the first thing i recall is janet’s nipple.

then i recall New Orleans Saints receiver Joe Horn scoring a touchdown, going under the field goal post to retrieve a cell phone and making a phone call as the crowd cheered.

then i recall former 49er receiver Terrell Owens pulling a Sharpie out of his sock and autographing a football after he caught a touchdown pass.

what do you remember from last year?

probably less than that.

but the NFL in all their lack of soul has decided that they will go back to penalizing players and teams for such “outrageous” activity.

this isnt anything new to the sport that so desperatly wants to be the national pasttime, after the Redskin “Fun Bunch” had well-choreographed dance routines after touchdowns, the league instituted a policy of zero tolerance for these post-touchdown “celebrations”.

they eventually repealed their decision.

but since the winds of change are now blowing from the conservative white house and effecting all aspects of american life, this decision to re-instate the banning of touchdown celebrations should come as no surprise.

which is stupid.

everything in football is about the touchdown. if you are to believe the marketing of the nfl.

we true sportsfans know that football is about teamwork, defense, special teams, strategy, AND offense, but when was the last time you saw a great block on Sports Center.

boo-ya, look at that guard pull!

and no offense, paul tagliabue, but this penalty is slightly racist.

the receivers who usually have the most exciting, innovative, and outrageous post-touchdown activity, are of color.

when brett favre made the Lambaugh Leap popular nobody said anything. that was a post touchdown celebration. it had no soul. but it was unusual. and there was no action taken against him.

so whats up with that?

and whats up with not involving the fans? the fans love that shit.

the fans love terrell owens grabbing the pom poms from the cheerleaders and dancing with them after he scores.

consider this post my challenge. i would like an instant replay on this decision. the nfl was leapfrogged by the nba who encourages personalities and showmanship.

as a wise man once said

dont hate the player

hate the game.

im hating you nfl.

all of the nfl except for the raiders who were the only team who voted against this schlock.

new empire lounge + sk smith + kitty bukkake

to have a president who knows how to snowboard, or look cool trying, i do think it’s nice. i also think it’s nice for a president to be forthcoming when discussing things like what he knew right before and right after 9/11.

thank you.

i would also like a president who knows how to juggle.

i would also like a president who can tell me a joke a day.

its twelve noon, you are listening to npr, national public radio. and now for the noon time joke, the president of the united states of america.

two whores walk into a bar…

i would also like a president who isnt afraid to actually take the information that the citizens ask him to investigate and actually do something with it. nobody is complaining about indecency on the television or radio.

we have a war we’re barely winning. today they were dragging dead US soldiers through the streets of iraq, fuck this fake debate about the pledge of allegiance, fuck this fake debate about half million dollar fines if the f bomb gets dropped on the air when children might be listening. fuck oil presidents getting away with jacking up oil prices to all time highs and then saying well if you prorate the prices to todays cost blah blah blah.

i want a president who will say right after the war the prices were a buck sixty and now theyre two twenty, somethings fucked in denmark.

i want a president who doesnt look like some asshole’s son. and act like some kid who just got his first suit. we’re the united states of america. whats up with canada kicking our ass? im sick of my country acting like we’re scared of having our shit blown up every ten seconds. did goliath have terror alert charts? did andre the giant run around saying someones looking to kick my ass?

of course people want our asses kicked. but theyre not going to. which is why we call them third worlders. which is why our God is better than their god. which is why they cant get a record in the top fourty. which is why they cant snowboard worth fucking shit.

i want a subway sandwich with turkey breast, mayo, mustard, lettuce, oil, vinegar, swiss cheese, on that crazy italian bread with parmesian on it and seeds in it, and cloves or some crap in there. i want to be overpowered by its foot-longness.

we are full of shit + brit coal + the ward

so i keep it to myself.

