Steezy:

At Texas our "Ashley Judd" is Matthew McConaughey. It sucks to have your most visible celebrity alum be hokey rom-com actor whose personal hygiene can best be described as questionable. Then again, "Fools Gold" was kind of awesome. In college, Matty's suite was behind our seats, so we caught glimpses of him regularly, and I found it pleasing that he served as sort of a Texas Longhorn football ambassador to Hollywood. During my four years we saw a regular stream of celebs breaking bread with him back there, and he was always happy to engage the crowd in chants and cheers. The infamous bongo incident occurred during my freshman year, and I never quite knew what the big fuss was. I mean, we beat Nebraska on a last-second touchdown for Christ's sake; playing the bongos high and nude is probably the tamest thing anyone in a 50-mile radius of Austin did.

But what pisses me off about him, and any other celebrity fan, is the unfettered access they get. Matty regularly shows up on the sideline (once in a full length fur coat). He attends closed practices. He was hugging Vince at midfield after the Rose Bowl while picking confetti out of his hair. It's like, "Dude. Get off the field." It's not just that I'm jealous, which I am, it's that it's a huge distraction for the team, and it only feeds their over-inflated egos. A friend dated a wide receiver who told us they'd often get "Hook ‘em boys!" text messages before big games. WHY DO YOU HAVE THEIR CELL PHONE NUMBERS AND I DON'T!?

Okay, maybe I'm just jealous.

And not to be a tease (for once) but I have the most amazing celebrity-sighting-at-a-sporting-event story you will ever hear. The problem is she's not so much a celebrity, but a former first daughter, and I live in D.C. where few people have senses of humor beyond bailout jokes, so I must resist. But it's really important to me that you know how awesome this story is, even though you'll never hear it.

— Steezy is a Texas Longhorn fan living in Washington D.C. who wonders how things might have been different if they had served sake at the Last Supper.

—-—-—-

Dee Karl:

My sport is hockey. My team is the Islanders. Celebrity fans are an anomaly for me. Oh, okay, not completely. I have been witness to at least three celebrities in attendance at the Coliseum.

Teen idol Hillary Duff would sit in the second row to watch her boyfriend Mike Comrie toe-drag across the Coliseum ice. She was always pleasant and smiled sweetly. But I don't think anyone ever got close to her. She would sit with a friend and have security around her. It was always interesting to see her walk hand in hand with Comrie through the corridor past all the other hockey players that towered over both of them. Sometimes they were just out of the showers. She would coyly look at the floor while Mike navigated the corridor. It was sweet. She now graces the halls in Ottawa.

Then there's game show host Pat Sajak who would have to deal with fans yelling "Hey! Where's Vanna?" But he dealt with them with grace sitting behind the penalty box and enjoying the game. He also didn't have a problem with being interviewed in between periods and even got the crowd going with a big "Rangers Suck!" cry. Yep, the Coliseum loves Pat Sajak.

From the world of Cable TV, Long Islanders Kevin Connolly is a frequent guest. He is a lifelong fan and one of the most affable celebrities you could meet. Although I don't know how much of the game he could actually watch as he was also accommodating to the fans, signing autographs, taking photos and walking around the concourse. When Mike Bossy asks him for help with an IBC charity event, Kevin is there for him. He is one of the good guys.

Then there's the story I only HEARD about regarding ex-super model Carol Alt during her days of being Alexi Yashin's significant other. (Wife, girlfriend, we have no idea. The story changed so many times I couldn't' keep up.) But she would sit behind the bench, two rows up, quietly watching the game and eating popcorn.

One…
Kernel…
At…
A…
Time…

I know many fans found this behavior fascinatingly upsetting. Do you have any idea how long it takes to eat a bag of popcorn that way? No. Because no human in their right mind does that.

— Dee Karl 7th Woman NYI Blog Box Crew

—-—-—-

Alison Tepsic:

Celebrity superfans are part of a larger phenomenon that tells us what Tom Cruise has in his closet and what Angelina Jolie eats for lunch whether we care or not, simply because some people are too lazy to become stalkers. Most of us have no interest in the sports loyalties of famous people, but we know about them because you can't watch your team play the Lakers without them showing every single remotely recognizable person in the crowd. Oh look, it's some douchebag from Survivor. Awesome. NOW SHOW THE FUCKING GAME.

Some famous people are normal human beings who happen to be lifelong fans of a team and are rich enough to afford the seats that you would be sitting in if you were rich and famous. I once watched a Chiefs game in the same box as Paul Rudd, and he acted exactly like every other fan would in the same situation – excitement over free beer, requisite yelling while we're on defense, Tony Gonzalez jersey. He's been to plenty of games, but he hasn't made himself synonymous with the team, he doesn't bring up his loyalty in every interview, and I've only seen him on television once. To my knowledge, he did not hold a press conference to discuss his views on the hiring of Todd Haley. This is because he's a normal person who happens to be famous.

Some famous people, unfortunately, are not. These are the superfans who single-handedly inspire you to hate entire sports franchises. I'm fairly certain I had nothing against Kentucky until Ashley Judd came along, and she's just one example. I suffer from the terrible fate of being a fan of Notre Dame, who practically invented this shit. Our celebrifans are so bad even WE hate them. Trust me, every time Regis Philbin says anything on the subject, my immediate reaction is: "God, what a bunch of assholes. Oh, wait…"

— Alison Tepsic is always happy to share her box with Paul Rudd. Feel free to tell her she sucks personally at tepsicity@gmail.com.

—-—-—-

Trouble:

The famous people who try to escape their tragic, empty lives by mixing with the common folks at stadiums and sports bars are not the ones most deserving of our loathing. It's probably part of their expensive cognitive behavioral therapy for an anxiety disorder or narcissistic personality to pop some Xanax, throw on some Ed Hardy shirt they were gifted and venture out into the real world from time to time.

That guy from Rural, Flyover retains his enthusiasm for his favorite sports teams long after his Golden Globe award and runner-up status for People's Sexiest Man Alive. Only these days the team invites him in to the locker room and the owner shakes him down for photo-ops and autographs for his kids and his mistress. Instead of tailgating with his bros and wearing a stupid hat, as he was accustomed, he sits nervously courtside with cameras in his face and some douchebag bankers yelling at him from five rows back. From the hot dog vendor to the security goons, every damn person fawns and fakes and wants a piece of him. He longs for the days of sitting in the nosebleeds and simply enjoying the game, hoping the little blimp camera puts him on the JumboTron kissing his girl.

Ashley Judd is a famous actress, perhaps even more famous for her passionate activism. She's a sports fan, too, and not the boob flashing, "lookit me!" variety of female sports fan. It's unfortunate that her bellowing commentary became some sort of problem for the team and I'm more sorry for her diminished capacity to fully enjoy college ball than for the team or the sport or the general fucking public. However, she ought to know better by now and rage on the inside like a true lady, right?

What bothers me more than any celebrity in the sweaty fray are the lawyers, CPAs, and CEOs who delude themselves into believing they are actual VIPs beyond the doors of their stupid firms. It's best they stay in their luxury boxes with their orange-skinned, blonde, plasticene clone-women and revel in their desperate striving apart from the normal, drunk, hollering hordes of face-painted and team spirited fans. Let loose from those stadium gerbil cages they tend to ruin everyone else's good time by commandeering the beer guy, working their Blackberry and loudly congratulating themselves via a cyborg Bluetooth goober on their ear. They are the jerks who whine for security when the legacy savant fan in the seat behind them precisely identifies the ref's error and announces it with a few well-placed expletives about said referee's mental state and the purity of the ref's mother.

Famous people are generally not the problem. Delusional fuckheads of all income brackets and levels of celebrity who need you to believe they are VIPs are the buzzkill of live sporting events.

— Trouble had enough unfortunate encounters with actual famous people and real live asshat "VIPs" in her long media career to offer truly expert opinion on this topic. So cram that with walnuts, ugly Deadspin commenters. See you in the nosebleeds!

Elway's Bitch:

A couple of years ago, I spent three unremarkable evenings with a professional baseball player who (at the time) wore a helmet emblazoned with the Virginia state bird. At the end of our third and final date, he showed me the cell phone portrait of a certain professional athlete's bowel movement.

We were set up by a mutual friend. I sat there cooing like a retarded dove during the first two dates because he talked about himself a lot, we had no connection, and I was not drunk enough to be even mildly amusing. There were a couple of those "Oh, that was kind of funny…sort of…" moments, but we pretty much just stared boringly at each other for three courses for three dates at three different steak houses and made boring remarks on the boring food.

And then, the final date …

Apparently, there was/is some sort of competition centered on "who can take the largest dump" among a circle of professional athletes. Most of the participants were NFL players and PGA golfers. I do not believe Najeh Davenport was involved. This contest actually had RULES that had been DISCUSSED and VOTED on by members. The main statute was that the "entity" had to cross the water line, or some (I want to use the word that fits here, but I can't) nonsense like that. When one member of the circle produced a worthy effort, a cell phone picture of the item would then be captured and distributed to all participants in the club. The substance was then ranked on a tornado scale from F1 to F5 by all members. F5 represented the most intense deliveries, apparently a reference to the barn scene in "Twister" when Helen "Pinched Face" Hunt and her weather boy were staked down in a barn and their bodies endured incredibly violent winds.

So I discovered this secret society at the end of our third date. As my date strode out of the bathroom, he was starting at his cell phone in rapture. He handed me his cell phone as he sat down, providing no context as to what I was about to observe. So when I first glanced at the picture, I had to really peer at it to comprehend what I was looking at … and when realization set in, I started shaking my head violently, literally throwing the phone at him across the table. I thought he was presenting me a snapshot of the intestinal sculpture he had just carved out … at a white tablecloth steakhouse where they offer you black napkins if you're wearing black (which is a thoughtful gesture). And I'm sitting there stunned, wondering how the hell he went from "kind of boring" to THIS in one bathroom trip. I thought he was the most fucked-up human being I had ever encountered.

And then he stated, completely straight-faced, "Favre just dropped an F-5."

Now, I have no way to authenticate this statement. But, yeah, I believe it.

— Elway's Bitch is heading to Denver with a missile. And she's going to Josh McDaniel's house.

—-—-—-

Missy Underwood:

Gorgeous, self-confident, charismatic men — I can't imagine why women find athletes attractive. Add "rich" and "famous" for professional athletes, and I am really baffled by their romantic prowess. Even those of us who think we are above it all can be susceptible to their charms. Athletes are definitely used to playing by different rules, or no rules at all.

I was involved with a former professional athlete turned analyst for a few years. I was not looking for the relationship. In fact, I held him off for a couple of years. But athletes aren't used to hearing the word "no", so I guess that just made me more of a challenge to him. I found out that being relentlessly pursued by someone who is admired by so many is a huge ego boost. Plus he had the money and the resources to make impressive gestures — an incredible "turn-on". How could I resist?

I never understood why I was worth the risk to him. If we had been caught, he may have said goodbye to his lucrative contract, his marriage, his endorsements, etc. I actually thought a little less of him because he gave me so much power, but that fed my ego too. I was worth the risk, and he trusted me — I must be something! I tried not to think about the possibility that I wasn't the only one he was "trusting."

We didn't end it with a huge fight or anything. It just slowly burned out after a few years. Do you think he worries about me talking now? I don't think so. I think that professional athletes are narcissistic and really believe the rules are not for them. And despite all the evidence to the contrary, they think they are untouchable.

Stephanie Stradley:

I've come to believe that all people are weird, but that some people are more talented at hiding their particular brand of weirdness. I don't think that I know anyone "normal." The more you learn about anyone-your co-workers, friends or a date-the faster you find out their things that are a little or a lot strange.

Famous people, including athletes, have a hard time hiding their freaky deaky because people dish (or send tips to Deadspin). And some famous people may be less inclined to hide their weirdness, because they figure out that people will want to hang out with them no matter what they do. That, and I always assume that a large part of the population is abusing prescription drugs. It is the most logical explanation for a lot of strange behavior.

A story. Back in the day, a buddy of mine invited me to go to the first Comets WNBA game. Free courtside half court tickets. I'd never sat courtside before to anything, so cool whatever.

I remember little about it other than sitting two seats away from Charles Barkley. He had an empty seat next to him, and throughout the first half, a parade of strangers sat in that seat and talked to him. He was extremely cordial to all and after a few minutes with each, security asked those people to move along.

During the game, I got frustrated because nobody was selling any alcohol courtside. So I turn to Barkley and say, "Hey Charles, what does it take to get a beer around here?"

He tells me, "Man, I was thinking the same damn thing. I wanted to go in the locker room and get one, but they got WOMEN in there."

Barkley left at half time but before he went, he invited me to join him for drinks with friends at a nearby bar. I didn't go. Sir Charles behaved in a lovely way to many strangers half court at a WNBA game. And perhaps he would have been the same cordial guy at the bar. My boring story may have led to an interesting evening, but some forms of interesting I'm just not interested in.

— Stephanie Stradley thinks that life without selected weirdness would be boring and writes for FanHouse and a Houston Texans blog for the Houston Chronicle.

—-—-—-

Ellie:

I went to college at a Big Ten school and during that time, I worked at a bar where plenty of football, basketball, hockey and baseball players spent their time. Can't get to class but hey, I can make it to $1 pitcher night. This provided many opportunities for dealing with the jock mentality.

One night, two football players who were both pretty hot, well-liked for making game-winning kicks and game-saving catches showed up wearing vests with no shirts underneath. Really? But because of who they were, girls were vying to tear off the vests.

Another time, a football "prodigy" showed up to the bar with other players and basically just sat back and waited for the girls to come to him. Never mind that he smelled, was underage and hadn't really proven anything on the field. His "rival" also stood back, but mostly because he was uncomfortable with attention. I mean really, he was WAY hotter so he should've had girls all over him and the smarmy attitude. But instead, he was respectful and polite. Fighting for a job apparently makes you nicer…

One of the baseball players that I … um … knew said that he always felt he could say what he wanted around girls. Cause if the girl didn't like what she heard, there was another girl lined up behind her who will listen to what he has to say. Sadly, it's true.

What do these stories say about the jock mentality? Basically that they expect to get what they want. It's not rocket science. Why wouldn't they have this kinda attitude? They've also had coaches and fans telling them they're gods and giving them what they want. It doesn't matter how smelly you are, how ridiculously you're dressed and what actually comes out of your mouth. And if the girls are out there willing to put up with it, this mentality won't ever go away…

— Ellie didn't lose any money in Vegas last weekend. Maybe a little dignity, though.

—-—-—-

Jen Aniano:

I briefly dated a pro athlete. He was a good guy and probably would have made a good long-term boyfriend. He knew a lot of people, and the bar was always a fun place to be because everyone wanted to talk to him. It did not work out, solely because we were in different places, not because he was a scumbag.

If you ask me, it is not just the pro athlete on the top of his game that treats women like yesterdays garbage. All types of guys treat women like dirt. The only difference is high profile pro athletes are in the spotlight much like movie stars.

I blame the women for letting it happen. A woman does not hang out by the locker room because she wants her ball signed; she is really waiting there hoping the gods bless her with a quickie in the shower. Women are just as much at fault for being taken advantage of as the guys who take advantage of them. Not to mention, if I had the power to take advantage of men, still make tons of money and be considered a god I would most likely do the same. Actually I know many women who would.

I cannot fault those athletes for doing what women allow them to do. It is human nature. Who can be blamed for that?

— Jen Aniano is waiting for A-Rod to sign her ball (wink,wink)

Cameron Frye:

Remember when the Lingerie Bowl was something special and filled with such top notch celebrities like Willa Ford, Adrienne Curry and Real World Las Vegas roomie, Trishelle? Most thought the concept was dried up and done when there wasn't a Lingerie Bowl to entertain the masses during this year's Super Bowl. But have no fear; they're back and better than ever! I might be pushing it with the last statement, but they're back with an entire league and look for the jiggle fest to be heading to a rec center parking lot near you!

Considering how accessible porn is these days and what we've all seen on the internet, is there really a need for a traveling circus of half naked broads who'll run around in tiny costumes tackling each other while trying to catch a football?

I just re-read that and that has to be the stupidest question ever.

Of course there is! Who doesn't want to watch a bunch of hot girls rolling around in the dirt? There's the chance for an ‘oopsie!' and really, who doesn't love an ‘oopsie!'? These ladies are more than likely going to be very accessible since it's the first year of the league and they'll do whatever to promote, so here's to hoping they have Daddy Issues and you're on the receiving end of some ‘Daddy didn't love me' sex or better. And honestly, ladies, you know you'll be watching just to see one of these ladies lose a tooth or two or disfigure one and other. Is it wrong to want to see what it's like when an implant bursts?

— Cameron Frye can be followed on Twitter.Com/CameronFrye.

