You may be big NFL fan. You may be a big NBA fan. We all have our favorite sports. But, after last night, you’d be hard-pressed to argue that ANY sport ends its season in more memorable fashion than baseball.

Because you always have to get that last out. There’s no clock to run down. You can’t kneel. You bleed time off. In baseball, the other team always gets a last chance at you. And you have to stop them for the damn thing to finally be over. When an NFL team wins a Super Bowl, they usually start pouring out onto the field while the clock is still winding down. You’ll see a lot of players look around at the end of a football game as if to say, “Hey, it’s okay for us to go out on the field, right? OKAY!”

And even before that clock runs out, if you’re up by 14 points or so with a minute left, the game was never really in doubt. Same with basketball. The existence of the clock means that certain leads are insurmountable. But not baseball. In baseball, leads are ALWAYS surmountable. So you can’t rest until that last out. You can hardly breathe until that last fucking out is recorded.

So when that final out comes, what it does is provide a single unified moment of pure, shared ecstasy. Everyone explodes together, in that one instant. And that’s what you saw last night. And that’s why that moment is forever. You REMEMBER that last out. You remember Orosco. You remember Wainwright. And now, you remember Lidge.

Say what you will about FOX, but after the game ended, the network was smart enough to simply replay the moment of Brad Lidge’s strikeout again and again and again. From every angle. We saw Ryan Howard react. We saw Jimmy Rollins react. We saw the dugout react. We saw Lidge react. We saw fans jump higher than a moon shot. We saw outfielders instantly break into a sprint towards the mound, hands raised. It was if they had isolated a camera on every single person in the stadium in order to capture them in that one fleeting second.

And God dammit, it was glorious.

It’s easy to be cynical about baseball sometimes. But only baseball, among all sports, gives you that moment of the last out. That one second where all the tension, all the anxiety, and all the hopes and fears explode into a giant cathartic roar. That’s the one thing that baseball has above all sports.

And that’s why it will never die.

Picture from ESPN.com

When we started KSK two years ago, I did a series of phony interviews called 10 Yards Of Awkwardness, where I “asked” various players retarded questions and then had them give non-answers. It was fun, but I’ve always wanted to find a real player to give me real non-answers to my fusillade of blithering idiocy.

And I’m pleased to say I’ve finally found one. Kind of. It’s Redskins All-Pro tight end, part-time blogger, and full-time hotpants wearer Chris Cooley, who is fast becoming the NFL’s answer to Gilbert Arenas.

Chris agreed to sit down for an interview with me. He also took me up on the option of answering “no comment” to every question. When you see the questions, you’ll understand why. But, as far as I’m concerned, it still counts as an interview, fuckos! Watch out, Barbara Walters. I’m coming up on your withered old ass. ALL THE SOFT LIGHTING AND FACELIFTS IN THE WORLD CAN’T HIDE THE FACT THAT YOU ARE OLDER THAN DEATH ITSELF.

I'd like to make this a semi-regular feature here at Deadspin, so if you’re a pro or college athlete, coach, broadcaster, columnist, attractive sideline reporter, mascot, or team masseur who’d like to subject yourself to a grating, no-win interview, just email me! There's no better career move! I can help improve your Q rating by least .00000008 points. You can thank me afterwards. Onto the questions!

Chris, thanks for taking time to sit down and talk with me. The Redskins recently acquired Jason Taylor. You’re white. How much has he helped improve your dancing?

No comment.

The other week, you wrote on KSK that training camp was as fun as a “bag of dicks”. Tell me, if you leave a dirty bag of dicks in your locker overnight, does the Redskins equipment manager replace it with a bag of fresh, clean dicks the next morning?

No comment.

You recently married a Redskins cheerleader. You also went to school in Utah. Just how many Redskin cheerleaders do you plan on marrying?

No comment.

Your wife (pictured above) was fired by the team after it was revealed that you two were then dating. Is it difficult to play for a team that fired your wife over a rather minor conflict of penis?

No comment.

The Washington Post reported that, when your wife turned 21 last year, her father and you did 21 shots apiece. Don’t you realize that was a classic father-in-law trap? One second, you’ve got yourself a new drinking buddy. The next, he’s getting you to confess about that time you ran a train on a group of girls from the fat sorority.

No comment.

You’re originally from Wyoming. Let me ask you: is Wyoming really all that necessary?

No comment.

You once wrote that your wife “dressed to make men panic”. Does that mean she walks around with a t-shirt saying “I’M GONNA CHOP YOUR DICK OFF!” or something like that?

No comment.

Jim Zorn: Underwhelming coach, or the underwhelmingest coach?

No comment.

Zorn will be the team’s head coach, offensive coordinator, and QB coach. Why not the team keyboardist as well?

No comment.

Last season, Michael Wilbon wrote that Sean Taylor’s death didn’t surprise him in the least. Do you think it would surprise Michael Wilbon if I shat in his kir royale?

No comment.

You recently posted your pregame iPod playlist. It has David Gray on it. David Gray? Really? More like David GAY!

No comment.

Can you tell me what sort of crazy characters Clinton Portis plans to dress up as this year as a way of distracting people from the fact that he’s on the downside of his career?

No comment.

Portis gave you the nickname “Johnny White Boy”. Does it bother you that Portis clearly put more thought into his own nicknames than the one he gave you?

No comment.

Did Joe Gibbs ever strike you as kind of fellow who has problems trying to set an alarm clock?

No comment.

Now that coach Gibbs is gone, do Redskin players still have to tithe?

No comment.

Is it a relief to know you don’t have to pretend to give a flying fuck about NASCAR anymore?

No comment.

When Joe Gibbs was hired, it was promised as a “return to glory”. Do you believe Jim Zorn’s hiring symbolizes a return to the time before the return to glory?

No comment.

If Vinny Cerrato were a barnacle, what kind of barnacle would he be?

No comment.

I once heard Dan Snyder likes to dress up in Batman Underoos, and then makes Vinny Cerrato put on a tux and refer to him as “Master Wayne.” True?

No comment.

Who’s the gayest player in the NFL? Is it Marvin Harrison? Because he strikes me as crazy gay. Like, Ernest Givins gay. Am I right?

No comment.

Al Saunders was notorious for having a 600-page playbook. Tell me, what exactly was on those 600 pages? Because I saw Saunders’ offense, and it didn’t appear to have any set plays of any kind. Was the book mostly just a compilation of tablature from Yes songs?

No comment.

When Gregg Williams wasn’t hired as Gibbs’ replacement, how did you celebrate?

No comment.

Gregg Williams strikes me as the kind of guy who really likes yelling at waiters. True?

No comment.

I used to be a big fan of Roy Firestone and the creature living on top of his head. One of things he used to do when he interviewed athletes was play word association. So I’m going to give you a word or phrase, and I want just a one-word response. Off the top of your head. Totally stream of consciousness and 100% inane. You ready?

No comment.

Santana Moss.

No comment.

Joe Bugel.

No comment.

Cashews.

No comment.

Hiroshima.

No comment.

Cock Swabber.

No comment.

Syrup-Drenched Monkey Balls.

No comment.

Will you consider kissing me?

No comment.

C’mon, man! I was once accused of having an aggressive tongue, but I’ve managed to rein in “The Probe”. Just a little buss?

No comment.

Chris, thanks for taking time out to answer my questions.

No comment.

NOTE: This is the last Balls Deep column of the year. Because next week is the start of the NFL season, and that means the Jamboroo returns. Thank. Fucking. God.

See you then.

NFL insider and handy whipping post Peter King drew the ire of Jets fans this week when he took them to task for not showing up in droves for the team’s preseason opener, which was Brett “This Darn Playbook’s Makin’ My Brain Hurt!” Favre’s debut in a Jets uniform. (Warning: Pleasantly NSFW image after the jump)

I think I don’t want to hear what great fans the Jets have. Not for a long time. That crowd Saturday night was a disgrace. At least half the stadium was empty for Favre’s debut in a Jets’ uniform. I expressed my amazement to a few fellow scribes Saturday night (Ed note: likely met with groans) — emphasizing that N.Y. traded for an all-time-great quarterback, not a broken-down one — and they gave varying reasons for the poor turnout. Like it’s the middle of vacation month for New Yorkers, and it’s a preseason game. Horsefeathers. If you really love your team, and you have season tickets, you should have been at that game unless you were in Tibet. Ridiculous.

Now we at KSK have already gleefully taken King to task for his aggressive idiocy on this matter. We tackled it as we always do, from the gay sex angle. You can practically hear King dropping trou and bending over to “present” himself for Favre as he’s writing this shit. But, when you think about this quote from a journalistic standpoint (and I know me my journoportage!), it’s kind of sad, because it was not but a year ago that King had this to say about preseason games:

Goodell is not the first commissioner who knew there was something wrong with asking the customers to pay regular-season prices for these stupid games. Paul Tagliabue also found it increasingly hard to take, trying to get fans fired up for the regular season by making them watch backup players in half-empty stadiums when season-ticket-holders couldn't even give the seats away. Football Fever! Catch it!

So King openly derided preseason games, only to completely reverse that attitude once his Douche Valiant entered the equation. And then he offered this lame defense on Tuesday: “We're talking about 45,000 season-ticket-holders who chose not to come to the game. They chose to say, ‘We'll stay home rather than experience one of the great moments in the recent history of our franchise.’ Sorry. I've got a problem with that… I take nothing back.”

Okay, this is getting out of hand. I think it’s well-established now that, gay jokes aside, King and Favre are good friends away from their jobs. King has eaten dinner at Favre’s house, and I’m sure they’ve shared milkshakes at the local drive-in together on many an occasion.

That’s why King, in all seriousness, should never, EVER be allowed to write about Favre, or cover Favre in any way, shape or form. If the higher-ups at Time Warner had any sack, they’d tell King that covering Favre is a clear conflict of interest. Favre is his buddy. He can’t write about him without turning into a knob-slobbing moron. He’ll twist any argument to make Favre look better. It’s not journalism, it’s goddamn cronyism. They should man up and ban the fucker from all things Brettcentric. And confiscate the Favre poster taped to his bedroom ceiling.

Sports are positively littered with illicit relationships like King/Favre. We’ve all made our jokes about them, but it’s time to lay down the fucking gauntlet. I want real action taken. I want moratoriums. I want restraining orders to be issued. It’s one thing to have a cordial relationship with the subject you cover. That’s practically a necessity. It’s another thing to be open, flagrant butt-buddies with the guy. Below are some journalist-subject relationships that desperately need an intervention. Some of these are obvious, others a bit more insidious. But, in all cases, I have prescribed a heady dose of tough love and assholish ridicule.

So let’s start with the worstest one of all:

Dick Vitale-Mike Krzyzewski

Vitale’s adoration of all things Shoosesskee is now a more or less accepted cliché of college basketball. But seriously, it’s gotten ridiculous now. People who defend Vitale love to point out his enthusiasm. “He loves the game! He’s a great ambassador for the sport!” No, he's an ambassador for one school and one coach. Besides, what sport worth its salt needs a goddamn ambassador?

This man is a stooge for Coach K. I bet he scripted his AmEx commercial. Time to throw some hot water on this pair. Vitale needs to be banned from Cameron Indoor Stadium. FOREVER. I suggest strapping him to a chair, prying open his eyelids, and forcing him to watch footage of white Duke players interspliced with both footage of SS storm troopers marching and Snow’s “Girl I’ve Been Hurt” video.

