and cheese milkshakes are hard habits to break. Enter GBS for the mighty Akebono, who could probably make some much-needed income by selling his fat to perfume companies in Japan. Akebono Musk: Smell the Bulbous.