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Sonya:

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Thankyouthankyouthankyou for this opportunity to meet amazing girls just like me and show everyone my athletic skills. The breast enhancement was sooo worth it! This is an awesome way to show the world I'm beautiful inside and out. And I'm talented! I loveitloveitloveit. Except I'm worried about the full contact thingy but i know the other girls are just as scared as me about breaking a leg. Pleasepleaseplease don't let me break my leg or my arm or i'll only be able to get head shot modeling assignments and that is so not fair to these boobs. Okayokay, I'm really gonna take this seriously and meet lots of people and get modeling jobs and publicity and really awesome friends and kick butt!

Ladies, ladies! Don't believe a lingerie league could be something serious! Buried deep beneath those double dees, your heart knows otherwise. While there will be moments during the games when you feel like you're truly involved in a sport, fans will know better. What bugs more than the silly Lingerie Football League is that seemingly somewhat intelligent women believe it might lead to a little respect. The league name calls a spade a spade. Chrissakes woman, it starts with "lingerie." Hearing that word, the male brain gracefully makes its exit.

LFL founder Mitchell Mortaza unintentionally revealed his next venture, Ultimate Catfighting, when he described what it's like to have a beautiful girl "knock another girl's head off.... It's something to behold." He followed that with this nugget of advice to the ladies about the football: "Don't catch it with your boobs. Don't catch it with your face." Solid stuff. No pristine boobs a bouncin', no pretty face, no job. Oh, and "it'll hurt."

— Sonya strongly suggests all sports be played commando. Her website is Sports Slant.

—-—-—-

Bay Area Claire:

Lingerie Football League? The existing Professional Women's Football Leagues aren't good enough? Yeah, those women frighten me, too.

But a Lingerie Football League? No, this won't capture my attention for long. I'll check them out, judge their looks, then move on to new things.

Most men will have a similar short attention span when they view LFL games. They'll watch and be captivated with the players' girl-on-girl contact, replays in slow-motion, physical assets (real and otherwise) — but only for a minute or two.

After those intense two minutes, these men will suddenly be overcome with the desire for a nap.

After a refreshing nap, the men will awake and possibly be mesmerized enough to start the cycle all over. If anything, the LFL will be there when these men desire to, uh, nap.

In addition, comic-book/sci-fi convention attendees will probably fall victim to the LFL. This league will be their only contact with sports-aside from practicing their choreographed light saber battles. They'll put aside their Star Trek uniforms and superhero capes as they find a new sense of machismo as they watch the women.

It's killing two birds with one stone — and we know those guys like efficiency. They may even share the same nap routine as the other set of men.

Even with this loyal fan base, the LFL won't last. But hey, maybe it will last long enough for Octo-Mom to find a spot on a team and pay for those 14 kids.

— Bay Area Claire won't be found supporting the LFL, but can be found salivating over the start of MLB's season. Cyber-stalk her at Examiner.com, Bleacher Report, or follow her on twitter. She's everywhere.

—-—-—-

Dee Karl:

Lingerie Football League? What? This is a "Saturday Night Live" skit, right? You're not serious are you? There really IS such a thing? Wait, is it sponsored by Playboy Magazine or Cosmo? Is it supposed to be to prove "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" with 'balls' or just another form of soft porn? Seriously... I don't get this.

Tell me some sponsor is trying to create just a female football league (of their own) and I'll say, cool! There are probably a few women out there who would LOVE to be able to play football (real football) in shoulder pads and spandex pants and padded butt cheeks. I can't imagine any real athlete wanting to play in satin bustiers and chiffon baby-dolls.

Sexist marketing and the women who are looking for anything to get a nudge for their careers. Nothing exactly wrong with that, but seriously... who are they kidding? Call this what it actually is; a photo shoot for job seeking models and their new boobs.

— Dee Karl is the 7th Woman on the NYI Blog Box Crew.

Elway's Bitch:

This is everything I knew about the WNBA before last night:

Lesbian rumors abound. And rebound. Someone named Sheryl Swoopes is somehow involved. There was a John Elway look-alike named Rebecca Lobo who, at one point, "got next." And thanks to Deadspin, I am now familiar with Candace Parker's new chest size. Or were they always C's? This is the first bit of WNBA "news" I have paid attention to in years. Girls are interested in other girl's breast sizes. We secretly think every other girl is lying.

So after some drunken WNBA research last night, I discovered a few goofy team names (the Silver Stars?) and the proper way to deface a Wikipedia page. I also enjoyed a good bit of time on a website for a team I had barely registered before, the illustrious "Phoenix Mercury." A few questions. How the hell do all the retired transplants waiting for transplants in PHOENIX support a WNBA team? And why does the logo look like something a Special Olympics team created (Hi Obama!)? And could they possibly have designed an uglier uniform? Straight from the Mercury website: "the ladies wear white, chartreuse and orange at home." Chartreuse is equivalent to puke green. So, somebody in that organization thought the colors white, puke green and orange sounded sweet to the pallet. Promotional masterpiece.

This same marketing retard also conjured up the "Hip Hop Squad." Instead of cheerleaders, the Mercury employs a bunch of little dancing heathens. Photographic evidence of this troupe exists on the website. Tryouts are now! Last year's squad is shown posing really hard in fedora hats and striped knee socks in front of this bizarre gray, urban warehouse backdrop in PHOENIX. It's probably a crematorium.

The problem with the WNBA is that it's one giant promotional flaw. In America, success is only achieved through hard work and sex tapes. And hard work in those sex tapes. I Googled every possible combination of "sex tape" and "scandal" and "affair" with the word "Mercury" that I could devise. Nothing. I tried a lot of worse things, but my mom reads this. Until somebody takes one for the team(s), and makes out with a mirror or another team member at half court, no one is really going to give a shit. Candace Parker, shows us your C's!

— Elway's Bitch has a message for Josh McDaniels: "Next time you want to perpetrate some sort of sneaky, wormy trade that makes absolutely no sense to anybody except maybe some naked, shivering Bellevue patient picking imaginary jelly beans off his scrotum during shower time, why don't you make sure the trade actually happens? You're an asshole."

—-—-—-

Jess Mac:

As a newly recruited member of Team Unemployed USA, I've had the opportunity all week to bask in the warming glow of my roommate's newly purchased 60" LCD flat screen and absorb endless March Madness coverage and, as of yesterday, the tournament itself. These are hard times. Even though I grew up playing sports, specifically basketball, and grew up in the great state of Connecticut, where the only three activities worth pursuing are underage drinking/drug use, promiscuous sex, and UConn basketball fanship, I still won't be tuning in to the Lady Huskies systematic dismantling of any team that comes their way in their bid for a national championship and undefeated season. The reason why is simple:

Women's (team) sports are boring.

I've seen enough fast break underhand layups during my high school basketball tenure, thank you very much. I would probably rather watch an episode of Jon and Kate Plus 8 than a women's basketball game — relatively the players are moving more slowly, but the overall action is faster. Plus Kate is the goddamn Pat Summitt of parenting. The level and pace of play just doesn't translate to a viewing audience during women's play like it does in men's. In addition, women's team play is unselfish, almost to a fault. Any sports fan would rather watch Kobe arrogantly launch a three from 26 feet with a hand in his face and three teammates open than the Lady Huskies' absurdly intuitive ball movement and pass play. I would call this an injustice, but at the end of the day Kobe is an accused rapist and generally giant prick.

I doubt that any women's sports will be watched and worshipped at such a level as that of men's unless, of course, it's the Lingerie Bowl. Apparently the UConn women's basketball team is doing something very, very wrong by being fully clothed during play. Or very, very right.

— Jess Mac lives in Boston and in this economy, is setting the over/under at time of procurement of employment at circa the NBA Championships. She is taking the over.

—-—-—-

Ciara:

As a young girl, my mom and I would go see the WNBA's Washington Mystics play at the then-called MCI Center on most Saturdays. Fun times. Although I enjoyed that as a child (I think it was for the nachos), I always wanted to go see the Wizards play because I'm one of those chicks that can't watch women's sports. Believe me, I've tried. I would choose a community college basketball game over UConn-Tennessee any day of the week.

To this day, I don't know really why. For someone who was such a tomboy growing up, it would only make sense that I would gravitate towards watching, even playing, women's sports. That didn't happen. If I was going to play sports, it was going to be with the boys because in my mind, the competition is better. Blame it on my internal male-chauvinist but if you put the best men and women's sports teams on the same court or field, there's no question in my mind that the ones with the external genitalia are winning. No question, whatsoever.

For me growing up, it meant more to my ego when a dude would be in awe of my skills on the field than another female. I took some cold-hearted joy being better than every chick out there. To be picked first over a group of guys would be borderline orgasmic.

That's why my current stance on women's sports bothers me. As someone who loved being better at throwing a football or hitting a three, I will never give women a chance on the court. In reality, it's fucked up.

— Ciara fell in love with Louisville's Terrence Williams and let that control her bracket. Proof again that penis overrides logic.

—-—-—-

Meghan:

I do occasionally watch women's basketball. I have even gone out to bars with friends to watch the finals of the ACC Tournament and the NCAA Tournament. Mostly because I am a homer and Maryland's team tends to be really good. This year is no exception, with one of the most explosive offenses in women's NCAA basketball they could probably beat most of the men's Big Ten teams. Actually, I'd kind of like to see that, since I have a heartfelt belief the Big Ten is terrible overrated. And the Lady Terps definitely score more than you're average Big Ten team.

If there is a team that can beat Uconn this year, it's Maryland. The Lady Terps take a lot of crap for not playing a lot of defense and relying on their offense, which makes them like most men's teams. Apparently that makes them very beatable, as long as it's not your team playing them.

As for the whole women's equality thing. I guess we don't really have that far to go. I mean, they even let us women have our Friday afternoon feature on Deadspin now. I know we don't make nearly enough dick jokes and just won't send you our pictures so you can tell if we are hot enough to warrant reading, but think of this as a little Deadspin Affirmative Action. Sure, you might not like it, but whatever, as long as we get decent page views and keep sending in our mediocre posts written while severely hung over on Friday mornings, I think we're going to be here for a while. Just hope they don't take this too seriously and promote one of us.

— Meghan will be watching basketball and not reading the comments today. Feel free to skewer, slander and bemoan her writing there or at Girls Don't Know Sports.

If you would like to be on the Waxing Off writing staff, email me at Rick@Deadspin.com and state your case. And in response to your many requests, men who occasionally dress as women are not eligible.

Meghan:

Don't talk to me about brackets. I'm not ready yet. I'm still clinging to the last vestiges of hope. The ACC tournament offers up that hope to me. Maryland has been toying with my emotions all season. I have been sucked into a cycle of trying to walk away and give up on them to coming back to dreaming about the big dance. The Terps are like most of my ex boyfriends, just when I'm ready to leave them for being inconsiderate losers they surprise me with a big heartfelt gesture and I forgive them their faults and believe they won't do it again.

Consequently, I don't want to think about filling out another bracket without my beloved Terps. They won last night in the first round of the ACC tournament and that was enough to breathe new life into my hopes and dreams. It's true I'll probably be crushed later today, trying to think of ridiculously complicated arguments as to why they really deserve a spot. But don't do that to me yet, let me enjoy my last few hours of blind hope. This team reminds me too much of the 2004 team that was solidly on the bubble and went on a tear to win the tournament and secure a spot. I'm not ready to face reality yet.

And even if Maryland had lost last night, I'd want some time to mourn my team. They were a tourney staple for so long. It breaks my heart to look at a fresh bracket without them. Maybe this is what has spurred my bracket mania. I fill out women's brackets, lacrosse brackets, hell, if there was a bracket I could fill out on a random public ESPN group for men's badminton, I'd probably do that too. Ok, well, maybe I'd stick to sports I have some tiny bit of knowledge about. But still, if the bracket includes Maryland, I'm all about it.

Basically Rick, this was a mean topic. With so many teams on the bubble, I can't even look a few days ahead to selection Sunday, let alone to sitting down and predicting the wrong first round upsets.

— Meghan's hoping to be smiling on Sunday. When lamenting the Terps' latest letdown, she blogs at Girls Don't Know Sports.

—-—-—-

Ellie:

Every year during March Madness, my friends and I make a trek to Las Vegas for Sweet Sixteen weekend. I don't really gamble and I don't care about basketball. So why am I there? Why not? When it's 10 degrees in Chicago and 80 degrees in Vegas, it's really a no-brainer.

March 2006. Sunday morning, my friend and I were nursing hangovers and trying to remember what the hell happened the night before. In fact, now that I'm trying to remember the details, I can't… Anyway, at some point that morning, we heard that George Mason was playing UConn and thought "George Mason?!" In our still-drunken minds, we thought "We should cheer for George Mason just so we can yell ‘Tournament of George!' in the sports books." We even thought about putting some money on George Mason, just to make our obnoxiousness a little more legitimate. Trust me, it made perfect sense at the time and we thought we were quite clever for coming up with this. Ultimately, we decided against it. I don't remember what the odds were. And I don't remember how much we were going to bet. But I do remember this: The two of us would've walked out with A LOT of money if we bet on George that day.

Moral of the story: Sometimes, drunken ideas in Vegas are a GOOD thing.

— Ellie apologizes to her UConn friend for bringing up a bad memory, but also hopes to have another drunken brilliant idea in Vegas this year.

—-—-—-

Trouble:

It all started earlier in 2002, when I was bartending at a popular sports bar and winning bets left and right on my beloved, unpredictable Philadelphia Eagles. During the NFC Championship game I watched in misery as the Iggles choked and as some birthday boy's dad paid off the bar owner to "award" his disinterested son the McNabb jersey they were supposedly randomly giving away. Once the game was a goner the drunks started in with the McNabb bashing and the birthday boy asked to trade in his jersey for a Tampa Bay one. My good friend and fellow bar monkey, Art, kept me from physically harming any people and kindly paid our tab. Only lost a bill on that game but the hurt lingers.

Art felt bad for me, he said. You have to focus your bets on games in which you have no emotional stake, he said. How about college ball? He had a point: I watched NCAA basketball and certainly heard my fill of predictions and complaints from the other side of the bar, but round ball just doesn't thrill me like football and I wouldn't care one way or the other who won.

"It's the Hoosier's year," said Indiana native Art, while carrying a fresh bucket of ice to my bar. "Bet on it." Maybe, I thought, although UConn was looking good and Oklahoma was not to be counted out. I consulted with the microbrew-swilling ballcaps around the bar and ignored my husband, who bleeds orange and cannot fathom that Syracuse hopelessly sucks. I carefully mapped out my brackets. "Hoo-siers! Hoo-siers!" bellowed Art.

March Madness 2002 sped by, trashing brackets and ruining lives without pity or mercy. I was doing fine, just fine. I trash-talked, I gloated, I fantasized about what I'd do with my big winnings and I marveled at the Hoosier's wild ride. I promised Art a steak dinner as reward for his good advice after we watched "Hoosiers" for the billionth time. "What about Maryland?" yawned Art's girlfriend, Denise. "The Terps would love to think they had a chance," answered Art, sullenly.

Final Four was agony, but nothing compared to the slack-jawed disbelief of the Championship Game. Were the Hoosiers thinking of joining this game in Atlanta, maybe? Did someone slip roofies in the Gatorade? How to explain the listless, lifeless playing of the Indiana Hoosiers? Worse, I saw my money being eaten, bill-by-bill, by a grinning, phenomenally talented Juan Dixon. Woe is me, goddamn awesome turtles.

— Trouble no longer bets money on sports, obviously, and never did take the big loss out on Art's sorry hide.

—-—-—-

Kristine Blinn:

Every year my father joins one of many NCAA pools with his lifelong friends. Most of the men in the pool, for whatever reason, cough up an extra $40 to enter a bracket for their wives. Not my father. Oh sure, my mom can add her bracket to the mix, but he wasn't about to just throw away 40 of his hard-earned dollars. Frugality was key with my father, and my mother had no chance of winning. I'll attest, she does know next to nothing about college basketball — or, you know, sports — but this was 1999, and she did know one thing: Kevin Freeman. At the time a junior forward for UConn, Freeman was a high school basketball teammate of my older brother. He'd been to the house, I was friends with his younger brother, and because he was such a nice boy, UConn was going to take the title.

I remember that tournament well, particularly being home for spring break in time for a Madness party my parents were throwing. It was the weekend of the Elite 8 and I watched in horror as my father swallowed his tongue while his brackets exploded. When the night was all said and done, family friend John, the holder of all things tournament, filtered through the papers to calculate who was in the lead. You can imagine where this is leading...

My mother, knowing nothing but Freeman's finesse with parents, was the only person with her Final Four still intact. She was also the sole person with UConn beating Duke for the title. Laugh as everyone did at the time, my mother won that pool. And my father has entered money for her ever since.

— Kristine Blinn is fond of saying "No man may have me, unless he's beaten me in a fair fight."

Trouble:

Reading excerpts from Alyssa Milano's upcoming girlie sports fan book, I was shocked, appalled and disgusted. Have all the book editors been laid off, too? Her writing is atrocious.

Why is this book? Milano is a cute girl, sure, and a lesser celebrity. She apparently is really into baseball-or at least really into people admiring her for her ability to tick off rosters and stats and bellow at bad calls. Does she make any valid points about girls ‘n sports, or sports ‘n relationships? Not from what I read; those blathering sentences are stuck together without point, style or reason. Really, this book is yet another narcissistic diary that is an insult to talented sportswriters of either gender.