This form of extreme persuasion clearly violates the Geneva Convention, but I have no problem with that. I do like me some snow bikinis.

Tony Kornheiser-Larry Brown

The most annoying thing about Kornheiser talking about Larry Brown is that he prefaces any statement about Brown by saying, “You know I love Larry Brown.” Yeah, I gathered that, fucktaster. But perhaps, instead of constantly “disclosing” your baffling affinity for the world’s biggest flake, you should try to suppress it instead, yes? No more of this trying to have your cake and eat it too crap. From now on, TK and Larry Brown are NEVER allowed to attend summer camp together. He also can’t be a guest on PTI. Nor will any group mensching be permitted.

Also, Tony is no longer allowed within 500 yards of any TV showing "American Idol".

Lee Corso-Bobby Bowden

Free shoes? Players arrested for assault? Well, ol’ Bobby couldn’t have POSSIBLY known about any of that! He’s just a kindly old grandfather figure who wants to help these daggum kids! I call bullshit. Bobby Bowden is fucking Shelley Marcone. “Why, she was one of the sweetest whores I ever tasted!” And Corso coddles him like a newborn fawn. Throw in the fact that Corso played college ball at Florida State, and you have a good explanation for how Chris Weinke ended up winning a Heisman Trophy.

No more College GameDay road trips to Tallahassee for you, Lee. Then again, since Mark Richt went to Georgia and took all the brains with him, there hasn’t been much call for it.

Keyshawn Johnson-Any misunderstood wide receiver

It’s become a tradition now for ESPN to hire a former wideout mouthtard (Irvin, Sharpe, Johnson) to come in, talk really loud, say nothing of value, and grab “exclusive” one-on-one interviews with former peers who are just as self-serving. “Terrell, do you feel like you’re misunderstood? Omigod, I felt the same way!” These aren’t interviews. They’re fucking PR videos. From now on, no former player can ever interview an active player. EVER EVER EVER. Unless drunken Joe Namath is asking the questions.

Stu Scott-Tiger Woods

Stu Scott and any athlete, really. If you’ve played even a minute in the pros, Stu will be there to personally like the sweat out of your asscrack. But be warned, athletes. While that flattery sure is tantalizing, the truth is that Scott is simply trying to lure you into a private room so that he can steal your license, take your identity, and harvest your eyes. And let’s not forget him saying this…

You're going to make friendships with the people that you cover.

Yes, it’s inevitable. You interview someone for ten minutes, BONDS WILL BE FORMED. Can’t be avoided. No more tagging along for you, Stu. You are no longer allowed to go golfing with Tiger. Nor are you allowed to be his personal ballwasher.

Jason Whitlock-Jeff George

Not as big a concern anymore since George has been out of the league for some time now. But holy Jesus, is Whitlock a George apologist. Let’s do this: whenever a QB job opens up during the year, or whenever the subject of “underrated QB’s” comes up, time to distract Whitlock with a milk crate full of Goobers. Otherwise, it’s hours and hours of “Jeff never got a fair shake! Coaches didn’t know how to utilize him! You can’t handle my truth!”

Michael Wilbon-Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley

Don’t hear the leadership of the Bobcats questioned much on PTI, do you? That’s because, when Jordan isn’t in the office his usual 12 minutes a week, he’s on the course with Wilbon. Does this surprise me? Not in the least. Wilbon knows Jordan a little bit. And admires him. Oh, how he admires him. Wilbon, no more playing poker, smoking cigars, and hanging out with your best buddy. Get back to what you do best: ogling the tits of porn stars and then defending your right to ogle the tits of porn stars. No one will question you on that one.

Bill Simmons-Larry Bird

And really, all Boston athletes/friends/coaches/buddies named Hench. It’s one thing to have the voice of a fan. It’s another to be a constant, grating shill for your favorite teams. I have it on high authority that Simmons' new book has the working title "YOU FACKIN' PRICKS DON'T APPRECIATE LARRY FACKIN' BIRD OR-AH MELROSE PLACE LIKE I FACKIN' DO!"

There’s only one way to end this: move Simmons to LA, make him a Clipper fan, and get him to start writing jokes that Jimmy Kimmel can throw into his discard pile. Wait…

Chris Berman-San Francisco 49ers

Berman happily accepted a Super Bowl ring from Eddie DeBartolo in 1995, only to be forced to give it back by ESPN management. Hey, that’s objective! Berman, you take that ring and tuck it under your chinflap.

Mike Lupica-Mike Lupica

If only there were a way to keep little Mikey from being doubled over inside his own asshole.

Jim Nantz-Any golfer

Will Leitch-Rick Ankiel

Easy, Leitch. I know how lonely you Illinois farmboys get.

Jack Kogod-Gilbert Arenas

You should see the emails I get. “Look, guys! Gilbert just wrote about buying a new Fendi knapsack! He’s so cool!” Guhhhhhhh. No more birthday parties for you, Maj.

Drew Magary-Drew Magary’s Penis

When in doubt, talk about masturbation! Find a new angle, you big fat dipshit.

John Madden-Any quarterback/running back/offensive lineman

The guy thought Nate Newton was a gamer, for shit’s sake. “Look at that guy! He's got mud on him! I like that! That’s big Nate Newton for ya!” Stop treating every player you see like a warm piece of cherry pie, you senile gravy-slurper.

AJ Daulerio-Norby Williamson

I saw something that unnerved me this week, and it came from this very website.

So, I'm standing there face to face with Norby(!), smiling, listening to him praise Deadspin and how it’s practically "mainstream" right now and "a lot less salacious"…

Oh, really? Mainstream, you say? A lot less salacious? Well, I say FUCK THAT SHIT. You listen to me, Norby, you ballsless goatbanger. That shit ain’t happening ON MY WATCH. You abhor salaciousness? Well, let me tell you something:

NORBY WILLIAMSON LIKES TO TROLL THE STREETS AT NIGHT FOR YOUNG THAI BOYS TO HELP HIM FILM AMATEUR LIZARD COSTUME PORN AND PULL YO-YOS OUT OF HIS ASS.

Now, is that true? No. But it IS salacious. So that’s good enough for me. Know what else is salacious? This:

Try putting THAT on your Disney-castrated site, you pleated-khaki wearing douche sipper. Daulerio, you are hereby forbidden from fraternizing with this smooth-talking empty suit. MY WORD IS THE FUCKING LAW. CROSS ME AND I’LL SLAP YOU IN THE MOUTH WITH MY LOVE HAMMER.

And those are your mandatory journo-subject restraining orders, to be instituted immediately, under penalty of anal clubbing. Yours in the comments.

Thanks to 289 for the photoshop.

I may be someone who prefers the NFL to college football when push comes to shove (though I really like watching both quite a bit). But even I can’t argue that, when it comes to true, unrelenting, passionate hatred, college football has the NFL beat, hands down. I fucking hate the Green Bay Packers, but my hatred of those northern Wisconsin shitdiggers and their slovenly mongoloid fanbase is nothing compared to the festering revulsion most college fans have for other college programs.

I mean, look at Alabama fans. Those people hate Auburn almost as much as they hate gays, Jews, and running water combined. We’re talking some extremely serious irrational anger here. The kind of anger that causes people to genuinely dislike each other, and wish each other nothing but ill fortune, and fantasize about a grisly, horrid death for one another. It’s what makes college football so grand!

Hell, I’m not even sure I hate the Packers as much as I hate Notre Dame. And I have no regional or personal reason to hate Notre Dame. I just hate them. SO VERY MUCH. Oh, what I would give just to watch Touchdown Jesus burn… BURN TO THE FUCKING GROUND, and to have its dying embers be put out by gallons upon gallons of stale horse urine, and to see NBC terminate its contract with the school, and to have the school fall into a terrible downward spiral, even go bankrupt. I hate them randomly and without motive, which is what makes hating them all the more delightful. God, you fucking suck, Notre Dame. You and your big, fat, white, arrogant orca of a coach. Eat shit. Eat shit and die.

So, with that in mind, I present to you a primer on despising each of the programs currently residing in the preseason Top 25. This isn’t just an excuse to hate a team. This is a chance to expand your hate for a team into a general disdain for a school, its student body, the town it resides in, the state it resides in, and even the people of an entire region. The football team acts a great hateway drug into seething contempt for large swaths of the general population. It also acts as a useful façade to mask your real, socially unacceptable dislikes (“There’s something about those Miami Hurricanes I just can’t stand! They’re such blacks! I mean, punks!”). I’m hooked.

Now, I know this probably isn’t very healthy. These programs generally consist of nice young men just trying to compete. They’re kids, really. Is it fair to project so much anger onto a bunch of kids? Well, I guess not. On the other hand, FUCK THOSE KIDS. They play football. They can suck it up.

Keep in mind, I am just a casual college football fan. None of the hate you’re about to witness has been informed with any kind of real knowledge or insight. In many cases, I’ve never even been to the state in question, or met any of its people. Nor am I all that caught up on the football team itself. No, this guide was written strictly out of ignorance. And ignorance is the key ingredient to any good batch of haterade. To make a tasty haterade, you need equal parts ignorance, insecurity, and laziness – three things I possess in spades. So let’s drink it all in.

1. Georgia

Congratulations, Georgia. You’re this year’s “somewhat non-traditional, chic pick to win it all that will drop like a fucking stone in the rankings by October”. You also join Clemson as one of those Southern schools that won a fluky title in the early 80’s, creating a ginormous base of retard fans who still expect another one nearly three decades after the fact. Those are fitting characteristics for a football program whose most distinguishing feature is the fact that they have a fucking hedge. Oooh, look everyone! Topiary in the stadium! Isn’t that cool?

I’d also like to raise a giant middle finger to the town of Athens, Georgia for giving the world the B-52’s and REM, two bands that have spent decades victimizing unsuspecting listeners with their own highly distinctive brand of musical terrorism. I’m heading on down to the Love Shack, and I’m gonna drive my Chrysler right into the bitch.

2. USC

Yes, nothing like rooting for a team whose fanbase consists solely of rich, lazy film students cloned from Spencer Pratt’s sperm. Need some more product for your hair, Taylor, Carson Carter, Jaden, Jax, and Blakely? Take your spiked hair and your in-progress development deals and shove them up your ass. Ten years from now your daddy will finally cut you off, and you’ll be slipping scripts under bathroom stalls while doling out $50 handjobs in the In-N-Out burger parking lot. It’ll be the “Paul Hackett Period” of your lives.

3. Ohio State

Let’s ignore the public masturbation, the pederast high school coaches, the disgraceful national title game performances, and the fact that to drive through Ohio is to feel your soul whither into nothingness. No, let’s concentrate on the town of Findlay, Ohio, cradle of American stupidity:

"I think Obama would be a disaster, and there's a lot of reasons," said Pollard, explaining the rumors he had heard about the candidate from friends he goes camping with. "I understand he's from Africa, and that the first thing he's going to do if he gets into office is bring his family over here, illegally. He's got that racist [pastor] who practically raised him, and then there's the Muslim thing. He's just not presidential material, if you ask me."