7am this morning they were shooting at me. little shots. about one every twenty seconds. quickie little pops coming from behind a dodge dart. or was it from that window. or from behind that dumpster.

is amazing how tired you can be at 6:45a and how awake you can be at 7am.

and how dead you can be at 7:01am.

someone was dead at 7:01 and it wasnt me. no more pops from the backside of the dart.

now i only heard pops from the window. third floor. no fire escape like on tv. no moving van to climb on like in the movies. i coulda used the gas grenade but the whole 10 story apartment complex could catch fire like waco. fuck that. xbi is quiet.

pop… pop.

i knew i was going to have to go through the front door and up the stairs and through that bastard’s front door and bring death or meet it. fine. mark pryor is hurt, cubs dont have the chance that they did a few months ago. so fuckit.

i nodded to my partner who popped back at the window so as to keep them occupied.

fucked up thing about windows. it could be a grandma, it could be a kid, it could be a dad, it could be the guy we wanted. could be some totally random guy who thinks hes protecting his neighborhood. you never know until you break down the door and shot and jump out the way of their shot.

ran to the front door. but first grabbed the bulletproof vest from the back door of the escalade and threw it on. felt like a pussy. death doesnt own me. i own life. huge difference. actually im leasing it from jesus but i want you to think im a badass.

pressed every doorbell on the front of the apartment most people told me to fuck off, some dumbshit buzzed me through. i could be anyone!

ran up the stairs. kicked through the door that shoulda been the right one. didnt see anyone. stuck my head through the window, saw my partner pointing to my right and holding up one finger. ran out of the sad little apartment and busted down the next door and shot twice one high one low and dived to the left.

the high shot missed his head by an inch the low shot shattered his knee. fuckr.

he cried like a baby and i lunged at his dropped .22, broke his nose with my elbow. and told him to shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up motherfucker im death.

he shut the fuck up.

shot the fucker up with needle full of demoral and threw him into the back of the roller. i went back there with him. he was our guy. he was in shock. fairly new to la but already used to owning the lapd. he had only heard of the xbi and never experienced the majesty.

wheres the money fuckface. i demanded as we rolled past the ambassador hotel fast, like we had a destination. we had no destination. we were going to get money or we were going to shoot this motherfucker.

what fucking money? he asked.

we went past a tommy’s burger near where otis parsons used to be. i was all, wheres tommy, fuckhead.

he looked at me like i was crazy. he was about to either pass out or vomit from the demoral. i didnt care if he vomited, but we need him to be awake. sleeping crooks tell no tales. so i plucked a chesthair from beneathed his ripped shirt.

who the fuck is tommy!?

pull into that alley i told my dude. he pulled. we stopped. i aimed my weapon at his crotch i told him to start talking or there would be nuts or pussy all over my partners back seat.

my partner hissed, probably pussy.

i no nothing the guy whispered. he wanted to die.

why were you shooting at us.

you were shooting at me.

only after you started shooting at us.

i yanked another chest hair. then another. he had lots to chose from.

i eyed his bloody knee and licked the corner of my mouth it was my next target, would i squeeze it or punch it or bang it with the handle of my .38. decisions decisions.

cuz i cant go back to jail.

whats in jail?

they’ll fuck me over.

im about to send you to hell in about a minute, so whats the difference?

oh no, im born again, the lord is my shepard.

i pointed at his huge bicep. it had the virgin mary tattooed on there. i said, did you read that your shepard doesnt like tattoos.

he looked at me.

dont make marks upon your body. leviticus 19:28, bitch.

he had marks all over his body.

dont steal, dont lie, love each other the way ive loved you.

my partner chimed in, dont fucking steal huge fucking garbage bags of diamonds and sell them to the chicago russian mafia and shoot at the fucking xbi.

sbi? he asked.

x b i fucker like the x on your forehead where the highway to hell is being constructed.

i rose my gun at his head and then lowered it to his knee and told him he had exactly five seconds to tell us where the diamonds were and where the money was or there would be a half alive motherfucker not dead definately not dead laying in the alley waiting for the pigs to pick his ass up.

9-1-1 motherfucker, my partner said holding up his cell phone.

there was a faint aroma of piss, an address, a name, a whimper and then the thud of a bad guy being tossed from a slow moving escalade.

and the only good thing about waking up that early is listening to howard stern on your way to the booty.

henry copeland + things magazine + anti