Girls and women who love and follow sports are not that hard to find. Books written by female athletes, broadcasters or famous fans, about Title IX or the equality challenges faced by women in sports, or essays about how guys hate when women intrude on hallowed boy ground are plentiful and usually ghostwritten by a talented writer, to avoid putrescence such as Safe at Home.

Good for little Sam, though, she needs a boost to her career that doesn't involve FHM.

— Trouble is a web editor and freelance writer based in Denver, CO. The sorry state of media and publishing has her depressed and anxious. Alyssa Milano's stupid book is not helping.

—-—-—-

The Steezer:

First off, I may not like Alyssa Milano, but goddam it, I respect her. Anyone who can make it okay for me to own this is A-OK. Also is it just a coincidence that Milano's TV dad on "Who's the Boss" was a former baseball player? I bet Tony Danza taught her everything she knows about getting to second base. But I digress.

I have long held the belief that guys think girls who like sports are cool, fun, awesome girls…and it's true, we are…but not "girlfriend material." We're buddies. Besties maybe. But most guys are not secure enough to have a girl know more about the BCS formula than they do. I think it makes their testes retract.

So I often find myself holding back from correcting some dude about a sports fact because it's not worth the repercussions. And as someone who likes people to know that I know everything about everything, this is not an easy thing to do. Other traits that guys find cool but undesirable in a romantic partner:

• ability to out-drink them

• excessive recitations of movie/television quotes

• affinity for buffalo wings

If this means I have to live my life as a single lady because no fella ever put a ring on it, that's fine by me, if it means I'll be spending every Saturday/Sunday in a Miller Lite haze inside a dark sports bar with sauce all over my face and hands yelling, "I DON'T WANT YOUR LIFE!"

Today, however, I am prepared to amend this notion. Guys don't want to date girls who like sports UNLESS they look like Alyssa Milano.

— The Steezer is a Texas Longhorn fan living in Washington, D.C. who is hoping for a stimulus package to call her very own.

—-—-—-

Cameron Frye:

Alyssa Milano is a baseball fanatic and desperate for you to know that. She's a season ticket holder, she designs overpriced fan gear for women & I'm assuming scrawny gay men and now she's written a book to prove she's a super fan and bleeds Dodger Blue. Do I think she is? Yeah, I do. But I think she went a little crazy along the way and took her love for the game to a whole new level.

Instead of being content with watching the men in their tight white pants play America's pastime, she decided to screw a few of baseball's best and leave her mark on the sport. The gentlemen, who've hooked up with her over the years, haven't had the best of luck afterwards. Alyssa seemed to have the ability to suck the talent out of anyone. Barry Zito signed a $126 million dollar contract and was sent to the bullpen. He started last season 0-6 and had 7.53 ERA. Carl Pavano played in 26 games during his three years on the New York Yankees and spent most of the time on the DL. I'm so glad the sight of Schilling shoveling food down his gullet drove him to sign with NY. And is there any way she can fix Brad Penny since he's playing for Boston now? I'll buy one of her lousy shirts if she does.

Do I blame her for banging a few ball players? Not at all, there are a lot of good looking guys who play ball – shit; I'd do it. Basically, what I'm saying is that if you want to be taken seriously as a fan, keep the balls and players out of your mouth.

— Cameron Frye cannot wait for baseball season and is especially looking forward to drinking heavily at 10 am on April 20th at Fenway Park. You can follow Cameron and her drunken nonsense @ twitter.com/cameronfrye .

—-—-—-

Katni:

Despite her questionable career and relationship decisions, I absolutely adore Alyssa Milano. I liked her back in the Who's the Boss days, I've overlooked some of the shittier movies she's made, and I've occasionally watched Charmed because of her, despite the fact that I cannot fucking stand the chick from Picket Fences.

As for her love of baseball, I think it's genuine. I consider myself a moderate baseball fan, but Alyssa puts me to shame. She knows what the fuck PECOTA is, for god's sake. (Is that some sort of tapas dish?) She has had the misfortune of being in some high-profile relationships, and has been called out for being a groupie, but here's a parallel that may help explain what seems, on the surface, like groupie-ism. Let's say a girl loves music. She loves music so much that she goes out of her way to see/hear live performances as often as she can. She will enthusiastically tell anyone who will listen about her favorite bands, songs, musical techniques, etc. Over time, that girl is probably going to end up talking shop with some of the very same musicians that she has already become fond of on a "professional" level. Occasionally, one thing will lead to another, and she will end up dating said musician(s), because she has found somebody who shares at least one of her passions. Granted, that person may not also share a passion for things such as gainful employment or paying rent, but I digress.

My point is, I think that Alyssa truly has a love for the game, and it's next to impossible not to fall for someone who feels as strongly about one of your primary interests as you do. I'm glad to see that she has wised up to the fact that these arrangements don't usually work out, though. I hope her newly-minted fiancé won't mind her prattling on for hours about sabermetrics, just as I hope my the purely hypothetical music-enthusiast's future fiancé won't mind her prattling on about the genius of Josh Homme.

— Katni insists that one of her playlists will change your life.

—-—-—-

Ellie:

Hey Alyssa, why the "God, no" for Josh Beckett? Then again, considering the pitching careers of the other three after you've dated them, forget it. Please don't go near Beckett. In fact, I hope Beckett and Penny don't have lockers near each other so the Micelli Mojo doesn't rub off.

Anyway, after reading those excerpts, I wonder … Am I supposed to feel bad for Samantha Micelli because she's dated all these baseball players and the relationships didn't work out? Phoebe Halliwell is giving me dating advice? Amy Fisher is telling me stand strong as a woman who likes sports and actually knows sports? Um, I don't think so.

The differences between her and other groupies are that she's an actress (or was an actress), she's got her own money and let's face it, she's hot. You know these athletes will still bang her, instead of blowing her off saying things like, "She's been passed around like a doobie. I'm not going near that." Any other groupie who's nailed three different guys in the same sport gets treated like a joke. Alyssa Milano gets treated like a trophy.

That said, I do think she does have a genuine love of baseball. The way she shows it, or the way it's shown in public, is unfortunate cause it turns her into a joke. But then again, I suppose she's making the most of it. Why else would anyone buy this book?

— Ellie has nailed only one MLB pitcher. And thankfully, he knew how to close.

—-—-—-

Bay Area Claire:

Hi. I'm Bay Area Claire and I love Alyssa Milano. I am enamored by her banging body, pretty face, and stunning smile, but what really does it for me is her love for baseball.

Her knowledge and passion for the game is questioned and scrutinized-a girl can't really know that much about baseball, right?

All the criticism that she receives is the same that many female sports fans encounter-except her experience is on a much larger scale. I don't get special access to the All-Star game, host mlb.com All-Star parties, and date baseball players. That's the life of Alyssa Milano. Man, I would love to live her life.

So Alyssa Milano is drawn to men who are in shape, have perfect musculature (defined, but not overwhelming), and athletic? There's nothing wrong with that; I totally co-sign the idea.

It shouldn't be shocking that a woman has a "type." It should be even less surprising that athletes can be a woman's preference. I share her affinity for baseball player types-I'm talking Derek Jeter-esque, not CC Sabathia-esque, and definitely not roids-filled Jose Canseco-esque.

I've only had one close encounter with the Charmed hottie-and I'm not talking about late night Proactiv commercials.

When SF played host to the All-Star game, she was the host of the mlb.com party. I made my way to the VIP level and in the midst of my mingling, ended up in front of the area where she was hanging out. Like a love-struck girl, I swear we exchanged glances ("move out of my way, Russell Martin, I'm trying to flirt with Ms. Milano!"). Alas, the momentary look was all I was given.

That woman is flawless. Many woman can't pull off the "no bra" look, but she is one of the exceptions.

What can I say? I'm a sucker for anything sporty, sparkly, sexy, and expensive.

And yes, I will probably buy her book.

— Bay Area Claire is up for sharing Alyssa Milano with her man because Alyssa is just that damn sexy. When BA Claire is not obsessing over hot sports fans, find her writing about baseball on examiner.com and BleacherReport.com.

Meghan:

So people seem to be pretty split on Maryland fans calling Duke players at their hotel room to harass them. Some people seem to think since in theory anything that harasses a Duke player/fan/coach/student is a good thing seem to support it. Others seem to think it was a poorly executed prank because not every harassing phone call was funny and many seemed about the level of a 12 year old. I'd like to remind everyone that we're talking about a bunch of college students. I'm guessing mostly guys, so a 12 year old's sense of humor is not that far off. A lot of the students were busy making their best Scheyerfaces and I assume drinking since that's what college kids do.

I'm generally a fan of sophomoric, obnoxious humor, so I appreciated the Maryland v. Duke pranks. It was more about harassment anyway. But for all those Terp haters out there I thought I'd share a harmless prank from a couple years ago at Maryland. Some idiot drove a truck through one of the curved walls that stand where you enter main campus. Apparently since the brick walls are curved, it's expensive to fix, so the university hangs a banner over the gaping hole for a while with a picture of our beloved Testudo breaking through the wall. However, some students decide this broken wall could be put to better use. So one night they go out, steal the banner and erect something much better in its place:

Whatever, I think it's funny.

— Meghan no longer approves of pranks, harmless or not, since applying for the Bar. She blogs at Girls Don't Know Sports.

—-—-—-

Absence Of Alice:

It's hard out there for a Cardinals' fan, but I had finally managed to block out the pain and soothe the crying of my inner child following the tragic events of Feb. 1, 2009. My co-workers, however, do not seem interested in my continuing mental health. Imagine my horror when I arrived at work last Monday to find this: My beloved Rock 'Em, Sock 'Em toy robots, arranged in a manner unbefitting the Super Bowl mission statement, or even common decency. In case you're wondering, yes, both originally were red. And rest assured that I will not rest until I find out who did this. You have ripped open a wound and poked it with a stick, cruel anonymous workmate. Happy now? Happy now?

Unlike the game itself, it doesn't look like Cardinals robot put up much of a fight. As for the little diorama below, I don't know what the hell is going on there, except that my Blockhead Gumby — another toy that I keep on my desk — is somehow involved in attempting to tackle Jesus. You've got to wrap, Blockhead Gumby!

You've got to hand it to Him, our Lord and Savior knows how to move the chains.

— Absence of Alice works in the health care profession, is still a Cardinals fan, and asks if you would please stay away from her desk.

—-—-—-

Cameron Frye:

The only prank I was ever a part of was during my senior year of college. We wanted to give our school's exiting VP, with whom we constantly butted heads (and who had the personality of stomach cancer), a proper goodbye. Now I went to a small all-women's college that goes by the nickname Pine Mattress, and the campus was in the middle of a posh residential area. The local police department was quite familiar with us and were called all the time for noise complaints by our nouveau riche neighbors.

So after throwing some ideas around, one of the maintenance guys (who was dating a girl in my dorm) informed us one of our security guards (male) stripped on the side for cash. Gave him a ring and booked one of his friends to show up at a party we were attending the next day. Oh did I mention the party was the annual Faculty & Staff cocktail party they threw for the seniors the night before graduation?

The snooze-fest started and the entertainment arrived an hour later. We snuck his Krush Groove boom box in and waited for his cue. He entered the room and oddly enough, he looked official. He confronted her, saying there was a noise complaint, and just acted like a complete dick to her — we watched her trying to stay calm and then watched him handcuff her to a chair. The look on her face when she figured out what was going on was worth the amount I spent on tuition that year. There's something about watching a woman dying from embarrassment and trying to rip off the arm of a chair so she can get loose and away from the cock that's rubbing against her cheek, that'll always make me laugh. The professors thought it was hysterical and gave the handful of us who planned it pats on the back. The next day at commencement she didn't look at any of us when she handed us our diplomas, which could explain why my name on it is spelled wrong.

— Cameron Frye never dated any of the faculty or staff during college, since she's against sleeping with the help. She can be found on https://twitter.com/cameronfrye.

—-—-—-

Nikki:

I've been pranked before. And I'm still a little ticked about it.

Apparently not everyone in my office (located smack in the heart of Mets territory) takes kindly to the fact that there's a Phillies fan working among them. Especially when said Phillies fan decorates her desk with all sorts of Phillies paraphernalia: newspaper clippings of articles from last year's postseason, photos of me meeting some of my favorite ballplayers (I get entirely too giddy whenever people point to the picture of Cole Hamels and me and ask if he's my boyfriend), and a variety of Phillies pennants. My cube is a red-and-white version of heaven … for me, at least. To the Mets fans, they probably think they've reached baseball hell every time they walk by my desk.

Amazingly, the Phillies stuff in my cube was left alone throughout the 2008 playoffs. The Mets fans were probably too busy running home to sit in front of their TVs, hoping that they'd get to see the Dodgers and then the Rays kick the crap outta my Phillies; after that didn't happen, they were probably too busy drowning their sorrows in booze to notice that my cube was becoming increasingly Phillie-fied.

Once they sobered up, though, they noticed. Right around Christmastime, I came into work one morning to find my Phillie-fied cube with a hole in the wall. No, not an actual hole-but a hole in the decorations. Something was missing. Something like my Cole Hamels pennant. Somebody STOLE my fucking Hamels pennant.

And it was clearly some bitter, angry Mets fan who did it. Who else would want to swipe my pennant? There are no other Phillies fans in my building. Nobody would want it to hang on their own wall. They might want it for their dartboard, though. Or to light on fire in an angry, bitter, my-shitty-Mets-choke-every-goddamn-season-lately sort of rage.

I've since taken all my other Phillies pennants down from my cube walls and hung them at home (where they're safe) and gotten myself a replacement Hamels pennant. And I'm trying to not be too bitter about it. Because yeah, I got pranked — but hopefully, the only joke that really matters will be on the Mets and their fans at the end of this season when, for the third year in a row, they'll be reciting the tired old words "There's always next year…"

— When NIKKI isn't making smartass comments about the Mets, she's busy writing snarky stuff over at Red Pen Inc.

Katie P.:

My Evening With Alex..

Alex: "Hello, I'm Alex Rodriguez."

Katie P.: /repeated punches to the face
/chugs Sam Adams
/kicks lifeless orange man in the crotch

Fin.

— Katie P. is an unemployed railworker from Northern Albuquerque.

—-—-—-

CRyan:

10:15 p.m. I arrive at the club. The atmosphere is electric. There's a celebrity in the house. But who? As the big screens around the room begin to break the steroid news, I spot none other than Alex Rodriguez lounging at the bar. He's in a smoking jacket with a Cosmopolitan, his baseball mitt on the bar.

11 p.m. I wander over. This is my chance to ask him all the burning questions I have. What food do they serve in the clubhouse? Does Jorge Posada really urinate on his hands? How exactly, if possible, does Jeter brush his hair? He introduces himself. "I'm Alex Rodriguez," he says, catching himself as he begins to give the entire SAP announcement for the YES Network. We share a laugh.

11:05 p.m. Oh, but only for a moment. As more women approach I aim to keep him engaged. "What brings you to the Bahamas?" I ask. "I am representing them in the World Baseball Classic." I begin to explain how the Dominican Republic and Bahamas are two separate places, He interrupts me; "It was a dream of my mom's, for me to represent where we come from."

11:30 p.m. Small talk with Alex is difficult. "What do you like about the Bahamas, are you enjoying yourself?" I ask. "I like the culture here. There's a different culture here. It's just a real loosey-goosey culture." I'm confused. He's confused. We begin to discuss his playoff accomplishments.

11:31 p.m. Playoff accomplish discussion ends. The night begins to wind down. A single tear runs down Alex's face. "Are you sorry?" I ask. "For the steroids? The distractions? Lying to the world?" "No," he replies quickly. "The Vodka in my Cosmopolitan, it's a bit strong."

— CRyan is a junior at Villanova University who spends her time rooting for the Wildcats, worshipping the Yankees and shirking all responsibility in favor of playing outside. Read her during the week at 3:10 to Joba.

—-—-—-

Meghan:

Well, I hate the Yankees. I wish the whole steroid issue would go away or at least that we would admit most players used performance enhancing drugs and get over it. Honestly, I don't really care about A-Rod that much. I feel like celebrities, in general, should be left alone when they're out. But depending on my level of inebriation, I'd probably ask A-Rod one question. Really, Madonna, really?

— Meghan blogs at http://girlsdontknowsports.blogspot.com.

—-—-—-

Elway's Bitch:

Alex Rodriguez has just discovered that the world is about to learn how he got to the level of making $30 million a year. He has two choices. He can hunker down with some of the savviest PR minds in the world in the hopes of funneling out a plausible story. Or, he can engage in a fun probing session with a pretty woman in white plastic shoes.

So, he opts for the plastic. I understand that the latter option is much more pleasant than a stark conference room full of striped ties and silver cufflinks where smart people force you to admit things that will embarrass and humiliate you. No one wants to endure hours of that. But there is no chance Alex would agree to that. He couldn't.