That is one special kind of idiot. He done learned up on his history! It won’t come as a shock to you that Ben Roethlisberger is from Findlay. Or that Big Ben probably played Lenny in his high school’s production of “Of Mice And Men”. Speaking of the Joads…

4. Oklahoma

Yes, Oklahoma. It’s like Texas, only flatter! Oklahoma is part of the Bible Belt. And, in case you didn’t know, that belt is a size 62, because Evangelical church picnics in Oklahoma feature nothing but potato salad, “nacho balls”, hamburgers topped with peanut butter, Tyson chicken drummettes, and leaflets about how keep the Mexicans from creeping further north.

I am largely indifferent to Oklahoma football, largely because I am so indifferent to the entire state as a whole. Oklahoma may very well be our least essential state. Sure, the South is a piece of shit. But it is fun to keep around so that I can mock it and make myself feel all too superior. But Oklahoma? The only things Oklahoma produces are natural gas and quarterbacks who have no chance of competing at the professional level.

5. Florida
Florida is a horrible state in so many different ways that it almost needs to be broken up so that it can be hated properly. Northern Florida, in particular, should really be renamed Eastern Alabama, in order to give it its proper stigma. Because there are plenty of sheriffs in Northern Florida who know their way around a fire hose. And the only reason people don’t make more fun of Gainesville is because Jacksonville is so close by.

And if you think Brett Favre is tiresome, wait until you get a load of Tim Tebow’s 2nd Heisman campaign. A quarterback who’s both mobile AND white? Cue the SportsCenter montage generator! I’m told Dan Shanoff bids on eBay for foreskins Tebow has personally discarded. Even this doesn’t absolve Tebow.

Eh, maybe it does.

6. LSU

I’ve had your cuisine, Cajun people. And you know what? It’s bullshit. Ooh, crawfish! It’s like a lobster, but without the meat! Hooray! “Come hee-yah, son. You gotta tase thizz jambalaya. Mayg yo mouf watta.” Oh, you mean the sludge with the overcooked rice and month-old rectum sausage? Yeah, that’s a treat. Get your food away from me.

And quit gloating over having the lamest national championship team in history last year. And quit bitching about how you shouldn’t have had to share the national title with USC in ’03. No one gives a shit about you people. Didn’t FEMA tip you off to that already?

Also, jazz? It blows. Try writing a song with some structure and hooks next time. Jazz is like scat singing, but with horns. And scat singing is worse than AIDS.

7. Missouri

Well well well, look who created impossibly high expectations for themselves. Your season last year was a bigger fluke than Jason McIntyre employing a proper metaphor.

8. West Virginia

You might think West Virginians burn couches after games because they’re inbred redneck dumbshits who don’t know any better, but that’s not quite true. The truth is, the burning of couches is the state’s #1 way of producing energy. Remember, West Virginia has no electricity or infrastructure of any kind. Burning couches provides them necessary heat for cooking varmints, as well as light needed for crafting letter bombs and identifying the sibling, parent, or stablemate they REALLY want to get in the hay with that night. In fact, look at this energy consumption chart provided to me by the state’s Chamber of Commerce, which is located in one of the state’s famous “planned hole communities”. It’s a fascinating look at how the majority of the state’s energy reserves are laid out:

35% Burning couches
25% Biting Wintergreen Lifesavers in the dark
15% Burning Mrs. Throckmorton’s lodge and decrying “all those Christmas dudes”
10% Burning crosses on lawns they thought belonged to Rich Rodriguez, only to realize they got the addresses mixed up
7% Hydroelectric beaver dams
5% Miniature wind farm outside Betty Lou’s Chili Bowl restaurant (only restaurant in state)
2% Breathalyzer turbines
1% Rubbing coonskin caps together

Beats foreign oil!

9. Clemson

Climpson! The school for people who want to major in Trampoline Bouncing. Oooh, look out for Death Valley! There isn’t a harder place to get a victory, except for 8 other ACC stadiums!

10. Texas

Here’s a true fact for you: All Texas high school students are required to take a Texas History course. Here’s another true fact for you: Many UT students have died or been severely injured throughout the years as a result of “surfing” atop the elevators in the tallest dorm on campus. Perhaps these students would have avoided such a grisly fate if they had been taught proper elevator usage in high school, rather than taking a whole course explaining why they should stay loyal to the state by only buying Pace picante sauce.

Let’s also take a moment to talk about Austin. Yes, birthplace of independent music and independent moviemaking. Well you know what, Austin? Robert Rodriguez makes horrible, horrible movies. Oooh, this movie wasn’t directed and edited, it was “shot and chopped”! That’s so edgy and tossed-off! As for Richard Linklater, anyone who liked “Before Sunrise” is a fucking asshole.

And the SXSW festival is attended only by pretentious hipster fuckwads who comment over at the Onion AV Club. These people aren't a refreshing change from Texas rednecks, so much as an even worse alternative.

11. Auburn

Fun fact: In the entire history of the school, no Auburn student has ever graduated. In fact, they don’t even plan a commencement. Everyone just kind of wanders off campus around March or so.

You know you’re a school that has low expectations when your main source of pride is whether or not you beat Alabama at something. Oh, look Auburn! You won the Iron Bowl! You’re the best school in all of Alabama! Which is exactly the same level of honor as being the lady with the nicest set of tits in a nursing home. Way to go.

Let’s take the rest of these at warp speed.

12. Wisconsin

Didn’t the fence at Camp Randall stadium collapse back in '93? If you’ve seen these fatties, you know why. Speaking of fatties…

13. Kansas

I think we all know Mark Magino far prefers the Sugar Bowl to the Orange Bowl. I once heard that, while waiting for an appetizer, the coach consumed every pack of Sugar In The Raw at his table. Then he ate the busboy.

14. Texas Tech

For those extra special Texas kids who are so dumb, they can’t even get into A&M. The "Tech" stands for “Teach”!

15. Virginia Tech

Awesome campus-wide alert system you people have. Apparently, the only security alarm in Blacksburg is a guy hollering atop a donkey.

16. Arizona State

The school for people whose main career ambition is to be an extra in a Coors Light ad.

17. Brigham Young

Child brides.

18. Tennessee

Snitches.

19. Illinois

Hey Leitch, that stupid fucking picture of Zook water skiing stopped being funny 100,000 postings ago, you raisin-eating motherfucker.

20. Oregon

Hey everyone! Let’s all go shopping at The North Face!

And those uniforms are like eye rape.

21. South Florida

Diploma mill.

22. Penn State

I once watched a sociology film where Penn State frat members got drunk and swallowed live salamanders by the dozen. And remember: those are the SMART Pennsylvanians. The rest of them are running you off the PA Turnpike with their trucks as we speak. Those people can’t drive for SHIT.

23. Wake Forest

Because Duke wasn’t quite uppity enough for you.

24. Michigan

Guuuh, that fucking Michigan accent. Ever had to listen to Debbie Schlussel or Michael Moore talk for more than three seconds? Agony, right? Well, imagine being surrounded by 50,000 assholes who talk the same way all the time. “You guyees, thaat is nat wat I’m tacking about!”

Also, would it kill you people at the Big House to actually demonstrate some measure of enthusiasm? The only time that stadium makes noise is if some asshole’s phone goes off, at which point he is politely shushed by those around him.

25. Fresno State

Go back to Armenia!

Now, this hater’s guide is clearly incomplete. I’m quite sure our commenters can add much more disparaging fuel to the fire. So get hatin’, everybody! And enjoy your 2008 college season.

If there is one saving grace about August, which is a fucking hot waste of a month, it is that August is the month in which we begin to prepare for the delight that is fall. We buy school supplies. We leaf through fall TV and movie previews (Pacino! DeNiro! Together! Three decades too late!). We buy fall clothing. I know I love heading out to Old Navy, picking out two new shirts, getting excited about wearing them, and then growing sick to death of them within a week.

And, of course, we prepare for football. A long time ago, I used to get jazzed for football by leafing through special NFL editions of SI Presents. They don’t publish SI Presents anymore, which baffles me to no end. Those annuals were the fucking SHIT. But now, my main preoccupation in getting ready for the NFL season comes through fantasy football, and prepping for fantasy drafts.

Now, there are still some old school people (COUGH*Wilbon*COUGH) who hate fantasy football. They’ll tell you it’s lame because it’s all about stats. Or, worst of all, that’s it’s NERDY. Even SI’s Don Banks, who I usually really like, once got all haughty talking about fantasy football.

Sorry, but we have a name for people whose primary source of entertainment stems from stuff that didn't really happen. They're called Trekkies.

In the immortal words of William Shatner, playing himself at a Star Trek convention on Saturday Night Live, sometimes I'd like to shake a couple of the fantasy players in my midst and say, "Look at you people. Did you ever kiss a girl?''

Oooh, no! I like to devote a couple hours a week to fantasy football! That makes me a DORK! Almost as dorky as a BLOGGER! I better look out. Ogre could come give me an atomic wedgie any time now! I better take out my slide rule and round up all my nerd friends to help formulate a zany plan to thwart his unyielding persecution. We shall use all our crazy math powers to devise a Rube Goldbergian contraption that will coat Ogre in liquified dog feces right in front of everyone at assembly! Huzzah!

This is a fucking retarded mentality. Tens of millions of people play fantasy football every year, and the number grows annually. Fantasy football fans aren’t dorks. They’re just, you know, regular ass fans. Fantasy football makes people like me fans of the ENTIRE NFL, and not just my favorite team, which is why the league is such a cultural behemoth. It also helps me learn more about players, coaches, and all other parties involved. It helps me feel closer to the sport. I love football more than I ever have, and fantasy football is one of the reasons why. So suck my nerdy balls, Donnie boy.

Best of all, fantasy football gives me something to do right now in August. Because, without that, there is fucking NOTHING out there. What’s that? I should watch the Olympics? Yeah well, the Olympics are the Tony Awards of sports. Fuck that shit. It’s time to gear up for fantasy season. So let’s break down your fantasy draft and draft planning, THROWGASM-STYLE.

All elements of fantasy drafting are evaluated for sheer awesomeness on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.

Five Throwgasms

Drafting Live: The majority of my fantasy drafts in my life have been online. And while that makes for a very well-organized and smoothly run draft, it kind of ruins the whole point of having a fantasy league.

The main goal of a good fantasy draft is not to pick good players, or to ensure timely, orderly selections. It’s to fucking DRINK. A lot. My life is nothing more than a constant search for finding good reasons to drink. I was excited to graduate college, because it was a good excuse to drink. I was excited when I got married, because it was a good excuse to drink. And I am fucking jazzed for my keeper league’s live draft, because it means I get to get out of the house for once and go completely poison my insides with beer and rum. Did I just draft Eli Manning in Round 3? Who cares? I’m not wearing any pants! WHEE!

The question that lies before you when drafting live is really a matter of setting. Do you hold your draft at a house? Or do you head to the bar? Does the bar have internet access? Will the bar be too noisy? Can you find that bar that allows you to be able to hear each other during the draft, but is still busy enough to have lots of hot chicks parading around for you to glance at? Of course not. No bar like that exists. A bar is either a fucking dead zone, or packed so tightly you commit unintentional frottage several times over. Hot women don’t like bars that have ample space and comfortable seating. Everyone knows that.

I say go with the wide-open, dead-crowd bar. You’re gonna have a laptop in front of you anyway. No one looks sexy in front of a laptop.

See? That picture will never get old.

Snacks: Snacks by thousands! Each one more full of transfats than the last! Your unofficial snack of this fantasy football season is nachos. Every go to a high-end Mexican joint and gotten nachos that are individually dressed?

