How’s it goin jags? Had to take the rest of the day off yesterday after hammerin out that prospect scrimmage report. Damn thing hit me harder than Ryan Clark over the middle.
I still got some aches and pains from it, in fact, so today’s update won’t be as gigantic as the last one. I do feel compelled to say a few things, though, after some of the most recent goings-on in sports.
A Bunch of Corn-Fed Super Dykes Couldn’t Beat Little Japanese Women Unfiltered
Yesterday’s sporting event lineup featured the championship game in the Women’s World Cup. For some reason, everybody had a sudden interest in U.S. soccer, more so than when the men played last year. I presume this fascination with women’s soccer emerged in large part from sexual fantasies relating to Hope Solo and Alex Morgan… or any of the other players, for those out there who prefer to be beaten and abused in the bedroom.
The other reason, I suppose, was that the sight of women folk kept the attention of them jags who, normally, don’t like soccer because it’s “boring,” meaning that they’re too slow to realize what’s actually goin on, too simple to appreciate a developing play, and scared and confused about a sport that entails quick back-and-forth play rather than a game reduced to goin in one pre-determined direction, usually in three-yard intervals, until the risk of handing the ball over to the opponent forces a team to kick it 50 yards away. Yes, I love football and da Steelers, too, but expand your horizons, yinz prejudiced, close-minded jagoffs.
At any rate, the U.S. team squandered two one-goal leads, forfeiting a goal shortly before the 90-minute mark and the end of extra time, and ultimately succumbing to their self-incurred failure in penalty kicks.
Chuck’s Verdict: What a goddamn disgrace. Listen, I’m sorry, but even from the start -- actual soccer ability put aside -- the nation’s biggest and baddest female motorcycle gang members, as I assume most of them are, should’ve been able to pound the petite Japanese team into the fuckin ground.
There’s very few areas where I’d tell the U.S. Women’s Team to emulate the Men. One of them, however, is forgoing this whole “sportsmanship” nonsense. When it’s all said and done, you can be a good sport and apologize for being caught up in the moment. For now, win the goddamn game and don’t take shit from nobody or their terminally-ill family members. Hell, fuckin headbutt somebody; I don’t care!
My point is, I had no problem with the U.S. playin legit soccer -- I’m glad they did, instead of those awful attempts at it I watched earlier in the tournament. At the same time, though, don’t just arbitrarily level the playing field by conceding the immense physical advantage you have. Christ.
On top of that, for the love of friggin God, possess the ball. The U.S. Mega Dykes had the pressure on Japan all game, but when they actually needed to relax their -- I can only imagine -- bulging muscles and questionable reproductive organs, they chose instead to make the most dreadful decisions with the ball possible.
|Here's members of the Japanese Women's Team -- looks like Oakland Central Catholic just let out for the summer.|
|Here's the U.S. -- looks like the weight room, boxing ring, and football camp just closed.|
|Here's Abby Wambach. Christ, she is freakin menacing.|
We never hear about the mistakes, though. Nope, just the insipid feel-good stories. For example, yeah, the defense fucked up somethin fierce with their awful attempts at clearing the ball on Japan's first goal. But you know who actually had a painful giveaway that let Japan reclaim the ball? Christie Rampone. Do we ever hear about that? Noooooo, just about her two kids and Lime Disease. No, I don't wish that on anybody, but it doesn't make her the friggin de facto MVP and it doesn't absolve her from a stupid fuckin play.
Let's not forget about late in extra time, too. Tobin Heath, along the left sideline, megs somebody (i.e., she dribbled the ball between the legs of the opposing defender) and then tries to play an utterly impossible ball in the box. Dear freakin Lord, are you serious? Here's a thought -- with five minutes remaining til you can claim victory, why not pass it back to one of the open U.S. players who would've had all fuckin day to pass it around and kill the clock?!
When it comes down to it, the U.S. team lost it for themselves... and everybody, for that matter. For their sake, I hope their giant Swedish coach doesn't break them all in half between now and their next international competition.
Karstens Is... Uhh... Honestly Don't Even Know What to Say Unfiltered
Jeff Karstens recently tossed a complete game shutout against the Astros that lofted the Buccos into first place and pulled them closer to fulfilling my prediction of McCutchen heaving Joe Buck out of the press box window in the playoffs (please come true). Beyond maintaining his streak of winning and inexplicably solid pitching, Karstens continues to be ripe for pictorial parody, as evidenced by the latest photo disaster below.
|Luckily, Karstens will never have to worry about a worse mugshot.|
As I prod him for looking like he belongs in the next live-action Looney Tunes production, Karstens is somehow managing to turn his pedestrian 'stuff,' i.e., pitches, into the catalyst for his meteoric rise to the top. His 2.34 ERA is currently sixth in the majors and second in the National League, while his 1.03 WHIP is ninth in the majors and third in the NL.
Chuck's Verdict: Yinz guys know that I pretty much have a long-winded response to everything -- hell, I could go off for hours on topics that have absolutely no bearing on my everyday existence. That said, I seriously don't know what the hell to say.
In my last post about Karstens, I postulated some of the possible explanations for his improved game. For awhile there, I was pretty sure my one about him merging with Dock Ellis to create some sort of perpetually-high amalgam that drools excessively was right.
I think there's only one answer now...
|Meet Jeff H. Christ... or Jesus H. Karstens -- you know, whatever works.|
I anticipate losing one or two of my myriad readers. Such is the price for great analysis.