Unfortunately, when you are no longer a wee 28-year-old, sometimes you just have to do the right thing. But Alex can't. Because he has absolutely no balls. He can hit the shit out of them, with or without scientific help. But he couldn't grow any with all the HGH brewing in BALCO.

Perhaps I am being harsh. Perhaps the first thing most men would do in this situation is make out with a pretty, young woman whose friends can't sit in an upright position without displaying their adorable, well thought out underwear. This is much more fun. I get that.

But you are Alex Rodriguez. You are not most people. You are the wide-eyed, innocent blue eyes of MLB's "The Best Players Are Not Doing Steroids" campaign, and you allowed yourself to be marketed this way. Because that's fun, too. So you decide to tell a story at your press conference about your Russian cosmonaut cousin Yuri and the Dominican Duane Reade pharmacy counter. And absolutely everyone knows that all of this is complete, ridiculous nonsense. But without balls, this is probably the best we could expect. I hope that girl got better.

— Elway's Bitch may or may not have owned very similar white plastic shoes in college.

—-—-—-

Jenn Bowen:

11 p.m. He introduces himself. "I'm Alex," he says, and we die. The security guard then ropes off his table. But we are in!

"Ok, breathe," I tell myself. "I'm in the right place at the right time and now is my chance to help the hometown team."

You see I was born and raised in Seattle going to Mariners games with my dad and watching A-Rod play. It's been a sad slide for the M's the past few years and I must admit I'm not much of a fan anymore. But...with Jr. coming home why not work my magic on Alex Rodriguez and try to get the Mariner's of 1996 back in Sea-town?

But now the timer is running on my time with A-Rod and I've got to try and come up with reasons why he should leave one of the premier teams in baseball and come home to what? The rain? Doesn't seem like much of a bargaining chip but it's worth a shot. He knows that some of his best years on record were during his early days in Seattle. Why not come home and be the hero again instead of playing second fiddle to Jeter.

Will I touch on the performance enhancing drug use? Probably not. My theory is he took them, so what? Maybe he hit the ball harder while he was taking them, but he still had to have the skill to hit the ball. And who's to say that the pitcher wasn't juiced also, so the pitch was faster and hitting the ball was that much more difficult. It's all a big circle jerk of questions and allegations so why can't baseball and the fans just move on. Let's take the players and the game for what they are and what they do now and Alex, let's talk.

— Jenn Bowen was a Seattle sports fan who has lost faith in her fellow Washingtonians. She continues to hope that the people of the state will come to their senses and start to appreciate and support the teams they have left.

Aileen Gallagher:

For my tenth birthday, my parents told me I'd find my present under their bed. I ran upstairs frantically and found nothing but dust mites and a magazine. "Hey, there's nothing here but the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue!" I complained breathlessly. "Really," my mother said, stretching the word a few extra syllables so she could smirk at my dad longer. I was quickly distracted by the sight of my new, blue 10-speed bike, a significant upgrade from my hand-me-down, three-speed, banana-seat model. Every time I see the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, I think of my father. In the most loving and non-creepy way possible.

— Aileen Gallagher is an online editor at

Some women feel like this issue continues to be a step back for women in the sports world. I assure you this won't be the case until the issue is titled "The Women of ESPN" or the "College Basketball's Big Girls" Swimsuit Edition. Surprisingly (as a woman with conservative leanings), I have little to no issue with the magazine. Many of these women are professional models or tennis players/NBA dancers. The models and dancers use their bodies to attract attention as a living and no one cares about tennis. Apparently some women missed Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings' lesser known hit "Mamas Don't Let Your Daughters Grow Up to Be Mavericks Dancers."

I'm more excited for the calendar. My younger brother usually receives it for his birthday as an awkward, "assure he's still straight with 3 sisters" gift. Personally, I'm holding out for MLB's "Seasons of Steroids" calendar. Nothing says sexy like December A-Rod and his Christmas track marks.

— CRyan is a junior at Villanova University who spends her time rooting for the Wildcats, worshipping the Yankees and shirking all responsibility in favor of playing outside. Read her during the week at 3:10 to Joba.

—-—-—-

Sonya:

I don't wanna be bunched up about the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. In my mind I figure, "Could be worse. Whatever." But in my brain, I'm thinking, "Why must sports go hand-in-hand (one-eyed, trouser snake in-hand) with objectification?" It brings out the bitch in me — the implication that if you're female and in the vicinity of a sports event, you oughta be scantily-clad and screeching, "Push 'em back push 'em back, waaaay back!"

We all ogle. It's animal. It's human. It's being a human animal. The Beijing Olympics was one big oglefest for boys and girls alike. Which brings me back to the SI swimsuit issue and an idea I ripped from right under them: why not load it with hot female athletes rather than hot twiggies? I'm saying the whole thing. Athletes. Have 'em wear skimpy, skin-tight whatever (leave a teensy bit to fantasy).

Did I just promote objectification in female athletics?! Tricky. There's a difference. Sexy female athletes (guys too) are recognized for their ease on the eye and their athletic prowess. You respect her 'cause you know she'd kick your ass if you challenged her to whatever her sport is, despite you being bigger and all. And SI has the word "Sports" in it last time I checked. It's not T&A Illustrated. Honor the name and the athlete for the swimsuit issue. I'll even get you started: Kerri Walsh. See? I sense you're already excited.

— Sonya Ewan prefers to interview athletes wearing skimpy, skin-tight whatever. Ogle at a few on her website: www.sportsSlant.com.

—-—-—-

Cari:

I've never understood the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. I know, I know – hot women in skimpy swimsuits – what's not to get? I mean, I know why guys like looking at it, but why on earth does a sports magazine put it out? I am an unrepentant old-school feminist, and yes, I think the issue is sexist.

Then I became a journalist. And now I realize that in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue lies our salvation. Because it is those skimpy swimsuits on those sexy models that allows Selena Roberts to stalk A-Rod at the gym. In these tough times, as publications are folding left and right, I humbly suggest to you that the future of journalism rides on the (bare) backs of swimsuit issues.

Can't you see it now? I imagine The New York Times T Magazine Swimsuit Issue would fly right off the shelves – and cause people to open T Magazine for once! The special Washington Post Book World Swimsuit Issue, featuring attractive authors in teensy bikinis, would provide a way to keep those book reviews coming. Of course, The New Yorker Swimsuit Issue (marking the transition of every single issue of The New Yorker to a themed one) would include essays next to all the Annie Leibowitz cheesecake photos, so you could still feel intellectually superior when reading it on the subway.

Of course, if the women I know are any example, most of them wouldn't buy these issues. (Out of about 40 people I asked, only three expressed a great interest in the SI Swimsuit Issue.) So publishers would risk alienating their female readership. But that additional revenue stream would be worth a few canceled subscriptions and some angry e-mails. Plus, those scantily clad women would be providing the salaries for the whole companies, and if that's not female empowerment, I don't know what is.

— Cari is a journalist in the South. She blogs about her misadventures in life, love and sports fandom at UnwelcomeReturn. She prefers one-piece, retro-style swimsuits, in case you were wondering.

Elway's Bitch:

I know exactly how these two entitled bitches in the photo met their destiny at the Garden on Monday night. The head bitch, Leah, was raised next to a strip mall on Long Island. She flew the coop at the age of 17 to acquire her associate's degree in blow jobs. She discovered her talent in high school. Amy Fisher was her imaginary friend, and she ran all decisions by Amy when she was growing up ... She has seen all three Long Island Lolita miniseries and prefers the Drew Barrymore vehicle to the other three productions. Her "friend" in the picture (who secretly hates Leah more than herself) visualizes herself a makeup artist after an ecstasy-fueled stint at cosmetology school in the Bronx. Her friends lie and tell her the eye shadow looks "so fucking hot" (I can just hear it!) so there will be one less competitor on the whore playing field.

Due to the extraordinary amount of head bobbing in their past, these bottom-feeders were bestowed tickets to a Monday night game at the Garden. And it's so easy to look at that picture and hear the total ignorance in their voices. And the whiny, irritating tones. And the number of "F" bombs dropped because that's what's funny to them. They were most likely the least funny people in the entire Garden. They are most likely the least funny people who have EVER been in the Garden.

Their sense of humor really peaks when they start throwing around the term "homo." Because that is SO funny. Because one dude is wearing a scarf. Because these bitches KNOW style. Because they have a clothing line! Jessica Simpson has a clothing line. And once again, there is that small style point in which a member of their own entourage is wearing more eye shadow than Twisted Sister. That's so ill.

And, yeah, the whole incident occurred because of the protective instincts of a mother bear. That's absolutely what that was. If by "protective," she meant dramatic. And by bear she meant fucker.

We all know these women. They're so clichéd, it's clichéd. We all know they will be using their acrylic nails on those same mocked blackberries the following morning, texting "OMG" and "LOL." They will laugh at their antics. They will assure each other that they were indeed groped, because they are all so "fucking hot." They will revel in the adoring looks received from Section 87 as they were dragged to their own personal glory. They don't get it. They won't get it. They never will. They never could. And they will never be on Page Six. Which is what they secretly hope for more than anything else in the world. Unless Leah goes Amy Fisher on somebody. Just wait for it.

—-—-—-

Trouble:

As with so many fun activities, sports guys are often appalled and offended by actions taken by females that they would find hilarious and charming in their guy friends. If it were three guys acting like bigmouth tools at the Knicks game, this story wouldn't be one.

The reaction to the M.O.B girls is amusing, given that we're talking about New Yorkers at an important New York Knicks game. It is a public sporting event fellas, not the opera. People get faced and yell stupid things at minor league baseball games in Omaha, what do you reasonably expect from rowdy, half-wit Long Island chicks at the Garden?

Ok, so I'm a Philly girl and a sports fan, so I tend to give other obnoxious fans a pass most of the time in the name of Good, Clean Fun. I've also toiled as a bartender in a popular sports bar and seen my share of ridiculous, shameful behavior on the part of men and women under the guise of rooting on the home team. Drunkenly enthusiastic sex seems to be most popular idea of fun in a crowded bar during, say, the Stanley Cup Finals, followed closely by rival team fan brawls and women flashing their boobs. Big friggin' deal. If you don't like the way other people act at sporting events, watch the game at your quiet, tidy home, pussy.

— Like so many other people in their twenties Trouble had yet to learn restraint when it came to drinking, sports, and public places. After being 86'd from bars and forced to surrender her share of season tickets due to run-ins with security and such — thanks to her propensity for picking fights — these days she prefers to watch the game at home where she is free to scream obscenities, hurl the remote at the TV and flash her boobs with abandon, free from whiny-baby jerkoffs.

—-—-—-

Sam:

Ok so I've spent the last week sitting on a jury in Boston Superior Court. This means I am trained in delivering the cold hand of justice. Or as the judge has said everyday since the trial began, I am an "impartial trier of the facts." Whatever. It means I'm a professional. So let me take you bitches to school for a second.

Who's at fault here? Clearly society. This is a case of innocent women being misunderstood and mistreated by the misogynistic men who overpowe..... I'm sorry I just threw up in my mouth a little.

No really who's at fault? I'm gonna go ahead and blame... 1. Eminem for being a pioneer for white people in hip hop and letting them go ahead and ruin it. We did that shit to jazz too. 2. Their mothers for not telling them to shut both their mouths and knees. 3. Their fathers for contributing to whatever daddy issues are clearly at play. 4. Staten Island public schools.

They're not hood, they're not cool, and they're certainly not married to the mob. And if a white girl who's afraid to try on Applebottom jeans tells you that, it's pretty damn obvious. (I suspect that they'd be the best fitting jeans I've ever had, but I don't even know where they sell them. Baby Phat?)

So in conclusion. These people are guilty of unabashed stupidity and are sentenced to turning in their vaginas. They are giving it a bad reputation (as if the movie "Teeth" hasn't done that already.)

Oh and Go Celtics.

— Sam is a journalism student in Boston who was drunk when she emailed this. That's talent. She also enjoys Northeastern University hockey, even though she's the only one.

—-—-—-

Cameron:

I use to think the phase, 'Women should be seen and not heard', was awful and ignorant. But then I was introduced to the wannabe hot heads of MOB and I'm starting to think whoever said knew what they were talking about. Now, I could make fun of the MOB ringleader's bad prison tattoos - which she probably got after being picked up for shoplifting Razzles and Dental Dams from Duane Reade(I'm sure Anna Wintour has a Channel logo tattooed on her frail form) or her consigliere's inability to apply make-up. But, I'm not. I'm just going to mock for them for being complete asshats.

If you want to mock the opposing team, that's fine - I do it, but I'm not going to call Joba Chamberlain a 'bloated head hunting cock sucker' while I'm at the game. You save that for when you're home on your couch. It's all about being subtle. If you want to burn Kobe, wear a t-shirt from a certain hotel in Colorado he'd like to forget. I'm sure that would affect him more than dropping a bunch of f bombs because he hit a couple 3 pointers.

I know I'm the last one to talk about what is and isn't appropriate, but you can't pull that shit and think it's OK. We're always being tested in life and the little girls of MOB would be epic failures if we still got graded for conduct when mingling with the general public. Plus, if you were associated with legit organized crime - why would you want to advertise it? The last thing you'd want to do is bring attention to yourself - ever hear of a code of silence? Obviously they haven't, if they did we wouldn't be talking about them....

— Cameron Frye has never been thrown out of anywhere, but was cut off at Tim Horton's once. Cameron can be seen and not heard on http://twitter.com/cameronfrye .

—-—-—-

Bay Area Claire:

Dear Attention-Seeking Females at Sporting Events,

It's called etiquette. Learn it. There are ways to cheer for your team without being an asshole. No, really.

Many of my days are spent in the confines of a sporting event-mainly baseball. Occasionally, accompanying the familiar aromas of the ballpark is the stench of your overwhelming perfume mixed with alcohol. Now, I share your love of makeup, but know when to say "when." There's a line between trashy and classy-find it.

I love an intelligent heckler, but screaming cliché phrases sprinkled with profanity does not impress anyone around you. No one thinks you're charming or knowledgeable, if anything the drunk dude a couple rows in front of you will attempt to get you to show him your tits. Not because you are appealing, but because you seem like you would do it.

Admittedly, I enjoy ridiculing the stupidity of the women who find this behavior acceptable. I will join in the coaxing of the breast-flashing, just to get a laugh out of it. Usually, it doesn't take much.

I must thank you, however. It is fun seeing you stumble in your heels, even once I was a witness to one of you falling down the steps of AT&T Park. She blamed the beer on the ground, blamed the stairs, and blamed her boyfriend-ignoring the hooker shoes on her feet.

Go ahead, "keep it real." If it was genuine, you wouldn't have to remind everyone. Keep it real, then follow it with tears defending your embarrassing behavior. Keeping it real? Sure.

Toodles,
Bay Area Claire

— Find Bay Area Claire keeping it real and staying fly at examiner.com and BleacherReport.com.

If you would like to become a member of the Waxing Off writing staff, give me a holler.

J-Money:

On Super Bowl Sunday, I'm not a fan of the 'I'm just here for the commercials' crew. I drop them into the same bucket with the people who go to hockey games just to see a fight, those who upend their Coke because they only wanted the commemorative cup and anyone who has ever watched porn for the interior decorating tips.

Even though an SB43 spot costs $100 Gs per second, it's still just a commercial, the break in the action when you go take care of the third-trimester pee baby that's been gestating since you poured a tallboy down your throat about the time Philly started scoring. It's when you take the dog out, urging him to release the hostages in the neighbor's back yard and hoping they blame someone else when they dip their foot into one of his uncollected cakesters. Commercials are for calling people to remind them that their team is a tumor on the prostate of the game, for returning shit-talking text messages, and to wipe the detergent off the chicken fingers you dropped face-down in the dishwasher during the last set of Alltel ads.

Unless you're talking about single malts, just because something's expensive doesn't make it better (see: Michael Bay movies, anything stocked in a minibar, the Yankees). But sometimes there are exceptions, a commercial that makes you pause mid-stream to crane your neck toward the television to see what's up and why everyone else just stopped talking.

One of those ads was dropped into '99's Denver/Atlanta matchup. My memories of the game itself are spotty, save for three hours of comments about Atlanta's D sucking so hard that Eugene Robinson tried to pay it for sex, but thirty seconds of Monster.com stuck with me.

That ad was one of the best ever, or so I thought until I went to work for the agency who wrote it. "When I grow up, I want to file all day" is hilarious when a cornfed kid in a Cousin Eddie hat says it but considerably less so when it packs up and moves to your job description. Within two years I was unsurprisingly and unspectacularly fired, which just gave me more time to spend at home, swaddled in sweatpants and watching TV. I still ignore the commercials.

—J-Money writes much longer at The Typing Makes Me Sound Busy and much shorter on Twitter.

—-—-—-

Ellie:

Dear big companies:

Your ads aren't that important anymore. I barely remember them. The beer ads have just blended in together. I can't remember which animals sell what product. Boobs aren't going to do anything (hello, we have the internet for that). And really, celebrity spokespeople? No. Save the appearance fee. All of these tactics haven't worked so it's time to step it up.