Awesome. That is one thoughtful nacho. Like a very small tostada. Adorable.

The Five Minutes Before Your Draft: Holy shit! It’s about to start! Who’s gonna go first? So excited! Can… barely… breathe…

Surprise Picks By Other People: You picked Joseph Addai first?! HOLY FUCK, THAT’S SOME CRAZY SHIT!

Naming Your Team: It’s “The Purple Jesuits” for me this year.

Drawing A Middle Round Pick: No long dead spaces for you, my friend.

The Moment You Realize A Player You Like Will Fall To You: If the next three guys just DON’T draft Alge Crumpler, the he’s all mine! Then my plan shall be complete! No one will be able to stop me! I AM DR. CLAW! MWAHAHAHAHA!

Four Throwgasms

Showing Up At The Draft With Your Draft Sheet Fully Prepared: That’s right. I study for my draft. The actual studying isn’t so much fun. But showing up at the draft with a fully prepared draft board, a board that is solely a product of my own irrational thinking, it lends a real air of authority to my drafting. COWER BEFORE MY PROFESSIONALISM! I don’t make my retarded picks willy nilly. I want to look like I put some real thought into drafting Lee Evans that high. He can’t get any SHITTIER, am I right? Huh?

Putting LaDainian Tomlinson At The Top Of Your Board: I love Adrian Peterson, but he still comes out of the game every three series for Chester Taylor. He’ll also tear his knee apart by Week 5, at which point I’ll start snorting pure Freon.

Drafting Players On Your Favorite Team: Yeah, yeah, you’re never supposed to do this. But there’s a reason people do it anyway. Because it makes watching your team interesting, even if they’re awful. And that’s important, especially if you’re a Texans fan.

Three Throwgasms

Scheduling Your Draft Late: I usually try and schedule league drafts right before either the last preseason game or before the Week 1. It helps avoid injuries, plus position battles often shake out by then. The only drawback? Waiting that long for your draft. Waiting ALL of August for that draft day is like waiting for your parole hearing.

Scheduling Your Draft Early: Nice! We’re drafting RIGHT NOW! But what do I do with myself when we’re done? There’s still a month until the season starts. How many Ambien can I take without overdosing? Are comas technically bad for you?

Drafting First: Congratulations. You got Tomlinson. Now go watch “Once Upon A Time In America”. You should be back on the clock by the time DeNiro rapes Elizabeth McGovern. Good scene to miss.

Finding Out A Player Is With A Different Team Than You Thought: Wait, Kevin Jones is a Bear now? Hmm. Perhaps a change of scenery will do him good. No, no it won’t. He’s awful.

The Draft After About Round 4: The talent dropoff in the middle of the draft is really quite astonishing. One second, you’re drafting Roy Williams. Ten minutes later, you’re looking at the rest of your board and saying, “Really? Ted Ginn’s the best guy left? Jesus.” You can still find some gems late, but Ted Ginn isn’t going to be one of them.

Overvaluing/Undervaluing Secondary Nuggets Of Information: Did Alex Smith suck last year? Did he ever! But Mike Martz is the coordinator now, and he really likes to air it out! That could increase his value. I think. Maybe. Eh, probably not. But still, just look at what Martz did for Jon Kitna. That wasn’t Jesus helping Jon become a 4,000-yard pick machine! That was all Martz, baby!

Two Throwgasms

Drafting Running Backs With Your First Two Picks: This strategy is wrong, wrong, wrong. Take it from someone who’s never won a fantasy league. It’s bullshit. Especially this year. One of the untold subplots of last spring’s draft was just how insanely deep the class at RB was. Guys like Mike Hart (Colts), Felix Jones (Cowboys), Steve Slaton (Texans), and Ray Rice (Ravens) all have the potential to get playing time right away and fuck with your rotation. Every down backs like Larry Johnson and LT2 have become rarities. In fact, in the case of Johnson, frequent use becomes more of a worry than a relief. More often than not, backs come in pairs now, just like wideouts do. So the idea of taking a second tier RB like Jamal Lewis over a first tier WR like Reggie Wayne is fucking stupid. You win with studs, regardless of position. That’s right. I just laid down the fucking LAW.

Drafting Last: All the waiting of drafting first, without the pesky marquee player! Whee!

Drafting Handcuffs: Oh, looks who’s being Mister-Play-It-Safe! I bet you order chicken when you go out to restaurants. Pussy.

Drafting Rookies: For every Purple Jesus, there are about thirty Brandon Jacksons. Remember him? The end zone sure as fuck doesn’t.

Drafting A Player That Fucked You Over The Year Before: You can never win with this. Did you get fucked over by Steven Jackson last year? Well, I can guarantee you two things. One: if you draft him again, he will fuck you again. Two: if you DON’T draft him, he will run for 5,000 yards and score 87 TD’s. He’ll also somehow score 13 safeties. Once a player screws you, he will always find a way to screw you.

Compiling Your Draft Board: It’s like choosing baby names. It’s exciting for the first five minutes. After that, it starts to turn into a real fucking slog. Should Santonio Holmes go above Brandon Marshall? Or should it be the other way around? Oh, fuck! What about Chris Chambers? I completely forgot about him! Should he go between them? What do their schedules look like? Errrrr… fuck it! I need to go eat a box of Nilla Wafers.

Selecting A Draft Date And Time: Does 9/1 work for everyone? What’s that? Tommy’s got a conference then? Can he do it by phone? What about 8/26? No? What’s that, Jim? You can only do it today at 4:35 AM? Does that work with everyone else? No? I give up. Event planning blows.

Trash Talking Picks: What are you, in grade school? Grow up. Real adults don’t badmouth their friend’s picks. They just make fun of them for general queerness.

Hyping Up Players Who Did Well In The Preseason: Happens on message boards all the time. ZOMG!!111!! DARIUS WATTS IZ THA NXT COLSTON!!!11!!

One Throwgasm

Wearing A Jersey To Your Fantasy Draft: Do you ever see Bill Polian wearing a Colts jersey when his team drafts? No. You’re pretending to be a GM, not a player. Fucking dress like it.

Not Realizing You Drafted Two Players With The Same Bye Week: Actually, the only thing worse than that is when you’re about to draft a guy you really like, only you realize that he’s got the same bye week as your other guy, so you end up having to draft Laveranues Coles instead. NOOOOOOOOO!

Being In More Than Two Leagues: Well, I need to Romo throw three touchdowns. But I also need him to throw NO touchdowns and four interceptions. Can he do that?

Inviting Charles Haley To Your Draft: Unless you like your popcorn extra buttery.

Drafting Kickers And Defense Anywhere But In The Final Rounds

Getting Everyone To Pay: No good freeloaders.

Waiting For Your Turn To Draft: This is especially agonizing if you’re in a league with Dan Shanoff. Holy fuck Shanoff, WHILE WE’RE YOUNG! Is he even at his computer? I think he’s auto-drafting. Varsity dad? More like Varsity ASSHOLE.

And there’s your 2008 Fantasy preview. Happy drafting, everyone.

Greetings, roundeye! The Glorious Party of Chairman Mao eagerly awaits your arrival here in Beijing for these Games of the 2008 Summer Olympiad. Our preparations for the Games are now complete. We’d just like to let you know that 4 million construction workers DEFINITELY DID NOT DIE during the construction of the Bird’s Nest. Those cries and shrieks you hear from countless mothers and fathers as you walk down the street are not from grief. They are simply overwhelmed about the fact that the Games will soon arrive at long last.

Our hope is that these Games will serve as a reintroduction of China and its people to the world after years of self-imposed isolation. Our people were quite mouthy at one point, so we had to send all them to their rooms. If they did not have a room, they were sent to the bottom of the Yangtze River. Being buried at the bottom of a river helps encourage quiet contemplation. But all that unpleasantness is behind us now. Our people are ready to welcome you with open arms, so long as you obey our short list of 736,089,452 rules and regulations.

As you know, our country is growing. Fast. There are 1.5 billion people living here, which means the 50,000 children crushed in random earthquakes here every month can be replaced without much fuss. We use 40% of the world’s concrete and 25% of the world’s steel. And that’s just for the above-ground prisons! China is also home to the biggest human migration in the history of the planet. Three hundred million of our people have left the rural lands of the country to come and live in our cities. You should see Chinatown in Shanghai these days. The place is PACKED.

We have more speakers of English here in China than in the United States, all of whom will have you howling with laughter at their pronunciation of the word “rollercoaster”. We also produce more accidentally ingested lead than any country on Earth. And we are the #1 producer of consumer electronic products in the world. If your DVD player breaks after one month, that’s your problem, buddy. You should have gotten a Sony.

We eagerly await the arrival of citizens from all over the world for these Games (except for you, Japan. You think we’ll forgive Nanking that easy? Get fucked). We also eagerly await the billions and billions in sponsorship money. We hope to use that money to help expand our enormous human rights desecration program infrastructure and further boost Chinese economic influence the world over.

If you are new to our country, you will find our people extremely warm and friendly. Unless you’re trying to get on some kind of mass transit. Then they will happily trample you like a Castle Donnington festival-goer. To further enjoy your stay, and to prepare you for the Games, we present to you this quick travel guide to the Games. If you have any further inquiries, please write them out in longhand and send them to our Office of Kafkaesque Fates. You can expect a blank reply in twelve to fourteen weeks.

Accommodations: All hotels and rental properties have been booked in advance of the Games. However, should you require a hotel room, we will be happy to bulldoze 100,000 of our citizens’ homes in order to erect a five-star Mandarin Oriental within two to three hours. Our citizens will happily comply with this forced mandate of permanent displacement, so that you can stay here comfortably for a period of 14 days. Any of our citizens who resist will be defenestrated. It’s the least we can do.

Transit: We do not suggest you rent a car once you arrive at Beijing Airport, as it could take you up to 753 hours or more to travel from Terminal A to Terminal A 1/2 during non-peak hours. The most convenient way to get around is to walk. Or to be arrested.

Dining: Looking for those little lettuce cups with ground chicken and stuff in them? Yeah, well then go back to America and visit Pei Wei, or PF Chang’s, or some other brown sauce palace that rapes our heritage on a daily basis. We don’t do lettuce cups. And if you make one more joke about us eating dogs, we will place you in a doorless room for 70 years. We don’t eat dog. Usually. But the Peking horse is AMAZING.

Female Infant Disposal: If you have a female infant, please dispose of it in any of the specially marked female infant receptacles placed around the city. Be sure to tie the plastic bag containing your infant tightly. We’ve had a bit of a rat problem lately.

Smoking: If you cannot find a fresh pack of delicious Marlboros to smoke, please let us know. There are American tobacco company representatives all over our nation, ready out hand out fresh cigarettes any time you wish. They even tell us they may have potential health benefits. They’re so nice!

Littering: Please help keep our streets filthy by littering. Please do not litter in the gutters or in alleyways. Those are too inconspicuous. Please litter in the center of roads, in hotel lobbies, and on nearby people.

Speaking: Please do not speak unless directed to do so. Speaking is the physical manifestation of thought, and our revered Chairman Mao Zedong believed individual thought to be the enemy of harmony. If you do speak out loud, please note that the Communist Party has the right to ship you out to one of our many lovely labor barges, and force you to carry a 300 lb. wooden yoke until your body deteriorates. Hope you like hardtack.

