AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.
MIAMI — It's been a busy week, obviously, and I, for whatever reason, have been put ON NOTICE by members of a certain media conglomeration that any more funny business would not be tolerated. I had no intentions of becoming a wooly-faced Stuttering John for this trip, or the fun police, for that matter; that's just how this fateful week has turned out so far. And now, I've been officially informed by said media conglomeration members that the presence of the mustache at any parties this weekend will not be tolerated and may result in physical harm.
Given that, there will be some, mmm, adjustments made for tonight's Maxim party to ensure maximum efficiency in the world of undercover reportage. New correspondents will be introduced; new tactical positioning plans will be laid. However, after-after parties are pretty much open season, and tonight's the last night where many of the burly heroes we've encountered this weekend will be able to oil themselves into a state of Lemmeknow lucidity. So, this week, I'm showering up a bit, buying some new clothes and I'm taking odds on the celebrities the rest of the weekend who may or may not take their justifiable beefs to physical levels.
Take one final bristly ride, after this jump.
Stuart Scott: 3/1
Even though he's supposedly in the middle of divorcing his allegedly "crazy" wife, Stu's still apparently not very pleased with the suggestion he's seeking solace from the messy personal matter in the lap of a former Bronco ex-cheerleader. What happens in South Beach, stays in the booyah. However, based on his unfortunate ocular disadvantage, it'll be tough to get scrappy without his punches landing just a shade to the left. Or maybe common sense will overtake his boiling anger, and he'll just simmer down enough to enjoy the rest of the weekend. Hate the game, Mr. Scott.
John Clayton: 2/1
Salisbury wants no part of any more publicity outside of critical gametime analysis and his mesmerizing ties, so he'll shy away from vengeful brutality — but he's got the goons to take care of upholding his God-given right to beav poach. But the big, burly guys are too obvious and will be easily recognized upon initial attack. His cohort John Clayton, however, will be less obvious a henchman. However slight Clayton appears on camera, ask anyone who's seen Tweety prancing around Radio Row this week in a pair of shorts can tell you: Man's got some Zidane-like legs on him.
Orange Jacketed Spanish Woman at Radio Row: 10/1
At the beginning of the week, this feisty woman had the short odds and the pepper spray to completely derail any and all reportage for the entire week. However, after yesterday's blessed walk on the Blue Carpet, she changed her mind a bit and said, in broken Ingles, that she was "hab-pee" I finally got the passes to mingle with greatness. She even kissed the cheek of both myself and the man who took the picture, who was quite taken aback by her outward displays of affection. Yet, that was yesterday — although she'll be more civil if I attempt to befoul the Blue Carpet again, she'll still have to act accordingly per her job requirements.
The Dinger's Mangled Digit: 15/1
To even suggest that the pinkie was stepping out from the rest of the phalanges to covet female companionship is insulting and just wrong. Although the ESPN party is happening outside of the South Beach madness, the pinkie is plenty capable of finding itself a vehicle with a GPS tracking device to hunt me down and puncture my sternum with its 36 degree-angled force. Having been shown a forensics file from the pinkie's last victim, this is not a death I would wish upon my worst enemy.