What's my advice? In these economic times, appeal to everyone's fantasies. I'm not talking about beautiful girls, fast cars, etc. I'm talking about something like the Terry Tate Reebok ad. First off, the ad is hysterical. Who doesn't like physical comedy? Second, the ad starts off by saying the company was called crazy. I love self-disclosure of psycho. And finally, the ad was RELATABLE. I mean seriously, you know you've always wanted to tackle someone in your office. It's wish fulfillment!!

Basically, find out what the people want and show it to them. That's all. This is a new era of hope. Show us this hope in 30 second frames, dammit. It's just enough to distract us from whatever ails us in reality.

Thanks.

— Ellie is boycotting this year's Super Bowl as they will inevitably show 1,000 replays of the Helmet Catch. For more of her insight, ramblings and ideas, go to thewhoristorian.blogspot.com.

—-—-—-

Sarah Sprague:

I cannot remember a single goddamn commercial, but I can tell you exactly every thing that was happening in the game, my apartment, and the air outside when Neil O'Donnell threw his second pick to Larry Brown.

And that I wish they had not remade the Coca-Cola ad with nice guy Troy. Would much rather see James Harrison scare the child into never wanting another soda for the rest of his life, saving him from a life of diabetes.

—-—-—-

The Steezer:

First, I really hope this post is preceded by a picture of the Waxing Off boobs. Otherwise The Steezer is going on strike.

"The best part of the Super Bowl are the commercials." This statement annoys the shit out of me every year. It's mostly repeated by people who would not otherwise be watching football; people who would not otherwise be drinking Busch and eating hot wings on a Sunday night; people who don't deserve to live.

Let's face it, nine times out of ten, NFL games are not really that exciting (college football games, on the other hand: always exciting). They're not often gun-slinging high-scoring affairs, or hard-fought defensive battles won in the trenches. Though the Super Bowl theoretically puts the two best teams against each other, it's still pretty likely that it will be as exciting as a mid-season NBA game. But still, it's the last football game for 8 months, so I'd much rather be watching it then another rerun of House on USA.

I was at a Super Bowl party a couple years ago with a group of girls who could have cared less; they were there because their boyfriends were all there. When the game was on screen they were reading books (one was re-reading one of the Harry Potters) or cross stitching (I kid you not). But when commercial break came along, they put these to the side and paid attention. All I could think was "WHY ARE YOU HERE!?" Unfortunately, watching the Super Bowl has become part of the American experience (YES WE CAN!). People feel like they have to watch it in order to fit in…and they're not happy about it. So a bunch of poindexters gather together to begrudgingly "watch the game" and then they say, "The best part of the Super Bowl are the commercials." Every time I hear it my motherboard overheats…and not in the good way.

That said, the best Super Bowl commercial of all time was one for Pepsi in the early 2000s starring the love of my life, Beyonce Knowles.

— The Steezer is a Texas Longhorn fan living in Washington, D.C. who decided to dip and now you wanna trip.

—-—-—-

KatNi:

I cannot for the life of me think of a single Super Bowl commercial that I either loved, hated or was indifferent about. Not one. I began analyzing why that might be. It's not that I don't watch them. It's not that I don't have an opinion about them one way or the other at the time. I just don't retain them (and judging by the fact that Rick had to ask repeatedly for submissions on this topic, I'm guessing I'm not the only female who feels this way.) And yet, it seems that most of my male acquaintances are able to recall Super Bowl commercials many years past. But think about what gets advertised most during the Super Bowl:

• Beer. Don't get me wrong, I love beer. Even shitty domestic beer. But chances are, A) I'm already drinking it, and B) no amount of funny or sexy is going to sway my decision the next time I'm at the corner bodega. I'll buy whatever sounds good and/or is on sale.

• Junk food. Ditto. I also love junk food. But unless it's some newfangled junk food ("Ooooh, look, Taco Bell formed their five sole ingredients into a trapezoid this time! I gotta have one of those!" ), I'm probably not going to take note.

• Trucks. This actually holds true for all car commercials. Unless I'm in the market for a car (and I'm not currently), car commercials don't even hit my radar. Plus, truck commercials are generally physically impossible. I've driven trucks almost exclusively for my entire driving adulthood, and have never once done anything as awesome as what you see in the commercials. (BDD summed this up perfectly and hilariously.) But then, maybe that's just my vagina getting in the way of my ruggedness.

• Man-scriptions. I don't have a prostate or a penis. And the prostates and penises that I'm most familiar with are in perfect working order, knock on wood. (See what I did there?) At this point, the sight of a clawfoot tub makes me want to become celibate.

It's not even that all the commercials are man-centric. Men just seem to be wired to retain this information, the same way they can quote crappy 80's movies chapter-and-verse, and tell you who was on the cover of any given year's swimsuit issue. I'm not even on some "women are more high-minded than that" screed, 'cause we're not. (I, for one, have devoted myself to being able to recognize all 4658 songs on my iPod within the first three notes. Useful AND marketable!) Just understand that come Monday morning, if you attempt to discuss the commercials with me, I will have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. And then I'll drive off in my Jeep and do donuts at the summit of Everest, because I am BAD. ASS.

— Katni is a middle management cube-slave in San Diego, and a fan of the Padres, Broncos and Sooners. But you can only pick one of those reasons to dislike her, so make it count.

If you want to become a member of our Waxing Off writing staff, write your name and address on your telephone number, and send them to Rick Chandler, Behind the Water Pipes, 1012 Rupee Buildings, London.

The Steezer:

I have an extra special take on this topic. I am the daughter of a Methodist minister. Her father? A Presbyterian minister (and yes, I said “her.” My mom’s a minister. Isn’t that “neat.”). I spent 18 years of my life going to Sunday School and church every week. Preacher’s kids generally either follow their parent’s footsteps or take a big dump on them. I landed somewhere in the middle … I lead a pretty noble life minus the binge drinking, cursing, and questionable decision-making in my love life.

I have heard both my mom and grandfather talk on numerous occasions about how “wonderful” it is when athletes gesture towards Jesus or talk about Jesus or get wicked tats depicting Jesus. I roll my eyes. When I see or hear it, it looks like part of the show. It’s going through the motions. Did they point toward the sky as they left the strip club and say “Thank you God for putting Fancy in my lap!” Probably not. But if you score a touchdown and somehow insinuate it was only because of your hard work and practice that makes you some kind of a villain.

Don’t get me wrong though. I believe in God. I believe in living a good life. But I also believe that ultimately all of us are subject to a greater balance; for every good thing that happens in someone’s life, they pay the price in another way. Examples:

Tim Tebow:
Good: Superman-esque quarterback
Bad: Thinks jorts are cool

Kurt Warner:
Good: Super Bowl bound
Bad: Weird looking wife

Deion Sanders:
Good: Could play both ways
Bad: Terrible reality sitcom on Oxygen

Tony Dungy:
Good: Record-setting coach
Bad: Had to look at Peyton Manning’s smashed-in face every day

Vince Young:
Good: Best. College. Quarterback. Ever.
Bad: Nothing … okay, may be a tad crazy

So that’s my philosophy on religion. To answer the other part of the question, do I think God is a sports fan, I think he probably is. I think he keeps f-ing up the BCS system every year so we’ll wise up and get rid of it. I think he keeps the Cubs from winning the World Series because it’s already too cold in October in Chicago for him to brave the trip. I think he keeps Boston sports teams near the top of the charts because he fears the brutality of Southies. And I think he keeps Charlie Weis fat because it makes him funny for all of us to look at.

— The Steezer is a Texas Longhorn fan living in Washington D.C. who hopes Sam Bradford’s crabs start healing soon.

—-—-—-

Jess Mac:

Dear God, it's me, Jess.

First off, I'm sorry I spent four years at a Catholic college drinking whiskey and eating calzones rather than going to church, class, or, you know, HELPING people. I'm sorry that at Friars basketball games my friends and I would chant "Je-sus! Je-sus!" during a Providence run. I'm sorry that we made fun of the Friar mascot for looking vaguely, and irrelevantly, like a frightened Asian boy. Additionally, I'm sorry the college decided that positioning a twenty-foot-tall inflatable Friar behind the basket at home games was a good idea. I think they can redeem themselves if they turn it into a Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man Friar when opponents are at the line.

I'm sorry Tim Tebow won't stop calling you, that must be really annoying when you're trying to play Rock Band or smite people. I'm sorry that after having virtuosos like Da Vinci and Michelangelo render your likeness in resplendent masterpieces, Kurt Warner decided to break out his 96 pack of Crayolas with the built-in sharpener and draw you as Buddy Christ. Speaking of which, I'm sorry that Kevin Smith cast as a lady that dated Uncle Joey as you in "Dogma."

I know you don't really care who wins in a given game, as long as everybody ends up ok. Well, except for Tom Brady apparently. You were probably just cutting the Patriots down to size after the hubris-filled 07-08 season since pride IS one of the seven deadly sins. Morgan Freeman told me so. But still, I'm sorry you thought it was a good idea to let a 9-7 team get to the Super Bowl. You're not going to hear the end of it from Cardinals fans praying for a win, or more realistically, praying not to get killed, but you brought that on yourself.

But what I'm really sorry about, God, is that Visanthe Shiancoe didn't think to put a Bible verse on his dong before he decided to reveal it to the world. Think of the publicity!!

— Jess Mac is currently in Boston, waiting for a large, gruesome lightning bolt to smite her for this.

—-—-—-

J-Money:

By all accounts, Kurt Warner is a good guy. A great one, even, which seems to jive with the fact that his career has been doublestuffed with the kind of improbable Good Fortune rarely seen outside of Kevin Costner flicks. He's been swaddled in three different jerseys during his G-rated success story but the one constant has been his supersized devotion to Tha' Lord. During the season, he's quick to credit Mister Jesus with every touchdown, the numbers in the win column, and for guiding his wife toward a hairstyle that wasn't borrowed from Ivan Drago. In the offseason, he hands a chunk of his paycheck to the church, builds playground equipment out of his own bones, and carves prosthetic limbs for armless orphans so they can clap their hands when they sing hymns.

A few years ago, I stalked K-Dub to Ricky Proehl's charity golf tournament. It was the summer after the Rams Super Bowl victory had been etched on the Lombardi trophy and everyone in the free world was familiar with Kurt's improbable trip from "Paper or Plastic?" to the Pro Bowl. I stopped him in front of the clubhouse, we chatted for a few minutes and he signed my jersey, neatly writing "Matthew 6:33" beneath his signature, a verse that means "You'll feel guilty wearing this when you're calling the 49ers fan behind you a cockdragon."

But all of that — the scripture quoting, God daps, and inability to get dressed without the help of a pair of animated bluebirds — is part of his personality. His postgame interviews may border on tent revivals but it's genuine, not just spiritual showboating, and that makes it a bit more tolerable. A TINY bit.

Next Sunday, he won't be the only one jabbing a finger toward the heavens after a successful slant route. It's a fact that as the games get bigger, so do the onfield gestures. Nobody raises their hands to the sky in August 'cause not even God gives a shit about the preseason; that's when He vacations with Mary J. Blige. Regardless of who gets a confetti shower and an embroidered shirt after the Super Bowl, Kurt is still going to be thanking the Lord for lead blocking. And for liking him more than Jon Kitna.

— J-Money writes much longer at The Typing Makes Me Sound Busy and much shorter at twitter.com/gordonshumway.

—-—-—-

Cameron Frye:

Jesus, or the notorious G.O.D., could probably care less about Kurt Warner. Kurt, you're not in the Super Bowl because of Jesus — you're there because the West sucks and they needed a team to represent your division. If a group of retarded helmet kids had a better record than the Cardinals, they'd be there. But you do have Matt Leinert there — so you're not that far off. Jesus had as much to with your success as he did when Mystikal wrote 'Shake Ya Ass'. Actually, that's not true. We all know J.C. was a big ass man.

Growing up Catholic, I've had my suspicions on whether or not there was a God. I mean, if there was a God, Tom Brady would have played the entire season (and be going to the Super Bowl) instead of gallivanting around with Giselle and a bum knee and talking to Canadian radio shows about his homemade aspercream. If there was a God I wouldn't have gone to my prom stag and woke up naked & hung over from a night of binge drinking Parrot Bay in some seedy motel room next to someone else's date. And most importantly, do you honestly think Jesus would let a team with a 9-7 record participate in the Super Bowl? If you want me to be convinced there is a higher power, let Leinert play next Sunday; then I'll believe there's a God and know he has a sense of humor too.

— Since Cameron Frye's firing for talking about cocks and roman war helmets on Deadspin, she's since become born again and can be found preaching the gospel of David Krejci on cameronfrye.com

—-—-—-

Denise Karl:

Church and State, God and Country, Piety and Pigskin? Why not? The Lord’s Prayer was read on the White House steps during the inauguration of our new President. Statesman invoked blessings from the heavens for our country and president. And if anyone can use a few blessings, it’s Barack Obama.

Think of it this way, wasn’t our little country founded by a bunch of scared, hungry immigrants who fled their own lands because of religious oppression? Doesn’t every one of our nation’s most sacred documents and most famous speeches contain some sort of spiritual recognition of bequest? So why wouldn’t we see it in the greatest American past time; sports. We’re religious peoples. Okay, a MANY religion religious peoples. I don’t necessarily mind seeing a player spike a touch down and drop to his knees and throw his hands to the heavens as long as it only lasts a brief moment.

But seriously, wouldn’t it be freakin’ amazing if there was a little equality? We have equality in everything else, why not religion too? How about someone doing a post-game presser and thanking Satan for an amazing tackle that splays a player out unconscious? Wouldn’t that be awesome? “Thank you oh Dark Lord for laying waste of my opponent.”

Or how about thanking Mercury for the speed to run a race past 3,000 non-believing runners. “I’d like to thank Thor for the power of the Gods that I might press that 800 lbs and not crush my spinal column.” What happened to those religions? They were fun. No, we’re down to just a few popular deities.

Put your hand in your pocket and pull out a dollar. Does it not say “In God We Trust?” Maybe it should say “In God We Believe”? We’re told to be thankful for the little things that come our way each day. Sometimes those little things are the things we have worked our lives to achieve: a home run, a touch down, a game winning goal. When we have faith in something other than ourselves, we remember to thank something higher.

It’s not a bad thing.

— Dee Karl 7th Woman NYI Blog Box Crew http://7thwoman.blogspot.com/

Holly:

Never make a bet involving your own team. Especially when said team is not the world-beating superpower it once was, when the game involves a hated rival with a recent history of curb-stomping your boys each and every year, and when your buddy at the other end of the bet runs the finest college football site on God's green internet.

The whole business was undertaken with gleeful haste, executed with as much grace as I could muster, and everything was fine, for about four hours. That's about when my mother received an anonymous email (at her work account, TOP SCORE) telling her that her daughter was "selling herself" on a "pornographic website", signed, "I am sorry for you, and for her father, if she has one." I'd been blogging for seven years without her knowledge. She's not a fan of cursing. Or seeing her daughter's rack on the internet. And no amount of "Ma, it's Florida!" would persuade her this had been a hilarious idea.

(Swindle's response to all this was my favorite: "Porn sites make money.")

Over a year later, the whole thing seems pretty funny, looking back ... and I'm never gambling with my Vols again. At least not until we get an offense together.

— Holly is the associate editor of EDSBS, and will never, ever live this down.

—-—-—-

Amy Blair:

In a bold breach of company softball etiquette and desperate for a win, I recruited A.J. Daulerio and Will Leitch to help out the reliably terrible team I was coaching. (Note: I am fairly certain that this was the one and only time that Will and A.J. were recruited to be ringers for anything). I was working for a British publishing house at the time, and despite the world renowned softball skills of stodgy English dictionary editors, we were regularly losing by mercy rule week after painful week. Once, a player who hadn’t gotten a hit all season, finally made contact and ran as fast as he could to … third base. Another time, an infielder actually fielded a grounder and then proceeded to peg the base runner in the middle of his back, assuming that, as in dodge ball, this was an acceptable way to get a player out.

Eventually a wager began to take shape; if The Remainders (as we were aptly named) ever won a game, A.J. Daulerio would suck my big toe. Emboldened by the bet, I did everything in my power to secure a win, going so far as faxing out diagrams of potential softball scenarios every morning to all of the players. (Example: “What To Do If You Should Accidentally Catch The Ball”). And then finally, on an unusually hot August night, after a hard-fought defensive battle that somewhat resembled a bloopers reel for a Little League team from Uzbekistan, The Remainders finally got their miracle win. In a state of wild, confused euphoria, we headed to the bar to rejoice in the marvel of it all. Toasts were being made, people were hugging, and the bartender was handing out tequila shots like a regular Blair family Christmas.

The topic of the wager came up, and the exuberant Remainders cried out for the victory toe-sucking for Coach Blair. I pulled up a bar stool, took off my cleat, peeled off my sweaty sock and wiggled my damp toe seductively. Being the good sport that he is, A.J. owned up to the bet and gave my smelly toe the sucking of a lifetime. The Remainders cheered with pure, unadulterated joy, and for one night we were all ecstatic because we, The Remainders, could at last be called winners.