Richard Gere: You keep that gerbil smuggler out of our country. Anyone caught bringing Richard Gere onto Chinese soil will be imprisoned and forced to watch "First Knight" over and over again.

Journalism: Are you a journalist? Upon arriving in Bejing, please check in with the nearest customs offer. He will then confiscate you.

Weather: Our Weather Modification Office, which actually exists, has taken care of any and all potential rain. If any rain should fall upon the Games, it will be immediately arrested and sent to our special “water prison”.

Burning Monks: If you wish to burn a monk to death, you do not need a permit. If the monk is not willing to self-immolate, simply douse him with kerosene and light him aflame using one of the complimentary cigarettes provided to you. If you see a burning monk on the sidewalk, PLEASE DO NOT PUT HIM OUT. He’s supposed to be burning. Thank you.

Child Slavery: If you wish to hire a child for factory work, you must first file a formal request to our Child Slavery Office. You cannot buy child slaves without a Child Slave Operator License. To gain a license, you must pay a nominal fee and then take our written test covering your skills in all aspects of child slavery, including yelling, lashing, caning, starving, sodomizing, and emotional crippling.

Making A Billion Dollars: If you wish to make a billion dollars, please check in with our Office Of Commerce. Your billion-dollar transaction should occur shortly thereafter.

Protesting: You will not protest. Nor shall you protest our policy against protests. Nor shall you silently protest. We know why you aren’t eating your bamboo shoots. You think we don’t know passive aggression when we see it?

Pollution: The Communist Party has formally declared Beijing air 100% safe to inhale. The evaporated mercury should be out of your system within a decade or so. Please boil all water thrice over, then filter it through an elaborate series of cheese cloths. During peak traffic hours, we kindly suggest you cover your mouth, nostrils, and exposed skin pores. For a visual example of how to dress to avoid pollution, please consult the following Megadeth album cover:

Please do not wash your hands with city water. Nor should you touch city water and then use the bathroom, as the bacteria may erode your genitals within seconds. Bottled “chunky water” from our lovely reservoirs is available at any nearby market.

Defecation Holes: Please defecate in the specially marked defecation holes around the Olympic Village. Do you prefer a western-style toilet? Oooh! Well, la di da, Mister Fancy Pants! Sorry we couldn’t erect a porcelain throne to accommodate your huge Western ass, Your Majesty. We have a billion and a half people in this country. We don’t have time to build them all elaborate, Ritz Carlton super-shitters, asshole. What’s that? You want toilet paper? What’s the matter? Walking around with residual fecal matter slip sliding across the inside of your buttcheeks too hard on your delicate little anus? Jesus, you people are picky.

Spitting: Please rid your body of all saliva by spitting whenever possible. Spitting is welcomed everywhere: on sidewalks, on protesters, on political prisoners, on religious pamphlets, and such and such. Please be sure to make that WHUUUHHH sound in the back of your throat before expelling your saliva out into the open.

Soy Sauce People: Please leave all your soy sauce people at home. We fear them. And we don't like having an actual reason to arrest people.

Prostitution: If you would like a prostitute, please look for the refugee North Koreans or Vietnamese girls who have been sold into slavery. To the untrained Western eye, these look just like Chinese women who dress up like prostitutes. This humorous confusion should make for hours of learning and cultural exchange for everyone involved.

Bodies: Please ignore them.

Pearl Cream: Have you ever wondered why it’s so hard to tell how old most Oriental women are? Their secret is called Pearl Cream, and it’s made from real pearls.

Pearl Cream can be obtained through our Office of Ancient Chinese Secrets. Be sure to get there before Bob Costas does. He orders truckloads of that shit.

Surveillance: Please remember that no matter where you are, or what you do, we can see you. Please do not do anything to embarrass yourself.

The Games: Please do not cheer for your respective nations at the events. This is our time to shine. The IOC said we can do whatever the fuck we want so long as the checks clear, so please respect our hospitality by keeping all displays of patriotism to yourself. We’re gonna win everything anyway. We had the Office Of Human Engineering take care of that.

These Olympics represent a new age for China in the world. They also represent a chance for NBC to gloss over any and all atrocities perpetrated by the Communist Party. So please enjoy them. Or else you will hear a knock on your door in the middle of the night, and then you will never be heard from again.

NOTE: I’m on vacation next week. Your Balls Deep guest columnist will be Gourmet Spud. Please treat him with the same respect you treat me. Wait a second... you people don’t treat me with any respect at all. Lay into that filthy Canuck.

Drew Magary’s Balls Deep column runs every Thursday afternoon. Drew’s new book, “Men With Balls,” featuring 100% new material, is available for pre-order here. You can email Drew here. Read him during the week at KSK.

I’m married with a kid. If you happen to be in a similar predicament, you know that being married with kids acts as a giant Dyson vacuum cleaner on your free time. You have to go to work. You have to commute. You have to run errands. You have to get gas. You have to do chores. You have to pay taxes. You have to do paperwork. You have to do housework. You have to do yardwork. You have to do someotherkindofwork. You have to dress the kid, change the kid, feed the kid, keep the kid occupied, take the kid out, and generally make sure the kid doesn’t go hurtling down the staircase. You have to find three free seconds to go quietly masturbate in the upstairs bathroom.

And at the end of the day, when you’ve finally managed to do all your goddamn shit, just as you’re ready to breathe a sigh of relief and begin the cathartic movement of lowering your ass onto the couch, it is AUTOMATIC that your wife will say to you:

“Wait, before you sit down, can you change the laundry?”

God. Fucking. Dammit.

That’s a fucking whole lot of responsibilities. I’ve mentioned this before: as you grow older, you end up not having as much time for sports as you used to. If you’re married, or even if you have a girlfriend, your life becomes a timeshare. Everyone gets to rent your sorry ass out for a few hours. Sometimes, watching the game gets sacrificed. It happens to the best of us. All men are forced to grow up at some point, and all men resent having to do so.

Now, maybe you’re some pompous asshole who went to an ACC school and you’re all like, “Well, I don’t know what YOU’RE talking about. My lady lets me watch whatever I want whenever I want. Guess I’m just not as big of a pushover as you are.” Well, congratulations fucktaster: your lady is banging another man right now. Loudly. I’m sure she’s enjoying herself. Don’t wait up.

Normal guys recognize that relationships, though they may cost you a few games, are well worth the time put in. So, over the years, I’ve performed a sort of sports triage in my life, evaluating which sports and which games ABSOLUTELY MUST BE SEEN AT ALL COSTS. Now, in my case, this means every game of the NFL season, back to front. But I can’t simply tell my wife, once September arrives, “Hey lady, I’m watching 12 hours of games each week. You’re on your own, toots.” You get your dick slammed in the sock drawer if you do that.

No, no, no. I have to INVEST time, in order to gain the sufficient number of unofficial credits necessary to be able to freely watch my shit. The NFL offseason is not a time of rest for your big fat narrator. No, I use offseason to amass a steaming pile of good will that would make any woman putty in my large, clammy hands. And you can do it too, you pussy-whipped denizens of the Deadspinoverse.

I have devised the following Brownie Point Calculator, assigning a time value to certain acts of chivalry that, when sufficiently accumulated in multiple quantities, will give you a valid excuse to spend the fall not loving your family. Now, this isn’t basic shit, like taking out the trash or doing the dishes or whatever the fuck. Those don’t count. Your lady already EXPECTS you to help with that stuff, which is total bullshit. Alas. You gotta go above and beyond the call of duty, fucko. Take it from someone who’s got experience being a rock star husband: Follow the calculator, and add your way to FREEDOM!

NOTE: If you have a wife or girlfriend who enjoys watching football with you, use this calculator as a subtle way of building up chits so that you can watch games out with your friends, thus weaseling out of having to watch games with her. Because watching football with women is fucking annoying. Sorry ladies. NFL season is gay male bonding season.

+2 HOURS WATCHING THE NFL: Stealing Gossip Magazines From The Gym Or Doctor’s Office. If your wife is like mine, she has far too much dignity to actually buy gossip magazines or subscribe to them. But if one were to, oh I don’t know, pilfer 12 issues of People from the rack at Sport And Health Club and bring them home, no woman can possibly resist. “Ooooh! Reese moved in with Jake!” I know. Isn’t that crazy? He’s such a gay! Finding your lady something to read works wonders, because while she’s reading, you can watch whatever the fuck you want. I wish US Weekly were written by goddamn Tolstoy.

+6 HOURS: Taking Your Kid(s) Out For A Full Morning Or Afternoon By Yourself. If all mothers have one thing in common, it’s the belief that no one else could possibly take care of their kid as well as they can. So when I take my kid out for three hours one morning or afternoon, then bring the kid home, and the kid hasn’t been shredded by an escalator, my wife is always amazed. “Wow! She’s, like, not dead! Impressive!” Oh, yes. Yes, it is. MORE FOOTBALL, PLEASE.

Caution: One time I took my kid out for a full morning. Then I brought her back and asked my wife what she did. “Oh, I cleaned the house.” DAMN YOU, WOMAN! You were supposed to eat bon bons and paint your toes! Not negate my fucking brownie points! I’LL GET YOU FOR MAKING THIS HOUSE SMELL LIKE ROSE PETALS!

+1 HOUR: Doing Some Random Chore Without Her Having To Ask. Women hate it when you don’t do stuff. But what they hate even MORE is having to ask you time and time again to do the same shit. Well ladies, the reason we don’t do it without being asked is because we hope one day, you’ll just give up and start doing it yourself. But you never do. You never, ever do. You’re so damn tenacious. CRIMINY!

Cook and clean without asking, and you’ve got yourself a happy lady. Be sure to boast about it in a casual manner that doesn’t sound like you’re boasting about it.

Her: Hey can you do the…

You: …The dishes? Oh, I did those already. And I dried the pots and put them away too. I’M BATMAN.

+EQUIVALENT TIME SPENT: Watching Her Favorite TV Show/Movie With Her. I like to make a big deal out of this. I say to my wife, “Oh, you’re show’s on tonight, honey! Don’t forget!” I call it “your show” instead of “Grey’s Anatomy,” because acknowledging that I know it’s ”Grey’s Anatomy” would make me queer. Hey Katherine Heigl, I hope you DO get fired. Then I hope they kill off Izzie by having you do a faceplant into a bucket of knives.

My wife also likes “Project Runway.” I too enjoy this show. Heidi Klum plus skinny models forced to wear outfits crafted from discarded lampshades makes for good viewing. But I have to pretend that I DON’T like it, so that it appears I’m sacrificing my precious time to watch it with her. Oh yes, I’m just that evil.

+8 HOURS: Doing Taxes. Not sure this is even worth it.

+5 HOURS: Planning Some Sort Of Special Dinner, Birthday Party, Or Brunch.

+12 HOURS: Conceiving And Completing Some Sort Of Godforsaken House Project.

+2 HOURS: Fixing Something Without Having To Call A Service To Do It.

+4 HOURS: Going Out On Couple Dates Where The Wives Are Best Friends But The Husbands Have Little Or Nothing In Common. Hey, Frank. Do you like the NFL? No? What’s that? You like listening to “This American Life” and reading The Atlantic? I’m just gonna spend the rest of the meal in the bathroom, if you don’t mind.

