For those of you who weren't stuck in a stuffy office yesterday, I had the pleasure/challenge of editing Gawker's lady site, Jezebel, for the day. At 9:30 I posted this and tried to turn it into a servicey "men's summer fashion" post.
Hey, you made it. It's 6ish p.m., so you're probably all finished with work and set to go home and decompress for the three-day weekend. That's just awesome. We have to do that, too. But first — some programming notes.
Fire Joe Morgan reunites and takes over this space next Wednesday but tomorrow, September 11, we have another lovable scamp who's graciously volunteered to button-push for us.
Well Deadspin, it's been a productive day. Sunrise, sunset, the earth turns, people fall in love, a tree falls on a hipster. Does it seem like I'm stalling? Because I am. I really have nothing more to say.
Since this is the biggest sports audience I will probably ever have, I might as well go public with my longstanding NFL rant: the flea-flicker is not a trick-play. It's a play-fake. And it should be called once a quarter.
Greetings from Los Angeles, the charming little front-running town that just suffered a devastating cockpunch from a left-fielder who's being unfairly persecuted for his totally innocent use of a female fertility drug.