— Thrill to the Life & Times of Amy Blair at AmyBlair.tumblr.com.

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J-Money:

By now, the mayors of Phoenix and Philly have settled on some ridiculous bet involving the exchange of either a chunk of John McCain's face or an AIDS-laced Tom Hanks depending on who wins. I'm pulling for the Cards because of my Commandment-melting love for Kurt Warner and am considering a wager with my Iggles lovin' neighbor so if I win, he'll stop with the pre-dawn Kraftwerk, but if he wins I won't mention the Hemi-powered vibrator his wife cranks up during All My Children.

Beyond that, the worst bet I've ever gone halfsies on was during a golf tournament. In high school, I was a pretty good golfer because having no friends, no sex, and no social life gave me plenty of time to spend practicing my short game. It also prepared me for blogging.

I was the guest half of an out-of-town member-guest tournament and before we'd even laced our FootJoys, my team made a side wager against the guys we'd be teeing off with for two days. We shot our way to second place and I won the long drive contest, ensuring that I'd have another several years of oversized visors, embroidered shirts, and androgyny to look forward to.

At the party that night — held at the kind of hotel with designs etched in the ashtray sand — I went to collect my pair of Benjamins from our opponents. The guy whipped out his wallet and in a voice loud enough to make Johnny Walker drop his cane, he said "Yeah, you played pretty well … for a hooker." It was true. Most of my tee shots were so so far to the left that they legalized weed before rolling into the rough. Anyway, dude's wife minced in just in time to catch this exchange and had apparently seen enough Law & Order to connect the unflattering dots between the cash, my overdone eyeshadow and undersized sundress. She stepped between us, slapped him and — pointing a diamond-encrusted finger in my face — screeched "You want him? You've got him," and stomped out, the scent of cigarettes and legal separation lingering in her wake.

I couldn't find any words. I kicked off both shoes so I could chase her to the parking lot, explaining that 'hooker' was a golfing word and that her husband was not playing my back nine. I'm not sure she bought it but I felt better for trying. I just hope this doesn't hurt my chances with Kurt Warner.

— J-Money has learned a lot about life by screwing up her own. She writes much longer at The Typing Makes Me Sound Busy and would thump #13's Bible any damn time.

Ellie:

Betting on sporting events? Is that legal? I guess there are different varieties…

• The small, trivial bets like, "If the Patriots win, you buy a round of drinks. If they lose, I'll buy."

• The vomit-inducing bets like, "If the Patriots lose, you have to drink a winebomb." (Winebomb = chardonnay + Jagermeister)

• The mean bets like, "If the Patriots lose, you have to flirt with any guy I choose for you. All night."

But the best bets are the ones with permanent effects. A friend of mine (we'll call him Mike) made a bet over the AFC Championship game in 2007 with his friend (we'll call him Matt). Mike was confident since the Colts had lost to the Patriots in the playoffs many years in a row and Peyton sported the Peyton Manning Face whenever he played against Tom Brady. So the bet: If the Colts lost, Matt had to bleach his hair. If the Patriots lost, Mike had to get a tattoo of Matt's choosing. Um yeah … Mike now sports a tattoo on his ass that reads "YOU KNOW IT" — a permanent reminder of the Patriots losing to the Colts on their way to a Super Bowl Championship.

— Ellie is a Patriots fan frozen and buried under snow in Chicago. If she cannot be thawed, please memorialize her through thewhoristorian.blogspot.com, but don't tell her mom about it.

—-—-—-

Tess Phillips:

It’s a Sunday early in the NFL season, so I’m not too invested in any of the outcomes. Plus I’m more of a college football fan. Anyway, I go to a sports bar to watch the games with a friend and a couple of his friends and a couple of their friends, etc.

So this incredibly handsome friend of a friend of a friend sits across from me at the table. We are drinking pitchers of beer, and my mug keeps getting mysteriously refilled so I am not sure how many I have had. Most of the group are Redskins fans and are watching the game intently. Handsome and I are mostly talking and flirting, neither one of us is really paying attention to the game at all.

On one of the many TV’s, the Bucs are playing the Cowboys. There are only a few minutes left in the fourth quarter. I can’t even remember the score, but the Bucs are ahead. I mention I am kind of a Bucs fan, and that they should win since the Cowboys had been playing badly lately. So Handsome, who must have been paying more attention to the game than I thought, asks if I want to make a bet on it — the loser puts on a post-game show for the winner? Sure! We’re just kidding around anyway, right?

Well, the Bucs choke, and Handsome picks up his coat and says, “Come on, I live right around the corner.” Seriously? Wasn’t it just a joke?

I won’t say exactly what that first “show” included, but I will say it wasn’t the last one. And, honestly, it’s the only time I’ve been happy when the Cowboys won.

— Tess Phillips is really a nice girl. Honest!

Elway's Bitch:

Semi-retarded people get arrested every single day for stupid shit like bringing crack to an airport, or speeding around with expired crap all over their cars because they’re fucking lazy (me), or taking a shit in a public square at high noon because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Whatever. Cops has been on for 21 years for a reason. People do such stupid shit. But athletes are role models because they do the stupidest shit of all. And they get away with it. I guarantee you if my coworker, Carl, in the next cube over, unfurled his dick like the Dead Sea Scrolls in the middle of our Tuesday 8:30 a.m. sales meeting `a la Charles Haley, Carl would be fired. And I would be his girlfriend.

I guarantee you – if my friend Dan (whose wife has his balls pickling in a mason jar on her kitchen counter right now), gets pulled over for running a stop sign and then proceeds to engage in friendly banter with the arresting officer regarding blow jobs, Dan would lose his job, his wife, his house, and his pickled balls would be dangling from the ex’s front door wreath next Christmas.

I guarantee you – if my sister’s boyfriend (who just knocked her up) kicked two cops in the chest like he’s Ralph Macchio; spit in one cop’s face like he’s Larry Johnson; and followed that with intense negotiations regarding his possible release by “offering” the cops $1 billion (after his initial offer of $100,000 was rebuffed), the boyfriend would be arrested, lose his job and not be able to support my dumbass sister who didn’t know that antibiotics fuck with your birth control. Anyway, Eddie Belfour did all that shit and went on to win an Olympic medal two years later. Good for him. Good for all of them. They take on a public service by doing the shit we can’t, and I appreciate that. Not just role models. Heroes.

— Elway's Bitch is about to become an Aunt which means a lot less drug use, so she's going to be a lot less fun

—-—-—-

Aileen Gallagher:

The summer of 1991, I was a candy striper at our local hospital. This involved pushing people around in wheelchairs, filling water pitchers, and being scared of old people. The patient of the summer was Phillies outfielder Lenny Dykstra. Driving home drunk with Darren Daulton from John Kruk's bachelor party, Dykstra crashed into a tree on Darby-Paoli Road. It's a tricky road; unexpectedly curvy – if you're from around there, you drive it pretty slow. (We've called it the Lenny Dykstra Memorial Curve since the accident.) They were on their way (presumably) to Daulton's house, which overlooked the course my parents played golf on. Dykstra busted three ribs, a collar bone, and his cheek bone. A rib punctured his lung and bruised his heart. At the time, the AP said both men refused medical attention (Daulton had a broken left eye socket!) but both later went to Bryn Mawr Hospital. The hospital I was born in and, that summer, the hospital where I spent several hours a week.

I never offered to bring Dykstra a magazine or fetch him ice chips. I'm sure no one was allowed to get near him. But I do recall someone – the volunteer coordinator, most likely – telling me that Dykstra was a total a-hole the entire time he was at Bryn Mawr. Now, granted, he was probably worried about his career and whether he'd ever play baseball again. But that doesn't make you any better than the people who are changing your sheets and helping you piss. So whenever I see Lenny Dykstra now, with his super system and magazine start ups, I remember that he was an ungrateful jerk to the people who saved his life and cared for him. And they were Phillies fans, too.

— Aileen Gallagher is an editor at New York Magazine's website.

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Denise Karl:

Role models; what would we do without them? Sadly we never look in our own backyard for them. We hardly acknowledge our local volunteer firemen, community patrols or the people at the local animal shelter. They and their non-paid community service go unnoticed. Yep, we of the digital age, look to high paid, highly recognizable, over-exposed celebrities. Whether they are athletes or movie stars, those are the ones that capture our imagination.
But we forget — they are people too. Simple humans are we with the same lapses in judgment and insanely stupid brain farts. They overindulge, under-dress and fall victim to temptation not unlike the rest of us. They just do it in front of cameras and reporters and end up on the 6 o’clock news.

My co-worker was stopped for DUI last year. No one was the wiser except his immediate family. Joba Chamberlain was pulled over for DUI and almost all of New York let out a collective GASP! “Oh NO! Not Joba! How can that be? The rising Yankee’s star? The boy who will be King? No no! Impossible!”

Uh, people. He’s a kid. A young man who hasn’t learned much yet. Do we really expect these people to be SMARTER than your average JOE? The only ones who are REALLY smarter are their agents (and maybe their accountants). They are the same dumb asses as we are, just with a ton of money and entitlement.

No human is perfect and we should never expect them to be. We all make mistakes. As for me, I have only two people in this world that I hold above all others. Father Tom Hartman (did you hear the Angels sing at the mere mention of his name?) and the man who designed my company accounting program, Jeff Fiddelman. And even then, someone told me Father Tom was suspected of having an affair with his secretary. So far…. Jeff hasn’t disappointed me…. Yet…..

— Dee Karl NY Islanders 7th Woman, 7th Woman Blogspot.

—-—-—-

Susan:

Let my player profile reflect the fact that I'm a die hard Sixers fan – always have, always will be. Having said that, I'll confess that I loved the 95-96 Sonics team that took the Bulls to 6 games in the finals. Maybe it was the fact that the Sixers hadn't had a good team in years and finished with 18 wins that season, or maybe I was just sick of the Bulls' dominance. Either way, I fell in love with GP, Shawn Kemp, George Karl, and everyone else on the Sonics that year.

I quickly made room on my bedroom walls for dozens of magazine pages of GP and The Reignman, to the point that my dad asked me, quasi-seriously, if I was racist against white people (I then pointed out that I had one picture of Detlef Schrempf on the wall).

I had so much emotionally invested in that team, that to this day I still remember where I was when Peter Vescey broke the story that Kemp had a drinking problem. I looked up to him, was in denial and refused to believe a word of it. Well you know what? It turns out, Vescey was right. Drug and alcohol problems continued to plague Shawn throughout his career. Of course then the Sonics brought in the immortal Vin Baker who has openly admitted to showing up drunk to practice and games. Are we sure Ahmad Rashad isn't hitting the bottle now that he's working with GP on Game Time? Can someone do some recon on this and get back to me?

If I was making the kind of money most of these athletes are making, I'd hire someone to drive me around quicker than you could say “rum”. I'd probably hire someone to feed me if necessary. I cannot for the life of me understand why any athlete, or celebrity for that matter, would ever get pulled over for a DUI, speeding, or rolling through a stop sign. Having said that, I will always look up to Shawn Kemp for what he did on the court, not off. If you remember the GP-to-Kemp alley-oops, its hard not to.

— Susan is a freelance writer/disenchanted accountant and would like to reiterate her love for the Sixers, despite what the above column may indicate.

—-—-—-

Trouble:

Yo, it’s tuff out there for a pimp. Athletes are under an ungodly amount of pressure from the moment they first notice they’re handy with a ball and run faster than the other kids. If they aren’t strung out on ‘roids or drugs, accomplished rapists, or BDSM freaks into underage tranny little people by the time they hit the big game it’s a goddamn miracle.

But D.U.I. is epic stupidity. You are rich, famous and adored by any number of drunken ex-frat boys and all of the gold-diggin’ hos in the bar and could, as a last resort, score a ride from one of them. But why not hire a driver, dumbass? Take a friggin’ cab/limo/car service!

By the time I was 15 I had a fake ID and frequently partied with my hawt older sisters at bars frequented by players with the local NFL and NBA franchises. I watched and learned, people. After collecting free shots from admirers and nuzzling coke whores all night, those dudes would invariably stumble out to the valet and zoom off into the night in their Porsches, Corvettes and sweet-ass Trans Ams, which they shortly thereafter wrapped around an innocent light pole or crashed through someone’s living room. Or were caught inflagrante delicto with the team owner’s wife. Whatever. All avoidable with a little foresight: embrace the Designated Driver, you dopes. Hire one, it’s a shitload cheaper than the D.U.I.

I’m never surprised or particularly disappointed by my favorite athlete’s moronic off-field activities, but, as someone who loves cars I have to plead: Won’t Someone Please Think of the Cars?

— Trouble is a Philly-Proud auto journo and leader of the Metro Denver Philadelphia Eagles Fan group. She’s never had a D.U.I. because she isn’t lazy or stupid.

Cameron Frye (not her real name) is a freelancer who covers the Bruins for Wicked Good Sports, which is a blog on New England Comcast SportsNet. Or she was working for them, until she was fired last week. Cameron, you see, is also a contributor to Waxing Off, our feature in which female bloggers gather to muse on the week's chosen topic. Back on Dec. 12, when the Visanthe Shiancoe story was just gaining momentum, the Waxing Offers wrote on naked athletes in the locker room.

Cameron's was one of the submissions we included. It was bawdy, insightful, funny; just the way we like 'em. And apparently the way Comcast does not. Her post came to the attention of Inside Track, the Boston Herald's gossip blog. Inside Track called Comcast to get a reaction, and firing of Cameron ensued. Cameron emailed me this morning:

Honestly? I was shocked. I didn't think writing it was going to cause the drama it has. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't that bad. It's not like I was going into graphic details of what players from the different teams I've covered look like. But I also understand the reasoning behind their decision – I'm not stupid. Do I agree with it? Of course not! But things happen for a reason — now I have a chance to write for Barstool Sports and who knows what else it could lead to down the line. Hopefully discussing Crocs and Roman War Helmets won't be all I'm known for.

When Cameron came to Egypt Town, let my Cameron goooo ...

Yeah, happy ending, I guess: Cameron is now writing for Barstool Sports, which pays actual dollars, not Bruin Bucks, and will allow her to be her creative self. A more complete explanation of the whole episode can be found in Cameron's first piece for Barstool, here.

So you'll have to count on someone else for your bland Bruin tidbits on the Comcast site from now on. Cameron is on to bigger and better things. Although her workdays will contain less nudity, I'm assuming.

My Side Of The Story [Barstool Sports]

Reporting on the UCLA Undie Run was fun, but we had a feeling that, as far as college traditions went, that was probably just the tip of the iceberg. As you'll see below, we were right.

By the way, if you'd like to become a member of the Waxing Off writing staff, please email me at Rick@Deadspin.com.

Jess Mac:

I love Providence College with all my heart, but it is a sorry excuse for a Division I school. We don't have a football team or a baseball team. We don't have any chants besides "THIS SIDE GO.....THAT SIDE FRIARS....GO..........FRIARS" and our fight song is "When the Saints Go Marching In" (seriously). Our mascot is a man of the religious order for Christ's sake AND hits more threes fucking around during timeouts than any of our starting guards. Perhaps the most disappointing shortcoming, however, is the fact that no one ever made up a lasting song or chant exalting God Shammgod (probably something about "thou shalt not have any other (Shamm)gods before me). So to make up for all of this, the PC study body concentrated on another favorite pastime.

Binge drinking.

One of the curriculum requirements at PC was a two-year long course in Western Civilization that was supposed to make us "well-rounded" and "good at Jeopardy." All of the Civ exams were on the same day, so the night before at midnight Civ Scream would be held in the quad, pretty much just an excuse for all the upperclassmen who didn't have the exam to get shitfaced and fill water balloons full of piss to throw at freshmen. Additionally, this was the chance for that quiet girl in your Advanced Writing class to funnel some Franzia before showing her tits as there was a vast array of streaking and flashing. The more modest streakers would don a mask (Darth Vader's boobs bouncing around in the crisp spring air was surely someone's fantasy) which was probably the smarter idea anyways, since the ubiquitous balloons of piss would inevitably end up hitting someone in the face, to massive applause. One year a girl decided it was a good idea to bring her pogo stick along as well. I'm positive that the Dominican fathers that founded our fair institution would have been thrilled to see a topless girl pogoing down the quad, forgetting the key fact that it's always a terrible idea to pogo when you're drunk. Inevitably she completely busted ass (also to massive applause), balloons were thrown, and somebody's video of it made it to Collegehumor (I scoured that site and sadly couldn't find it or the dignity I left behind).

So instead of the Undie Run, PC students suck down enough alcohol to kill Vince Wilfork, get naked, and pogo stick naked in front of the majority of the student body. Ahhhhh college.

— Jess Mac was not the phantom Civ Scream topless pogo-er. Or was she?