+36 HOURS: Not Being A Golfer. I can’t play golf anymore because of my back. Which is too bad. But holy fuck, do I reap the time benefits. I enjoy my reminding my wife time and time again that hey, I’m not one of those lawyer fuckwads who heads out to the golf course every weekend during the summer. You owe me for all the additional time I could have spent ignoring you, like other terrible husbands do to their wives. Aren’t I awesome?

+0 HOURS: Starting An NFL Blog Then Telling Your Lady You Have To Watch Football Because It's "Your Job Now". Yeah, they never really buy that shit. "That's not real work. You like doing that! YOU LOVE THAT COMPUTER MORE THAN YOU LOVE YOUR FAMILY." Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's close that box right back up there, Pandora.

-10 HOURS: Finishing All The Sun Chips Without Offering Her Any. Well, if you wanted some, you should have spoken up, missy!

This calculator is but an initial guideline. I’m sure the commenters have plenty more ideas to help get you on the way to Lazy Sunday Heaven. Don’t be afraid to be creative. Why, you could clean out the garbage cans! Or you could put your affair with your nanny on temporary hiatus. There’s really no limit. But hurry! Training camp starts soon! Don’t get stuck in September having to pay attention to people you care about. That would be tragic.

Drew Magary’s Balls Deep column runs every Thursday afternoon. Drew’s new book, “Men With Balls,” featuring 100% new material, is available for pre-order here. You can email Drew here. Read him during the week at KSK.

This is a Photoshop of Brett Favre in a Minnesota Vikings uniform. Excuse me for a moment. I have to eject my entire digestive tract out of my body.

BRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

That was fun. Favre, nee Favraro, has been in the media lately. This makes perfect sense, because we had just gone three whole blissful months without Favre being in the media. And, of course, that won’t do. Favre has decided he wants to come back. Of course, he hasn’t confirmed that he’s coming back. That would take far too much decisiveness and leadership. Plus it would bring closure to the story. And what fun would that be?

Fucking indecisive piece of fuck.

No, no. Favre only wanted to HINT at idea that he was coming back, so that the media could spend weeks speculating over his return. And presumably so fat, slovenly Wisconsinites could write to him saying, “Please come back, Brett! And bring some whoopie pies with you!”

While Favre “ponders” coming back and lets the threat of his return loom over the team like a giant fart cloud for a few months, he has put the Packers in a position where they get utterly buttfucked no matter what choice they decide to make once Favre makes up his mind seven years from now. They can take Favre back, in which case Aaron Rodgers angrily bolts in 2009 and leaves the team bereft at the position. They can cut Favre, fire Favre, in which case they get nothing in return, along with having to live with the fact that they cut poor Brett. Oh, the indignity! He wanted to come back FOR LOVE OF THE GAME, but they wouldn’t let him!

Douche.

Or they can trade Favre. Media law dictates that columnists evaluate every other NFL team as a potential landing spot for Favre. And a great many of them, even our own AJ Daulerio, have decided that the best fit for Favre is in one of two places. The first is Chicago, where Favre would become the New Old Sex Cannon. But the other one, the one most frequently mentioned, is Minnesota, which is my favorite team.

Fucking cocksucking shithead.

Now, the odds of Favre becoming a Viking or a Bear are slim to none. Ted Thompson and the Packer front office would rather eat shit and die than trade Favre to a division rival. In the case of the Vikings, many people who don’t follow the team don’t know that Brad Childress is the most stubborn, pigheaded coach in the NFL. Childress traded up to draft Tarvaris Jackson, stuck by him all through last year, and has brought in virtually no competition at the position this offseason, thus living or dying with Jackson once September arrives.

He’s been hyping up Jackson to anyone who will listen. He has little to no interest in making himself look bad by bringing in Favre (thus conceding that Jackson isn’t ready to carry the load), or undermining his own faith in his ability to turn Jackson into a great player. There’s also the little fact that Favre imploded in the NFC Championship in January, so the idea of him as the final piece of a championship puzzle may be overstating things juuust a bit.

Mouthfucker.

So it’s probably not happening. But what if it did? What if the world flipped upside down and Favre did end up in a Viking uniform? Excuse the bout of homerism for a second, but what the fuck would that do to me?

I have spent the past 15 years nursing my blind hatred for Brett Favre. I’ve brought up my hate. Raised it. Fed it. Nurtured it. Taught it valuable lessons. I’ve watched it grow into full blossom. If my hate were a child (and I do think of my hate that way), he’d be off to Hate College in just a couple years. He’d probably major in Death Threats. Why, he’d be driving by now! He’d be driving his little Hate Car over burning effigies of Favre I would lay out on the driveway. I’ve put a lot of hard work into this hate. My hate and I, we don’t even need to use words to communicate anymore. We can just give each other a subtle glance and know exactly what kind of horrible fate we’d like Favre to experience.

Goddamn assfisting sack of dick goo. I hope he shoots himself with his own bow.

You see? My hate and I are so very much on the same page. Why, I can hate Brett Favre for so many different reasons. I can hate him purely for football reasons. Lord knows he’s snatched a game or two away from my team in the fourth quarter. The goddamn dogblower. I can hate him, as many do, for the lavish amount of praise he gets from writers and analysts. Fucking shitsmelling cockpuller. I can hate him for those goddamn Wrangler jeans ads. I wore sturdy-kid Wranglers when I was little boy. They weren’t real comfortable at all. They were stiffer than construction paper. That brand message is bullshit.

I can hate anyone who associates with him. I can even hate children who like him. Stupid kids. This hate has been with me so long, I don’t ever want to be apart from it. I love my hate. It brings me great joy.

Fucking shit-bearded scrotum-licker.

But here’s the thing about that hate: it’s mostly an illusion. If Favre was the exact same person and had played for MY team and not the goddamn Packers, I would of course adore him and forgive him all his foibles. But he doesn’t play for my team, so fuck him. Also, if I were to meet Favre in person, it’s a pretty strong likelihood I would NOT go up to him and say YOU FUCKING CUM-SLURPING COCK BURGLAR. That would be impolite. I’m sure he’s just a swell guy. Peter King tells me that every day.

So why do I hate his guts so much? Well, because I can.

The reason we sports fans hate is because it’s the only acceptable place in the world TO hate. You can’t hate people of other races. That’s wrong. But you can sure as shit hate people of other teams. Sports allow us to hate without consequence, which is very cathartic. If we just went around liking everything, we’d all be miserable. Sports are a relatively safe receptacle for our bile and cruelty. We can toss our hate over there, then go about being respectable human beings elsewhere. It keeps us from REAL hate, which is destructive. We leave our hate “on the field” so to speak.

It’s not personal. To me, it’s just a role I play as a fan. Favre plays for my team’s rival. So it’s my JOB to hate every fiber of his fucking being. If I clapped for him, that would be gay. Only Cardinal fans do that.

I recently read Stefan Fatsis’ new book, and in it, players profess being disturbed at the amount of bile fans direct at players and coaches. They don’t wanna lose games any more than fans do. So why do fans treat it like life or death? Well, because it’s more fun that way. It gives our lives a nice little jolt of drama. You can’t get that worked up about stuff in the real world. You gotta handle your shit when it comes to the real world. But you can go right ahead and lose your goddamn mind watching the game. Nothing’s gonna happen if you do. Although you might rip a guy’s balls off. But whatever. That dude can walk it off.

Fucking Favre. I hope he gets caught in a hydroelectric dam turbine.

Will Leitch, the former editor of this fair site, who as you know died two weeks ago, has long argued that sports are our oasis from reality. So why not take it all the way? Why bother thinking of the players as real human beings? I know Brett Favre is a human being, with feelings and shit. But the truth is, he’s no realer to me than fucking Pinocchio. We don’t know athletes. We CAN’T know athletes. So why treat them as real people? That’s no fun. If I met Favre and had a friendly exchange with him, my attitude would almost certainly change, because he’d be a real person to me. I’d know him. But as it stands, he remains more a character in my little imaginary sports world.

A character I hope gets impaled on an ornamental steel fence at the end of the story.

Think about gossip magazines. People read that shit all the time. And the reason they do is because the celebrities they see inside aren’t real people to them. It’s just a serialized soap opera of who’s banging who and who’s leaving who. We know who these people are, but we don’t KNOW them, which is why we feel free to judge them and laugh at their misfortune. It’s a nice outlet for all our cruel pettiness, and it helps keep us civil in our real-life interactions. Plus, plenty of those people deserve the scorn. Man, that Spencer Pratt is a fucking douche and a half. I hope he takes a Lamborghini ride with Nick Hogan sometime soon.

That’s why I don’t want Favre to join my favorite team. I’ve enjoyed hating him for so long. It’s practically all I know. If he joined the Vikings, I’d have to root for him. No choice. That’s my job as a fan. I’d have to leave my hate behind. And that would be a tragedy. This hate has been so good for me as a person. It’s really helped me mature. I’ve never known a hate like this before. You’re my one true hate, Brett. I’m not just not ready to start all over again with that new fuckhead, Aaron Rodgers. Man, does he look like a real cockswallower.

So I say to Brett Favre: please come back and play for the Packers. Don’t play for my team. I want to fall in hate with you all over again. My hate and I will welcome you with open arms. And then we will use those arms to throw broken bottles at you. You fucking wishy washy gashbleeder.

Special thanks (I think) to Dan V for the Photoshop. Your one true hates, sports or otherwise, in the comments.

Drew Magary’s Balls Deep column runs every Thursday afternoon. Except this week, due to the holiday. Drew’s new book, “Men With Balls,” featuring 100% new material, is available for pre-order here. You can email Drew here.

Hey, it’s the Fourth of July. You may be using the holiday to take this week off, or to take next week off for your summer break. So let’s break the holiday and your summer vacation down, THROWGASM-STYLE.

All elements of the holiday are evaluated for sheer awesomeness on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.

Five Throwgasms

Air Conditioning: I have two women in my life – my wife and my mother – who have an inexplicable aversion to air conditioning. My wife hates turning on the AC in the car or in the house at night. She says, “Let’s do windows!” Then she opens the windows and turns the AC off. “See, isn’t this fresh air nice?” Meanwhile, all my major organs are shutting down, I’ve turned our Sealy Posturepedic into a makeshift waterbed, and I’m experiencing the third stage of heat stroke. Hey lady, it’s five million fucking degrees out there. CRANK THAT SHIT. We’re not on a fucking NOLS trip, okay? This is fucking CIVILIZATION.

I love AC so much, I put it on in my car in the goddamn winter. I wish I could surgically implant a Frederick air conditioner inside my body. I worked as a busboy and table runner for six summers (I was never competent enough to make waiter. The one time they let me wait a table, I put a lemon wedge in a dude’s iced coffee. He complained. Fuck that asshole.) Every restaurant I worked at had a walk-in fridge. I could stand inside a walk-in fridge for weeks. God, it’s heaven.

Yes, I know that it kills seven polar bears just to keep your AC on for an hour. But, left off, I produce enough sweat to drown any major lowland areas and tidal basins. So it’s really a lose-lose option for Mother Earth. And I’m not gonna let something as trivial as the future of Earth’s fragile ecosystems get in the way of my passion for cool air blasting out of small vents. Ever escape into a department store on a 100-degree day? When that air con hits you, Jesus. What relief. Like taking a nice, cool shit.

Fireworks At Home: “Let me have one of those porno magazines, large box of condoms, a bottle of Old Harper, a couple of those panty shields, and some illegal fireworks, and one of those disposable enemas ... eh, make it two.”

