Taibbi's one-page editorial from the October 29 issue (not available online, because it's 1998, I guess) on the state of the Browns contains plenty of his legendary invective and rage and a host of elaborately constructed zingers—the opening line compares Mangini to Augustus Gloop—but it doesn't answer the most important question at hand: How could anybody care this much about Eric Mangini?

Taibbi's fire is off the charts here. He calls the 2009 Browns "one of the truly thrilling sports disaster stories ever" and "the most fucked franchise in all of sports." To which we can only say, uh ... have you met the Tennessee Titans? The Browns are bad, but it's not even clear yet that they are worse off than the team was a year ago. And Mangini may or may not be a complete dunderhead endangering the livelihoods of otherwise healthy young men, but why would the readers of Rolling Stone give a shit about that?

Plus, is this really news? Everyone already knows Mangini is terrible. It's not like Matt is pulling a Slate-esque counter-intuitive takedown by pointing out that Mangini is not as smart as Bill Belichik. We're all well aware.

The bloggers at Cleveland Frowns think it's just another typical example of EAST COAST BIAS, but that bias usually manifests itself as completely indifference, not unbridled anger. Perhaps Cleveland fans are just annoyed because criticizing the Browns is supposed to be their job.

Why is Matt Taibbi Writing about the Cleveland Browns? [Cleveland Frowns]
Taking it from all sides [Cleveland Sports Torture]

Just a few of the details: Stewart used to travel with a pet monkey on his private jet but got rid of it because it was "the wrong breed," and despite making $17 million last year still lives in the three-bedroom house he grew up in.

Oh, and there's this quote. Just in case you wanted to know what makes Tony Stewart get up every morning: "Pussy, money and race cars. That's pretty much all I care about."

It gets even better.

The only thing Stewart enjoys more than a race car and a fight, it seems, is women. Over the course of a race weekend, he's approached by dozens of them, each more long-legged, doe-eyed and blond than the last. Inside the NASCAR bubble, these gals are called "pit lizards," and they prowl the inner sanctum at tracks throughout the year.

"My parents are afraid my dick's gonna rot off," Stewart says.

Which leads into perhaps the greatest dialogue in racing history:

At a late-night fuel stop during the flight to the Phoenix race, he meets two girls, who look to be in their early 20s, working the front desk at the airport lounge in Salina, Kansas.

"Take us with you, Tony?" one of them says as he grabs a chocolate-chip cookie from a tray on the counter.

"Depends," he says, taking a bite. "You gals 18 yet?"

"Why you want to know that?" one girl asks.

"Well, we ain't just flying up there, darling," he says, winking at me. "We'll be taking pictures and hanging out and all sorts of stuff."

"Aww, Tony," singsong the girls.

Where There's Smoke... [Rolling Stone]
Tony Stewart really has that whole southern charm thing down to a science [The Sporting Blog]