—-—-—-

Cari Gervin:

Yale is a weird place to go to college. Besides the singing groups, the secret societies, and the worst football I've ever seen in my life, what makes Yale such an odd school is its propensity for nudity. Give Yalies a chance to take their clothes off, and they will.

Every fall, upperclassmen (and women) streak the freshman quad to welcome the new kids to campus. Why? No one knows. The year I started, campus was in an uproar because Playboy had the temerity to publish photos of undergrads streaking in its "Women of the Ivy League" issue. The thing was, those people streaking? They were doing it to protest Playboy exploiting women in its "Women of the Ivy League" issue.

The consensus seemed to be that Yalies loved to get naked because they weren't getting laid. That, and it was funny. The top instigators of naked shenanigans were the Pundits, Yale's comedic secret society. Every winter they sponsored a "Naked Weekend," which included events like a leisurely naked stroll through the library as everyone crammed for finals.

The highlight of the weekend, however, was the Naked Party. Its location was top-secret, and invitations were mandatory. Mere rabble could not come to gawk at the naked elite. Nay, the party was for true connoisseurs of the nude form. That is, men who could handle the sight of nude women without getting hard.

One night I was out with my group of guy friends when we ran into someone who had scored an invitation. I had no inclination to take off my toasty sweater, but I was also madly in love with one of the guys and would have jumped off a cliff had he asked. So, we went to the party.

I had always envisioned seeing him naked, it's true. Just not while he was standing around a keg, talking about some else's breasts. For despite its nakedness, the Naked Party was a lame college kegger just like every other. Everyone got drunk on crappy beer and pretended that there was nothing unusual about the fact that no one was wearing any clothes. It could not have been less sexy. And unless I visit the French Riviera, that night is the one and only time my breasts made a public appearance.

— Cari Gervin is a freelance writer in the South. She blogs about her misadventures in life, love and sports fandom at unwelcomereturn.blogspot.com. She fully expects there will be streaking at her reunion next summer.

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Alison Shapiro:

I attended a certain largely-Jewish institution of higher learning in the greater Boston area, so scantily-clad frolicking (i.e. undie runs, skinny dipping, wearing skirts above the knee) were out of the question for the not-unsubstantial religious community in residence. That being said, the same community provided one of my favorite campus traditions: getting shitfaced on Purim.

Purim, for those not in the know, is the celebration of the Jewish' people's emancipation from Persian oppression, as outlined in the Book of Esther (which I trust the entire Deadspin community has read). Most importantly, Purim is sort of like Jewish Halloween, with costumes, sweets, merriment … and drunkenness. Jewish law states that on this day, one should get so drunk that they cannot tell good from evil. Though my school was certainly not known for its party scene on normal weekends, Purim turned the campus into a cavalcade of revelry … and transformation. That serious-looking dude in the black hat in your Near-Eastern and Judaic Studies class who never cracked a smile? You'd see him tripping gaily by with a bottle of wine in hand. The buttoned-up girl you'd see studying in the kosher cafeteria? Suddenly, she's the queen of the dance floor. Parties sprang up on every corner of campus, and, for one brief shining moment, one could taste what going to a real college with real parties would have been like.

For one night a year, the secular students like myself were joined with the observant; all religious boundaries were put aside as we became one in the spirit of getting drunk.

—-—-—-

Meredith Weiner:

People in college like to get drunk. Drunk people like to get naked. Naked people like to run. This is a chain of events that has become tradition at the University of Virginia, where “streaking the lawn” is essentially a right of passage. Rules have been established, and if you do not follow them precisely, your streak does not count. One must begin said streak by taking off their clothes at the foot of the Rotunda, the architectural masterpiece of Thomas Jefferson, founder of UVa. Then one must run 740 feet down “The Lawn,” the epicenter of campus, where at the end, they must kiss the rear end of the statue of Homer. It is necessary for the vertically challenged to physically mount the statue in order to put lips to bum. The run back up The Lawn entails traversing several hills, usually wet and slippery in the early hours of the morning—i.e. prime streakage time. Then to complete the streak, one must run up the steps of the Rotunda, peer through the keyhole at the statue of Thomas Jefferson inside and say, “Good evening, Mr. Jefferson.” Streak complete.

Have I streaked the lawn before? Perhaps. Have I fallen down the hills like I was trying to steal home plate? It might have happened. I may even have woke up in morning on several occasions with bruises on my feet, sore calves and hamstrings, and scabs on my knees—all telltale signs of a streak. Perhaps I’ve ventured to the lawn with the intent of mudsliding on a rainy night and decided to streak instead. Perhaps I’ve been drunk at 9pm and walked to the corner to get dinner and decided to streak instead. To be honest, the cops might have chased my friends and me. Maybe we outran them. It might even be possible that my friend had enough time to put back on his gold pants and dollar bill printed jacket before the cops found us and yelled at us to go home.

Many things are possible when you are naked. More is possible when you are drunk. And Lord knows, anything is possible when you are streaking.

Time for another edition of Waxing Off, the feature born of that venerable site The Black Table and carried over here and given a sporty new coat of paint. This week we've asked five talented female writers to ruminate on: Strange encounters with lockerroom dong.

By the way, if you'd like to become a member of the Waxing Off writing staff, give me a holler at Rick@Deadspin.com.

Steezovich:

I'm surprised more locker room dong doesn't end up on TV, especially the dongs of cocky (pun intended), muscular, rich athletes. I guess it's just good camerawork. I also totally understand why NBC cameras aren't following the New York Liberty into the locker room for some post-game analysis.

I have heard many many many guys tell stories about naked hijinks in the locker room. In fact in high school, the manager of the boys soccer team (who was gay) used to describe in detail the activity and the dongers of the whole team to members of the girls team (I still have the notebook where I wrote down every word and made a few sketches). I've always been kind of bewildered (and impressed) that guys are so comfortable just strutting their stuff around nude, snapping towels at each other and playing swords without anyone questioning their sexuality. And their behavior is not a secret! Ask any guy and they'll admit they do it!

In a ladies locker room, I'd estimate about 5% of women are walking around nude without thinking twice about it. When I was a member of the YMCA (or what I like to call "the poor people's gym") I'd put that percentage at about 55%. Now in my "rich people's gym," there are far fewer bare t & a's, but I still see far more female nakedness than I care to. And it's never who you would want to see. I'm not saying I want to see any girls naked, but if I have to I'd rather it be someone in my age bracket who shares my relative level of fitness, instead of some old "bloated" lady who sags from places I'm not comfortable discussing. When these women walk around it's like "oh shit where do I look, where do I look." Generally I just try to change as quickly as possible without taking my eyes off the area within a two foot radius, but sometimes it's like staring into the sun … it transfixes your eyes while your brain screams at you to stop. Bleckt.

-- Steezovich is a Texas Longhorn fan living in Washington, D.C. who will do unspeakable things if Sam or Tim steal Colt's Heisman. Unspeakable. Things.

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Cameron Frye:

One of the first times I went into a locker room, there was a player I needed to get sound bites from and I ended up finding him bent over, legs spread — greeting all of the reporters with a lovely image of his ass and his dangling sack. What made this incident more amusing was that he insisted on putting on a shirt before being interviewed on camera. Not shorts, but a shirt. Was he a man with his priorities in check, or just someone who wanted to air dry his balls?

Since I've started covering sports, I've seen enough cock to fill a few issues of Rent Boy magazine. Does it get in the way of me doing my job? Not at all. Of course, it's something you get used to. But I'm hardly some virginal creature who's never seen a grown man naked. I've watched enough porn and had enough low self-esteem sex to know what to expect when a guy takes off his clothes. You're in their environment and where they're most comfortable — so who gives a crap if they're talking to you while they're playing with their balls? It's not like they're forcing you to the ground, taking them out, putting them on your nose and giving you a roman war helmet. You just have to go in there and give them the same respect you'd expect back from them. Do you always get that? No, but in the end you're the bigger man and for some men out there, that's something they'll never be.

The view of naked flesh doesn't bother me. Although, what does bother me is athletes who wear Crocs. Now that's offensive.

— Cameron Frye can be found at the Garden covering the Boston Bruins for New England Comcast Sports Net and Wicked Good Sports. Originally from Boston, she got her start covering fashion for Bostonist.com. When asked who are the three people she would most like to go shopping with, Cameron's answers are Marc Jacobs, Isaac Mizrahi and Aaron Ward.

—-—-—-

Denise Karl:

The Pro-Sports locker room has always had an aura of mystery. Do they really wander around totally naked chatting about the day’s game? Do they act as if they are comfortable with each other, or are they silently sizing each other up? I wondered.

So that first day as a credentialed blogger, I thought I’d find out all the deep dark locker room secrets. Were there shrines to odd Gods, strange talismans or did it just look like a college frat house? On day one, after the standard post-game press conference, as the rest of the media was being herded into the tiny locker room, I was pulled out of the line.

“Not you.” I was told by a PR guy. “Don’t make a big deal out of this, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go in there. And it’s not because you’re a woman.” (I’ve paraphrased this because I don’t want to repeat what he really said.) I was surprised and somewhat hurt, but I didn’t make a scene. I walked back into the press room, and pouted like a five-year old.

A few games later, I was allowed in. The first thing I was greeted by was one bare-assed hockey player dressing in the corner. Today, I think it may have been staged to see my reaction, or lack there of. No gasp, no lady-like fainting, no giggling and pointing. I uttered not a sound. But then again, when you’ve seen one hairy male ass, you’ve generally seen them all. I guess I passed the test and was allowed in from then on.

I almost had that privilege taken away when one young, particularly handsome player entered the hallway after showering in nothing but his shower shoes. There was an audible gasp, a blush and a muffled giggle, which was quickly replaced by total professionalism as I buried my head in my notebook and hid behind a colleague.

Had it not been someone I found attractive; seeing them undressed would have no effect on me, and hasn’t. Chalk it up to maturity or watching too many pornos when I was younger, but naked is just naked and doesn’t interfere with what I’m there to do.

Of course, if a male in the room is going to TRY to get a reaction out of me by doing something “unprofessional,” I may have to resist the temptation to blurt out “NOICE!” or the unpopular “I’ve seen better.” But hey… I’m a professional now. I’ll act that way.

— Dee Karl, NYI 7th Woman, www.7thwoman.blogspot.com

—-—-—-

Susan:

While I have not personally been subjected to co-ed locker room nudity, I'm of the opinion that football players should think twice before dropping the towel. My reason is this: the average football player's upper body is large, muscular, and well, sometimes just fat — if everything from the waist up has a commanding presence — unless you're packing heat to the degree that you've considered having women sign a waiver form absolving you of uterine trauma before engaging in sexual acts — then the little general becomes an afterthought. My apologies to Mr. Shiancoe, but after studying those pictures like the Zapruder film, I have to say, I'm underwhelmed.

Basketball players on the other hand? By all means, we love your work (except you Eddy Curry). Your bodies are tall, svelte, and well-proportioned to amply show off the goods in full glory.

Several years ago while still in college, a sorority sister of mine once said of a now NBA all-star with whom she had a long-time, strictly sexual relationship, and shall remain nameless (though should learn to keep his off-season recreational drug usage a private matter) "its the biggest I've ever seen. He could literally do me from across the room." Needless to say, I'd be fine with more towel dropping in NBA locker rooms across the country.

For the NFL players out there, I implore you: stand in front of the mirror, evaluate your proportions, your strengths and weaknesses. If the pinch test is required whereby you're channeling an obsessive anorexic girl, then so be it. But please, for yourself and for all of us viewers out there, make sure you're camera-ready.

Also, make sure I'm not on camera, as I'd almost certainly have this Mike Meyers face going on the entire time.

—-—-—-

Bay Area Claire:

Plain and simple, the penis is not a pretty sight. It may be attached to a work of art, but when it comes down to it, the presence of an exposed penis is not something that will distract me from doing my job.

While covering a sporting event during the summer, the winner maintained eye contact with my breasts during the press conference. Granted, the man with the moobs next to me was probably not as appealing, but he never broke eye contact with my chest. During this staring contest between the athlete and my breasts, I never let it interfere with my job.

As a journalist, my job was to get the story and not let the static interfere with my purpose. As a woman, seeing this guy’s behavior downgraded him in my eyes.

Many men are proud of what they’re packing, no matter what it looks like. There seems to be no shame when flashing or discussing the goods. When that happens, it becomes fair game. I will judge a dick-flasher like no other. A penis’ look is not a good indicator of how good he is in bed, so when it comes to a man showing his package, he will be judged by looks alone—not by potential.

If one is a penis-exposer, he better not be housing a forest in his pants, he shouldn’t blame the cold weather for a scared little member, and he needs to be real with himself and what resides in his boxers.

Trust me, there are men known by penis-inspired nicknames bestowed upon them by me and my friends—“SHD” (short for “Shows His Dick”) and “Little Pecker,” just to name a couple. I honestly don’t know some of their real names.

Put me in a locker room, I’m not going to lie, I’ll sneak a peek. But a glance to the nether regions is caused by curiosity, nothing more. A naked man standing in a locker room is not enough to sidetrack me from a task.

Sorry guys, the almighty peen is not as mesmerizing as a good set of breasts.

— Still high off winning money in Vegas on the Pacquiao fight, you can find Bay Area Claire trying to recover from a weekend of overindulgence. Read her digressions at examiner.com and BleacherReport.com.

Let's get right to the steamy girl-on-girl writing action, shall we? Oh, by the way, if you would like to be a member of the Waxing Off writing staff, please email me a Rick@Deadspin.com.

Holly:

Unknot your panties, internet. Uproariously inappropriate sexual encounters are an integral part of the college football experience. And so it is in the spirit of the holidays, the close of the season, and cross-conference fellowship that I extend the following cocktail recipe to our brethren in the Big Ten. Whether you're looking to recreate this encounter in the confines of your own home or drawing up drankin' plans for your bowl game, this little concoction will get you more than halfway down your designated highway to hell, if it doesn't kill you outright.

With approving pointing and nodding from the SEC, please enjoy the Bull Gator with our compliments:

Fill a pint glass with ice. Add vodka, and just enough Hypnotiq to turn the drink blue. Wedge a full can of Red Bull upside down in the ice, and serve with a straw and copious admonitions not to dislodge the can. As you grip & sip, the Red Bull will flow down, turning your drink a pleasant swampy green. The effects of consuming a full glass of vodka chased with a full can of Red Bull are most readily compared to Super Mario in the throes of an invincibility star. Those sparkles on your skin? Totally real. Go right ahead and run through that door, gentle reader, whether it's open or not. Trust me, you won't feel a thing.

Bottoms up, Hawkeyes. (And don't forget to check her tramp stamp while you're down there—the skank you screw may not be your own.)

— Holly is the associate editor of EDSBS and a contributing writer to Yahoo's college football blog Dr. Saturday.

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Ace

Dear Lois,

You were wasted at a sporting event. It happens. Granted you're old, married, and very slutty, but still. So in the giving spirit of the holiday season, I've compiled a short list of mistakes you made. Print this shit out and put it on your refrigerator next to your kid's handprint. Though I hope you learned your lesson, I have a sneaking suspicion that you'll probably need this for future reference. Here we go …

1. You failed to remove your beer goggles. When getting caught for public, irresponsible sex, it's better to have gotten it on with anybody but that fugly guy who looks like a less-hot version of the troll under the bridge.

2. You chose a bathroom as your preferred love den. A men's bathroom. While I'm going to go ahead and ignore all the venereal diseases you risked, it must be mentioned that closets are a wiser choice for this activity.

3. You went to an Iowa Hawkeyes game. Lame.

4. You drank too much wine. This may seem obvious, but it's a key point that is often overlooked. Also, this choice of alcoholic beverage is stereotypical of women your age, which makes you seem both predictable and sad.

5. You got caught. Be quieter.

6. You talked to the Des Moines Register about it. Despite what you may have thought, this decision does not make you appear victimized, just desperate.

7. You're gross. Stop it. Really, Lois, you're embarrassing women everywhere.

You're welcome. Have a great holiday and please, for everyone's sake, stay the fuck away from the eggnog.

Love,
Sam

— Sam is a journalism student in Boston who will never get tired of working "World Fucking Champions" into every possible conversation.

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Cari Gervin:

Sex in a bathroom stall. Sex with a complete stranger. Sex during a football game. Sex while you're so drunk you can't even remember it.

I think I can safely speak for all women in this country when I say the above are indeed the sole answers to the question, "What do women want?"

It really is that simple. Despite the collapse of Playgirl earlier this year, women do like sex. We love sex, in fact. We are crazy about having anonymous sex, as evidenced by this season's finale of "Mad Men." And of course, we love alcoholic beverages, even when the drinks aren't fruity or sweet. As for the football … well, as long as it's somewhere public, and there's a chance of being arrested, our panties are already wet.

Honestly, there is no greater turn-on than missing part of a sporting event that we've paid a lot of money to attend. Nothing is hotter than getting it on mere inches away from enough germs to staff a whole season of halfway decent plotlines on "Grey's Anatomy." And if we've had so many SoCo's and limes that we kinda gloss that part over, it's still OK. Because really, nothing gets us hornier than vast quantities of booze - unless there's a roofie in that drink!