Nothing beats getting ass shitfaced, then setting off a couple Roman candles, a couple fountains, and one of those bitchin’ cone things that starts off kinda weak, then goes fucking apeshit after a few seconds. It’s especially fun to let the kids light the wick. You get to experience the wonder in their eyes. Also, if the Chinese manufacturer did a shoddy job of constructing the explosive, the kid acts as a buffer between you and the blast. I like the ones that whistle. That lets you know it’s blowin’ up.

I love all home fireworks. Except for sparklers. Those are gay. Speaking of fireworks, no Independence Day is complete without…

Vandalism: Can't go wrong with lighting an entire pack of Black Cats, stuffing them in some asshole’s mailbox, and then running for your goddamn life. The adrenaline rush is just intoxicating.

S’Mores: There isn’t a worse marshmallow toaster on the planet than yours truly. I try and keep rotating that shit so I get it all nice and golden brown all around. But, inevitably, the fucker starts to droop off the stick, then I gotta rotate it faster just to keep it from hanging down. Then it catches fire. Then I blow on the shit to get the fire out. Then it lands right on the fucking Kingsford. Then I got a s’more that’s partially tainted with chicken drippings. Shit. But I’d still eat 500 of them if I could. Oh s’more, with your crunchy cracker outside and your creamy chocolate/marshmallow filling, you are textural delight like no other.

Crab Chips: They put Old Bay on everything here in Maryland: crabs, fries, chips, Congressional pages. It’s delicious. I particularly enjoy down the crab dust at the bottom of every bag. The secret ingredient is sodium!

The United States Of America: FUCK YEAH!

Ice Cream: You didn’t get none, you didn’t get none… CAUSE YOU ARE ON THE WEEEELFARE. And can’t afford it… HE CAN’T AFFORD IT… HE CAN’T AFFORD IT… HE CAN’T AFFORD IT… And his father is an alcohooooolic…

Two flavors: Mint Chocolate Chip, or Coconut ice cream drenched in hot fudge sauce. Either way, I’m a happy kid.

Drinking On the Beach/Drunken Ocean Swimming: You got yourself a beach chair, a freezing-as-shit Budweiser crammed into a beer cozy, and a can of Cheez Balls, you got yourself some fine living. I, for one, enjoy downing a six-pack and then wading out into the vicious undertow. There’s nothing more peaceful than having wave after wave pound your drunken ass. It makes me feel complete. Sometimes the sun hits the surface of the water in a certain way, and the whole ocean looks like it’s covered in gold leaf. And I could just stare at that for hours. Or until I need a refill.

I also enjoy filling any giant Igloo thermos with booze and some sort of mixer. If I ever get rich one day (dick jokes are recession-proof AND outsourcing-proof!), I’m buying a big fucking beach house and doing that shit every damn day.

Lobster: Having a special family feast this Fourth of July? Pick up some lobsters. You can race them. Then you can drop them into a steaming cauldron of death. Serve with drawn butter, lemon, and an assload of fries and onion rings. Killing has never been so delicious. I eat every part of the lobster. I dig through the body cavity and scarf down any stray piece of meat I can find. I even eat the green shit inside. I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to eat that. It may contain harmful bacteria. But still, it’s goddamn delicious. I smell like a steamed lobster for seven weeks afterward. That bib they give you? It does nothing.

Oyster Shots: Alcohol AND brine? Sign my ass up.

Chili Dogs: I know everyone does hot dogs a different way. Some people like mustard on top of it. Or relish. Or a Cobb salad. Me, I like the fucker drenched in chili. Whoever thought up the idea of meat as a condiment for meat, I salute you. Should chili be unavailable, I put enough ketchup on my hot dog to stage a fight scene in a Cronenberg film. Fucking love ketchup.

The Hold Steady On Your Summer Playlist: Whoa WHOA whoa! Whoa WHOA whoa! Whoa WHOA whoa! We gotta stay positive!

/jumps up and down

Wiffle Ball: All day long, people. All day long.

Grilling By A Pool: I spent one Fourth at a friend’s house where they had a pool and one of those industrial Weber model supergrills. We spent 12 hours grilling sausages, drinking beer, and jumping in the pool whenever it got too hot. The pool also had a basketball hoop, which meant: POOL HORSE! YEEEAAARRGHHHH!!! That was a good day.

Four Throwgasms

Keggers At Your Friend’s Parents’ Beach House: Went to Cape Cod one Fourth of July when I was in college. It rained all weekend. I slept under a coffee table. I ate nothing but Pringles. I threw up in the sink. Delightful.

The 1812 Overture: If you’re any sort of real municipality, your fireworks display better be choreographed to this piece of music. AND USE REAL CANNON FIRE, YOU FUCKERS. It’s well worth my tax money. What else are you gonna spend my money on? SCHOOLS? Pfft. School is gay. Everyone knows that.

Three Throwgasms

Reading: There’s nothing on TV. There’s no work to do. No one’s on the Internet. Football isn’t on again in fucking forever. Time to curl up and knock a good book off your list. My summer book? “The Very Hungry Caterpillar.” Nothing appeals to my imagination quite like a drawing of a cupcake.

Weddings: Hey, are you holding your wedding this weekend? YOU SUCK. What, you think the rest of us don’t have plans of our own for a holiday weekend? Instead we gotta trudge out to your dopey reception? WE BETTER GET SOME DECENT PASSED HORS DOUVRES OUT OF THIS, YOU FUCKERS.

Baseball: I normally find baseball dull. But I never miss a chance to head to the ballpark over the holiday and get drunk for three hours. Your baseball options this weekend include… what’s this? Red Sox-Yankees? Wow, that’s amazing! It’s almost as if they scheduled it that way on purpose! Oh, and there’s also Brewers-Pirates. What a fierce rivalry that is!

Hearing A Fireworks Display And Not Knowing Where The Fuck It’s Coming From: What’s that thumping sound? Oh shit, STUFF IS BLOWING UP AND I CAN’T SEE IT! Wait, wait, wait! I see it! If you just stand on this patio chair and look right between those two huge trees, you’ll see just a sliver of a starburst. MAGIC!

Cherries: I love cherries. But you ever eat more than handful without considering the ramifications it will have on your digestive system? BIG mistake. I eat a bowlful, and ten minutes later my asshole is reenacting the cherry scene from "The Witches Of Eastwick".

Two Throwgasms

Timeshares: I don’t give a fuck if you paid for a full share, asshole. I’m getting a bed.

Applying Sunscreen: The one thing they never tell you about sunscreen is, the higher the SPF factor, the more apt it is to sting like a fucking bitch when you put it on. Ever put SPF 45 on your forehead, only to have it mix with your sweat and drip down into your eyes? Agony.

Checking Out A Hot Chick On The Beach Only To Realize She May Be Fourteen

Going To Town Fireworks Displays: I fucking hate this. You can never find a place to park. You can never find a decent spot to put your blanket down. You can never find a decent position to sit on the blanket without wrenching every vertebrae out of place. The bugs destroy you. The fireworks take forever to start. And, once they do, you can never figure out when they’re finished. Well kids, looks like it’s all over. OH WAIT! Now they’re blowing up all kinds of shit! Well, THAT must have been the finale, so let’s beat traf… SHIT! PICK AN ENDING, MAYOR!

Will Smith Movies: Hey, he’s Mr. Fourth of July. Surely you remember his work in such stellar 4th of July films as “I, Robot,” “Bad Boys II,” (Not 2. II. It’s a trilogy, you see.) “Men In Black 2,” and… Jesus, those are some bad fucking movies. Such is the power of Will Smith’s charisma. He can get you to see horrible, horrible movies that you forget AS you’re watching them. Know what else? He can also TURN YOU GAY.

One Throwgasm

The Hot Dog Eating Contest: No wafer thin mint at the end?

The Heat

Fucking Driving ANYWHERE

Working: Working this weekend? I’m sorry. That blows. I’ve worked my fair share of July 4ths. Nothing beats serving obnoxious customers while wearing a white dress shirt you’ve already sweat through seven times, black slacks, and black shoes caked in detritus from the kitchen floor. Tip your waiter generously this weekend, folks. They hate you enough as is.

Sunburn: Hey, what’s that smell? Oh, it’s just the tops of my feet.

Bugs: I always forget about the bug factor anywhere I go. It never occurs to me that there are swarms of bloodsucking malaria couriers lying in wait to feast upon my ample flesh. By the time I realize what’s going on (“Hey, are you getting bitten? Cause I think it’s getting kind of buggy and FUCK!!!”), it’s too late. I’m bumpier than a goddamn Rice Krispie Treat. I also lack the ability to apply bug spray without somehow getting it in my mouth. Tastes like licking a car battery. Fun!

I’d also like to extend this message to the citronella candle industry: FUCK YOU. Your candles and tiki torches do nothing.

There’s your Fourth of July breakdown. Enjoy the holiday, everyone.

I spent most of this past Father’s Day weekend and all of Monday watching Tiger Woods drag himself to victory at the U.S. Open on a busted leg. Monday’s webcast was, in particular, a joy to watch. The long, interstitial shots of the coast during the TV breaks were oddly soothing. I noticed during the coverage that Dan Hicks and Johnny Miller went to great pains to let the audience know just how big of an underdog Rocco Mediate was. He was old! He was ranked really low! He had a bad back! He was abused by lesbian nuns as a child!

They also took great pains to let the audience know that Mediate was really enjoying himself out on the course. It was damn near Farvian praise. Look at him smiling like a little kid! And talking! And having fun! And not acting like a total prick! Indeed, it was a rare sight in golf. Especially in contrast to Woods, who spent most of the tournament (17 and 18 on Saturday excepted) looking like he had an acorn up his ass. I’d blame it on the leg, if he didn’t look like that during pretty much every tournament.

And yet, for all of those attributes. for every likable, underdog quality Mediate possessed, I had zero interest in seeing him actually win the tournament. I wanted Woods to win. And when he did, I was pleased. I rooted for the big man to crush the little guy.

Rooting for Woods, as pretty much all casual golf fans do, runs counter to our instincts as sports fans. You’d never root for a 1 seed to pull of the win against a 16 seed in the NCAA tournament unless it was your own school or you had a boatload of cash riding on it. You’d never root for the Yankees to win the World Series, unless you live in the Bronx and enjoy smacking your girlfriend around. It’s an American thing to root for the underdog. Rooting for the best team is a total dick move. It’s why Boston fans are such assbags.

So why is Tiger an anomaly? Well, for one thing, it’s golf. Random assholes populate the leaderboards of events all the time. Rocco Mediate may have been an enormous underdog. But really, he’s no more surprising a contender than Rich Beem was when he beat out Tiger at the 2002 PGA Championship. Or Ben Curtis when he won the British Open a few years back. It’s not exactly earth-shattering when a golfer you’ve never heard of pulls a great week out of his ass and wins a Major, even with Tiger around. It happens all the time. Just because Rocco’s a particularly affable guy doesn’t mean he’s that much different from the rest of the Michael Campbells out there.

As a result, a Tiger win feels more significant in the long run than a Tiger upset. This sort of evaluation cuts across all sports. We as fans are constantly weighing the potential magnitude of the unexpected versus the dominant. A lot of people wanted to see the Patriots go 19-0 this year, because it was unprecedented. A lot of people wanted to see the Patriots go 18-1 this year, because it was unprecedented. More often than not, when confronted with a neutral rooting interest, we make our decision on who to cheer for based on which outcome we feel will be more historic.