But the thing that really makes it all worthwhile - the thing that keeps us coming (back) again and again - is that we won't remember your name in the morning. Whoops, I mean the evening. Or twilight. Whatever, 'cause you never told us your name anyway. And that's the way we like it.

— Cari Gervin is a freelance writer in the South. She blogs about her misadventures in life, love and sports fandom at Unwelcome Return.

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Ellie L.:

Is there anyone (of consenting age) who hasn't had sex in a bathroom? Shock G once got busy in a Burger King bathroom. Someone I know broke a sink while doing the nasty and flooded the apartment. (I swear, it wasn't me.) But as a die-hard sports fan, I'm actually wondering why I haven't done this. Sex at a sporting event should be on a "must do before I die" list for all sports fans. But then again, maybe that's why I haven't done it: I like the game too much. If I'm going to get busy at a sporting event, I don't want it to interfere with watching the game. So if you were to get freaky at a sporting event, which sport would be more ideal: football or baseball?

With football, you have the likelihood that everyone has spent hours tailgating and are well "lubed" up with liquid courage. Unfortunately, it's cold so everyone's wearing multiple layers. Also, if you decide to take a "break," there's a good chance you'll miss a good chunk of the game. At halftime, you only have 15 minutes to navigate the overcrowded bathrooms. If you successfully find a stall with some privacy, you're more than likely halfway into the third quarter by the time you get back to your seats.

At a baseball game, it's summertime so you're wearing less. Plus, with the warmer weather, there are no frigid hand issues. And c'mon, here's an opportunity to use your glove in exciting new ways. With baseball, you aren't likely to miss anything important during the game. There are fewer people so more privacy. Bathroom lines are far shorter so security is not as present. Finally, every stadium has the play-by-play on in the restroom, so you'll have an idea of how much/little time you've got. So, sex while only missing 1/18th of a sporting event? Yes, please.

— Ellie has been watching clips of the Michigan Wolverines 1997 season in an effort to erase 2008.

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Kate:

I'm going to come right out and say this: I have, at times, been somewhat of a public fornication enthusiast. (Hi mom!) You name a locale, I've probably given it a whirl. Glass elevators, hotel windows, city parks in broad daylight, golf courses, parochial school auditoriums, playgrounds, portapotties, concerts, bars, and more public bathrooms than I can recall. Additionally, I have certainly been known to overindulge in the fun juice on occasion. These things happen. So when I first heard about the Metrodome Sex Bandits, my initial thoughts were "eh, so what?", and also, "judge not, etc.", and also, "note to self: attempt college football game bathroom coup". But then shit got wacky.

Namely, the fact that our girl Lois seems to be blaming EVERYBODY but herself for letting this happen. Her husband for not accompanying her to the bathroom. Her hosts at the party for overserving her. And now, she's insinuating that the dude in question took advantage of her and/or that she got roofied. I call bullshit. Granted, her partner in crime hasn't been dumb enough to open up his mouth to the media, and even if he did, it's possible that it's one giant blackout for him too. We may never know exactly what went down (so to speak) in that handicap stall. But given the fact that there were a dozen or so witnesses cheering them on, I would like to think that if she HAD been taken against her will, one of them would have noticed and done something about it. I don't know much about Hawkeye-Gopher football, but I'm guessing that in general, people from the Midwest don't cheer for rape. My hunch is that if she's the kind of woman who willingly lets her friends overserve her (and in turn doesn't take responsibility for how much she drinks), then she's probably also the kind of woman who could, in theory, drunkenly chat up some dude in line at the concession stand and allow herself to be talked into lavatory copulation. Again, these things happen.

So Lois, here's my advice: own up to your mistake, shut your piehole about it, be thankful that your husband didn't leave your ass there, and move on with your life. And for crying out loud, next time, use one of the regular stalls. MUCH less conspicuous.

— Kate is currently in Vegas with her Southern Baptist mom and is probably being lectured about her vices as we speak.

You can't swing a dead ferret without hitting someone who has an opinion on The Sports Guy, but all of his readers seem to be men, don't they? What do the ladies think of the Boston Jock Washer (not my term)? One would think that the fairer sex would get lost amidst all the Entourage and Karate Kid and, you know, The Sports Gal references. But the ladies are watching, Bill ... like high school girls keeping an eye on the campus hottie ... which, um, you probably never ... bad example, never mind.

By the way, if you'd like to be part of the Waxing Off writing staff, email myself at Rick@Deadspin.com, or Mr. Daulerio at AJD@Deadspin.com.

Ashley Richards:

Hey Bill,

Who is the most over-rated basketball player of all time?

Bill Simmons: “As an actor and a player: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. His awkward, stilted delivery of “My name is Roger Murdoch. I’m the Co-Pilot” was painful. And Joey’s dad had it right; he didn’t work hard enough on defense or even run down the court, except when it mattered. And I am not being a Boston homer when I say the following: Ray Allen deserved an Oscar for his portrayal of Jesus. He really knew how to play himself well. And I called my Dad after catching “He Got Game,” when it was simulcast on all Boston TV affiliates the other night after “Fever Pitch”, and my Dad became morose, because he is sure there is no way the 2009 Celtics will repeat.

So I took out all the jerseys in my closet (sort of like in “27 Dresses”) and discovered some crazy coincidences similar to that Kennedy/Lincoln conspiracy stuff that supposedly destined both of them for assassination. This is why the Celtics win:

Paul Pierce has the same number of letters in his name as Sam Cassell and Kobe Bryant. And there are no less than five Celtics players with ten letters in their names. And only three Lakers players with ten. And if you subtract three from five, you get two. Derek Fisher’s number. And he has eleven letters in his name. As do I. It gets even more interesting! Do the math. I swear, I am not making this up. Take Sam Cassell’s jersey number and subtract Luke Walton’s number, you get 24. Kobe’s number. Also the name of a TV show that’s coming back in January. And to propel it full circle, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar has the same number of letters in his name (if you count the hyphen) as Vladimir Radmonovic. Which means the Lakers will win because Vampires are popular right now. So my theory has been shot. Sort of like Lincoln and Kennedy.”

Really, I like Simmons. He wrote a seriously engaging article on Manny for The Magazine about a month ago. He’s just pissed. And in the words of Joey’s dad, maybe Bill is “not really trying…except during the playoffs.”

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Jess Mac:

I don't like Bill Simmons because I'm from Boston. Seriously. (Although it is nice to have a Boston fan writing on a national forum about teams I actually care about). I like Simmons because in the game that is sportswriting, he is the color commentary (not colored, Lindsay Lohan). Call me crazy, but I would rather read a column peppered with references to Billy Zabka, Las Vegas and the Wire rather than a stat-laden analysis. Maybe this makes me less of a sports fan. Maybe it just means I watch too much TV. Anyways, Simmons bridges the gap between the Schwab-like statheads and casual sports fans – even if you don't agree with him, his columns are always an engaging, entertaining read. The pop culture/humor slant is very accessible, especially when I am hungover at work crushing Gatorade, reeking of whiskey and praying to God that my manager does not need to speak to or see me at any point

Even if you don't agree with him, you can't deny that the guy is good at what he does. One does not develop a rabid fanbase by being bad at something (unless you're the "boom-goes-the-dynamite" kid). In his most recent mailbag, a reader tells Simmons he wants to have sex with his writing. Clearly this man needs to get help (and to get laid – maybe get help getting laid?) but that kind of obsessive and inappropriate flattering probably wouldn't happen to a writer that wasn't good enough to be involved in a major media outlet. I would ask Will Leitch to shed some light on the subject, but I think his hand is caught in a thong inside Rick's Cabaret.

Speaking of which (Deadspin, not thongs – sorry), Simmons is part of the reason why something like it exists at all, whether all of you agreeable, non-combative and unironic commentors concede it or not. The man was essentially blogging before blogging became omnipresent, and transformed what he did while he was hungover between sleep and bartending into a lucrative and enviable career. He's like that friend we all inevitably have that loves to argue, has catchphrases and terms that are funny but get old sometimes, and invariably will not shut the fuck up, but we love him anyways. Yes he can be arrogant, but that's because he worked his way up into a job that any one of us would send someone a rat poisoned-filled cupcake for. Maybe I can send Caitlin Davis's boyfriend after him…

— Jess Mac is from Boston and currently hungover at work crushing Gatorade, reeking of whiskey and praying to God that her manager does not need to speak to or see her at any point.

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Meghan:

Bill Simmons seems slightly awkward, a little dorky and a little cute in a weird way you can't really describe and therefore your friends make fun of you about it. He manages to be funny sometimes even though there are things about him, his super Boston homerism and his love of the NBA, that are overwhelming annoying. He seems exactly like the kind of guy I would have a huge crush on.

Not really sure why, but he just doesn't do it for me. It's possible that he is not awkward or dorky enough for me. Maybe its that he seems like a reasonably nice guy, always a turn off. Or maybe it's the whole married with kids thing, not really my style. (There are few things more disgusting than babies.)

Overall though, I have to say I like the guy. I think he'd be fun to hang out with and watch games or shoot the shit about your fantasy teams. And everybody likes to talk about their fantasy team, regardless if anyone else wants to hear about them. Honestly, I don't pay much attention to his stuff. I know he's all over the place and I read his column weekly during the NFL season, but during NBA season I usually just skim it and that's about the end of my Bill Simmons exposure.

I admire his ability to make a living off of being a blogger and getting to write about sports all the time. He also, according to his column, gets to go to parties with lots of celebrities and get free cool stuff. So I'm a little jealous of that.

I've also read the stuff on Deadspin lately and think ESPN is screwing with him and feel bad for him about it. I also feel bad that his wife always seems so bitter, it's probably because of the babies. But overall, it seems like his life is pretty sweet, and he seems pretty cool. So while Bill would go immediately into the friend zone, I wouldn't mind having him there.

Hey Bill, if you want to talk about your fantasy team, let me know.

— Meghan thinks homerism is fine in general, but prefers guys with blatant Baltimore homerism. She blogs about Baltimore sports at GirlsDon'tKnowSports.

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Cari Gervin:

Here's why I love Bill Simmons:

He is a Red Sox fan.

Yes, it may be lame and partisan on my part. But Simmons writes about the Sox with passion and humor, which, during those long summer months, becomes a welcome respite from the day-to-day coverage of the Boston Globe and Herald.

Here's what I appreciate about Bill Simmons:

He actually cares about his readers.

As a journalist who has gotten her fair share of funny, angry and kooky letters, I know how easy it is to laugh at every reader that disagrees with you. I have used such letters as grist for columns, and I have forwarded them to friends. I'm sure Simmons has done the same, but he also answers hundreds of questions online on a regular basis. He takes stupid questions seriously, and for that, he is beloved. Many journalists forget to respect the readers that keep them in business; Simmons doesn't.

Here's what makes me want to punch Bill Simmons:

The Sports Gal.

Look, she's your wife! Not column fodder! I am beyond sick of all the adolescent males trapped in grown-up bodies who act like their wives are the only reason they aren't still in college on the 20-year-plan. It's like if they admit that they wanted to grow up on their own, they would lose their coolness quotient. Seriously? Being grown up is cool. Just face up to the fact that you were ready to settle down — that's why you asked her to marry you, and that's why you have kids. She's doesn't keep you in check, you keep yourself in check.

Here's what really makes me want to punch Bill Simmons:

He does not edit anything.

Simmons is funny and smart and has an encyclopedic knowledge of sports. But he'd be even funnier if his pieces were shorter. This seems to be where his problems with ESPN lie — if he would just suck it up and take some cuts, I swear the resulting pieces would be better. Then maybe he'd get that Obama interview — and some awards.

— Cari Gervin is a freelance writer in the South. She blogs about her misadventures in life, love and sports fandom at UnwelcomeReturn. Unlike Bill Simmons, she is not a fan of the Pats, the Celtics or the Bruins.

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That's What She Said:

Based on his background alone, I should hate Bill Simmons. After all, he dares to ridicule two things I hold dear: the Yankees and Rick Reilly. When Reilly joined ESPN.com, Simmons obviously wasn’t thrilled. Through his backhanded compliments and snide remarks, he sounded like a jealous high school girl after the prettier, well endowed girl transferred to her school and started flirting with her boyfriend. That bitch!

Reilly is a BAMF. He makes tons of money while writing an 800-word column once a week, gets to jump out of planes with the Golden Knights, play golf with Charles Barkley all while being one of the best sports writers alive.
Simmons being such a hard core Red Sox fan is fitting. He IS the Red Sox (before they got all talented and started winning World Series titles again) and Reilly is the overpaid, all-star loaded Yankees.

Last summer I went to my first Sox game in Boston. Despite being a Yankees faithful, I’m a sucker for sports nostalgia and always wanted to see a game at Fenway Park. I hate to admit it, but I had an incredible time. Not only did the Sox lose, but the people I met at Fenway were hilarious and surprisingly friendly. You know those nutty drunk guys who can yell louder than an opera singer and get the chants going? Yeah, I was sitting right in front of them. By the sixth inning my stomach was hurting from laughing so hard. Aside from going to Old Timers Day at Yankee Stadium a few weeks later, the Sox game is hands down my favorite baseball experience. I admit I’ll watch the Sox on TV, but only if the Yankees aren’t on.

That’s how I feel when I read Bill Simmons. I get through the first few paragraphs of his column and think, “hey this guy is funny and makes interesting points,” but then I remember who the author is. I don’t want to like him, but I do.
Sure he can write. But way. Too. Much. By the middle of his column I start feeling like it was assigned reading from my college biology class. The kind of reading that makes you think, “Hey 30 pages isn’t so bad,” but then you realize its nothing but text without those awesome three-page diagrams. Simmons is great, but definitely not for those with short attention spans, or apparently those who have never seen Entourage or The Karate Kid.

Like my rule for watching the Red Sox, I’ll read Simmons, but only if Reilly hasn’t got anything new.

— That's What She Said is an Auburn alum and local sports reporter. She thinks the BCS should stop wasting its time and make the SEC Championship the title game instead, even though seeing Big Ten teams get pwned is hilarious.

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Nikki:

I don't love Bill Simmons — nor do I hate him. Rather, I feel something far, far worse for him.

Jealousy. The green-eyed monster (not to be confused with the Green Monster).

I wouldn't mind being Bill Simmons. For a day. A week, maybe. Or even better, for the length of a writing contract. I mean, I'd want to keep my own body, thankyouverymuch, and definitely my own voice, too, but as for numerous other aspects of Simmons? Like the career-related ones? Yes, I want those for my own. Let me count the ways:

1. The bastard writes for ESPN. I write for a fledgling, self-run humor site. Guess who has more readers?

2. His baseball team has won the Fall Classic twice so far this decade. My team, the fabulous Phillies, has won it only once (so far).

3. He knows stuff — lots of stuff — about basketball. I'd like to know lots of stuff about some other sport that isn't baseball. It's a long few months until baseball starts back up; I need to find some sort of sports-related interest to fill the void.

4. Even though lots of people are sick of hearing him talk about basketball, they still read his column regularly anyway. (Reference #1 and my jealousy of his readership.)

5. He's friends with famous people, like Jimmy Kimmel. From my previous life in the radio industry, I've met lots of famous people. But am I friends with them? No. If I bumped into any famous person I met while in radio at a party, would they recognize me? No. Sigh.

6. Said famous people hire him to write for them. I'd give up pretty much every one of my designer handbags (even the Prada and the Pucci) if it meant having a writing gig and working for somebody like Jimmy Kimmel.

7. He's freakin' funny. Whether you dig his sense of humor or not, whether you think he's a gigantic douche or not, you've gotta admit the man's entertaining. Alas, I'm only entertaining after I've pumped myself full of Jolt mints and a couple Mountain Dew Amp drinks.

8. He's written a book, with another in the works. Which, aside from shacking up with some hot baseball player whose ass looks really nice in pinstripes, is kind of my dream.

9. Not everybody likes him, but everybody knows who the hell he is. Notoriety isn't necessarily a bad thing.

So there you have it. I covet Simmons' accomplishments. I salivate over the amount of letters he features in his mailbag. I yearn for his writing gigs. I envy his celebrity friendships. I might have better grammar than he does, and I definitely look better in a skirt and stilettos than he ever would, but in terms of what he's actually done with his life so far? He's got me beat.

— NIKKI is the snarky little so-and-so behind the humor website RED PEN, INC. A lifelong Phillies fan, she also talks baseball, cute pitchers, and pinstriped derrieres at THE BILF REPORT.

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Dee Karl:

Bill Simmons: The Sports Guy? Who? He's on ESPN.com? Really?

Well, I haven't had any dealings with this guy, nor have I ever read his work in the four years I've been blogging. I guess he doesn't write about Hockey much, if at all. So, I really don't think it would be fair of me to give my opinion on him or his work. Ask me about John Buccigross, I'll write you a thesis.

Simmons; I tried reading a some of his stuff last night ... but to be honest ... I fell asleep.

— Dee Karl, NY Islanders Blog Box, 7th Woman.