The average casual golf fan doesn’t tune into Tiger on TV just to watch him lose. They’re there to see him do shit well beyond the standards for excellence in his field of work. They’re there to watch him make history. More important, they’re there to feel as if they are a living part of that history.

It’s funny desire to have, yet it’s something that possesses many of us. I know it affects me. I wanted to watch the US Open not only for its sheer entertainment value (and to avoid the very small amount of daily work I regularly do), but to be in on the moment when something significant happened. To feel like I was there. And to say that I was there when I saw it.

This isn’t terribly rational on my part. In fact, it’s pretty goddamn narcissistic. After all, I didn’t do jack shit. All I did was watch some other guy do something. And it’s not as if watching it happen was something only I got to do. Millions of people saw it. After Tiger retires, multiple generations of people out there will be able to say they watched him play golf. Given that being able to watch him play is simply a matter of age and circumstance, and that any of your peers or mine could make a similar boast, why is it so important to be in on that history?

When Tim Russert died on Friday, I learned about it when I was at the gym. They cut out from the US Open coverage and went to a big NBC NEWS SPECIAL REPORT graphic. Then Tom Brokaw showed up on screen, at which point I knew some serious shit was going down. Clearly, Brokaw was there to deliver some sort of tragic news. And, in that moment, I felt an emotion I really should not have felt: a very, very morbid sense of excitement.

It was an absolutely shameful emotion to feel. The guy fucking died. Yet, when something sudden and tragic happens in the world – 9/11, Katrina, the bombings in London, etc. – it’s sometimes impossible to suppress the adrenaline flow and NOT feel a bit energized by the fact that something is HAPPENING – a sordid thrill that you are there live to witness to something of an almost impossible magnitude. You’ll find no shortage of people who will talk to you enthusiastically about where they were when Kennedy was shot, or when 9/11 happened. There’s a sadness to all of those tales, but there’s also a kind of odd pride that emanates, that comes from the storyteller having lived through it. I hate that I sometimes have that feeling deep in the recesses of my mind when tragedy strikes. It’s inappropriate, pathetic, and useless. So why is it there?

I’m voting for Barack Obama this fall. Now, I have lots of reasons to do it, all of them blatantly self-serving. Don’t like Obama? Feel like voting for McCain? Fine by me. I’m not interested in starting any sort of political flame war. But the main reason that I’m voting for Obama is because he offers something that McCain does not: an opportunity for me to “be a part” of a historic moment.

It’s an inescapable fact for both candidates that a black man winning the White House would be a far a greater milestone in American History than if another oldass white guy were to keep the streak alive. The reason Obama can talk about change all the time without getting too specific is because he doesn’t have to get specific. He IS the change. The act of him winning, by itself, has a huge impact.

So there’s something immensely appealing to me about the prospect of living through that sort of moment. I was born in 1976. I have lived through exactly one seminal moment in American history, and that was 9/11. I would very much like something to counterbalance it. I’d like to bear witness to history and not feel ashamed for the odd kind of thrill it provides. I’m voting for the moment as much as I’m voting for the man.

I wish I could tell you I like Barack Obama because he has detailed plans laid out to end the war, solve the economy, save the planet, cure cancer, invent the flying car, and get Erin Andrews to pose for High Society. And he may very well have those plans tucked away somewhere on his website, along with a fully padded resume. But I’ve never bothered to look, because I don’t particularly give a shit about any of that (except the Erin Andrews part). No, I’m voting for him because, history-wise, it’s just more interesting. It makes for a more entertaining and significant part of MY personal history.

Is this a superficial reason to vote for someone? Even somewhat racist? Oh, yes. Superficiality and racism are two of my strongest suits. But I can’t resist the primal urge, deep in my core, to watch something notable occur. You hear Baby Boomers brag all the time about the 60’s and Woodstock and all that shit. “What a time to be alive, maaaaan.” It’s almost as if generations are competitive with one another about who gets to be around for the most shit going down, good or bad. Because if we’re around for something important, then there’s a feeling, by osmosis, that we’re important as well.

Even more, there’s a feeling that, the more history we get to live through, the more we have in common as a population. Even though we do it in separate rooms and houses, we watch massive sporting events like the U.S. Open together. We watch presidential elections together. We watch horrible news like 9/11 together. And we get to share with each other where we were when it happened, and how we felt. Those moments galvanize us. We call each other when the moment happens. We email. We leave a comment. We give each other our own little, tiny, insignificant view of that history.

It’s a natural byproduct of our ambition, our selfishness, our insecurity, and our curiosity. It’s a way of amplifying our own lives, of placing our lives into a greater context. Alone, we don’t matter. The only way we can feel like we’ve made an impact on the world is if we’re part of a moment that’s woven into the greater social fabric. Because those moments cannot achieve transcendence if no one is there to witness them.

It’s a selfish, arrogant feeling, to want to be a part of history in the making. But it’s a feeling that all of us, at one time or another, share. And that’s what makes it so oddly beautiful.

And that’s why Tiger’s leg can’t heal fast enough.

It’s been graduation time all across the country lately, which means that star-fucking class chairs from every college around have invited whatever famous people they can throw $30,000 at to come on in and give some bullshit commencement speech in 12,000-degree heat. I graduated from college once. Our speaker was Supreme Court Justice Stephen BreyjesuschristI’mboredjusttypinghisname.

I’m sure the guy was accomplished and had lots of valuable advice. But it was fucking hot out, and I was hung over, and all I wanted was for the roll call to begin so that I could get the fuck outta dodge. Because the fucking roll call takes long enough. Hey, people whose last names begin with A: Go die in a fire. There are WAYYYY too many of you. I’m surprised all the Z students didn’t die of heat stroke. You got some nerve, Adam Aaronson, Amelia Aaaziz, and company.

I’ve found most graduation speeches unnecessarily lofty and annoying. Particularly the ones given by the class valedictorian (“Look at us! Wasn’t it just yesterday that we were nervous young freshman walking through the quad?! GO US!”). Speakers tell you to seize the day. They tell you that the world is full of challenges but, by gar, you’ve got the potential to face them head on! They tell you to help your fellow man. They quote that goddamn Kurt Vonnegut sunscreen speech that Kurt Vonnegut didn’t write. They tell you that you represent all our brightest hopes and dreams. It’s like an Obama speech, only far less convincing.

All of this shit is useless. If you’re a member of the Class of ’08, you’re gonna need basic, realistic advice about just what the fuck is waiting out there for you. And no one is more qualified to give out the hard, hot, throbbing truth than a privileged white guy like me, who has barely worked a day in his life.

You think you’re gonna make a difference? You got some nerve, asshole. You’re just part of another class going through the same routine as the class before you. You’re no different. You’re just as full of douchebags and shitheads as any other class. In fact, given the rising popularity of lacrosse, your class is probably even worse. The rest of us eventually had our dreams crushed by the cruel realties of the world. I see no reason not to burst your bubble right here and now. Heed these words, then fall in line like the rest of us.

Quit Nose-Greasing Your Beer It’s disgusting. Stop that right now. Besides, rubbing your nose and then sticking your finger in a Solo cup barely gets the foam dissolving any faster. You’re an adult now. Pour the foam out and top it off, goddammit.

Watch all the sports you can NOW. Hey, that Lakers-Celtics series looks pretty sweet doesn’t it? Well, watch it while you can, you spring chickens. Soon, you’ll have a job, and kids, and the idea of staying up past 10 o’clock on a weekday will be about as appealing as baby porn. Because the next day, the kid’s up at 6, and if you’ve only got 5 hours of sleep, you’re gonna want to down a tall glass of Liquid Cascade.

But you don’t have to worry about that now, do you? No, you’re so young and carefree! Why, you even watch the game, and then go out AFTERWARDS! You can just watch TV, and get drunk, and hook up with any number of random people any time you please. Oh, isn’t your life just peachy keen, Polly Perfect? YOU LITTLE BASTARD. You take that tassle on your mortarboard and cram it right where your head is.

It ain’t always gonna be that way, kiddo. Pretty soon, you’re gonna have a mortgage, and a water bill. That’s right. They actually charge you for fucking WATER. Can you fucking believe that shit? It’s disgusting. Wanted to watch Game 4 tonight? Oops! Sorry, buddy! Looks like you have to prepare a PowerPoint deck for a 7 a.m. offsite the next day! No hot basketball action for you! You’ve got bullets to format! And changing the presentation template just fucked up all the slides. Why doesn’t Microsoft make formatting easier? Because Microsoft is fucking EVIL, that’s why.

Think about THAT shit when you’re relaxing during the game tonight. Because pretty soon, there’s gonna be a 20-year stretch where you can’t watch SHIT. No sports, no first-run movies, no peep shows. NOTHING. I finally saw “Zodiac” the other week. It was awesome. Know who wants to discuss it with me by the water cooler? No one. Grrrrr.

What? You got a job already? You fucking idiot. The average child now leaves his parents’ house at age 26 (46 if you blog). Why are you heading out the door so soon? Where you gotta be? Your parents could already afford American college, the most ludicrous expense on Planet Earth. Milk that fucking teat a little more. If you can’t finagle a year backpacking in Europe when you get out of school, or a year “tutoring” 18-year-old ski bunnies at Breckenridge, or a year scooping ice cream in Hilton Head, YOU HAVE FUCKING FAILED LIFE.

Exploit your folks for all they’re worth. Modern American parents always spoil their kids. They won’t get mad at you. How can they get mad at their little wubbzy zubbzy? If anything, YOU can grow to resent them for all their help and not letting you grow up and be independent. It’s a win-win.

Your first job will suck, and you will not work for a cool company. Hey, I heard Google feeds all their employees for free. And the DVD extras on “The Incredibles” tell me that working at Pixar is fucking awesome. They wear Hawaiian shirts to work! They have toys in their offices! And they all play air hockey tournaments together! Sweet! Well, guess who else wants to work at those places? EVERYONE. You won’t be getting a job there.

No, it’s paralegal work at some goddamn law firm for you. Oh, they’ll promise you they’re all about their employees. “You’ll learn so much working for us!” Well, guess what? You won’t learn shit, other than that the general counsel is nailing one of the summer associates and that file cabinets are shockingly heavy. You’ll also learn that once they keep you past dinner, a kind of moral surrendering occurs, where you realize you’re probably gonna be stuck at the office all night no matter what you do. So you just kick back, play a game of Scrabulous, and become resigned to your fate. Any time they let you out of work on time, you’ll be fellating a margarita straw within seven minutes.

The older employees wherever you are will be the ones who get to do all the cool work. And they aren’t eager to let you do any of it. You gotta wade through 5 to 10 years of complete and utter bullshit before you manage to start getting decent assignments. Only by then, you’ll be so cynical and jaded that you’ll take it all for granted. Welcome to your career, slapdick.

You’re only allowed to join the Screen Actors Guild if you’re already a member of the Screen Actors Guild. Same goes for any other labor union.

If you’re writing a blog post, be sure to stick a picture of a hot chick at the top. Your hits will increase 400 percent. If men see a thumbnail of a hot click, much clicking to enlarge shall ensue. Because when you enlarge a picture of a girl, her boobs get bigger too. Nice.

Put a hot chick