Wednesday, March 30, 2005


Originally posted at The Sports Fang

These National Hockey League owners are an interesting bunch, aren't they?

They're not content with "saving" the game by effectively killing it through the stubborness that occurs when labour relations strategies are put forth by individuals whose hearts aren't pumping enough oxygen to their brains. Now these same owners are now looking to make a save of a different kind.

They've decided -- once again -- that the game that the Hockey Gods gave them isn't good enough. Except that the game no longer resembles the game that the Hockey Gods created. Thanks to a rule book from the rink that time forgot, the game has de-evolved into something that is more reminiscent of professional wrestling than the fastest game on ice.

But there's good news. And, what would good news be without some bad news, eh?

The good: The owners are considering (threatening?) some changes to the game with the aim of improving it. Whether there is actually a game to come back to remains to be seen.

The bad: Their ideas are, well, bad.

Oh, where do we start? Well, let's go back a week or two to Buffalo, where it was decided that white ice was screwing up the game. In case you missed it, the American Hockey League experimented with a different coloured playing surface. White ice became blue ice. Blue lines became orange lines. The red line became a, um, blue line. All of this was done to make the game easier to watch on television. A noble attempt, to be sure, but I don't see how a black puck will be more visible against sky blue ice instead of the usual white, but hey, I have 20-20 vision. What the hell do I know?

Moving forward to the here and now, the owners have been meeting to discuss some other changes, including the addition of shootouts to decide winners and changing the size and/or shape of the net.

The shootout issue is a sore one for anyone who thinks a game should be decided by actually playing it. Purists like the idea of a 60 minute game followed by a hard played overtime. No winner? So what. Ties are okay, especially when worn with the right suit.

But to settle a game with a penalty shot contest? Why not just flip a coin, or play Rock-Paper-Scissors? The integrity of the result would be the same. Long story short: Leave the freak show stuff to the All-Star weekend where it belongs.

As for the other notion, changing the nets is a bad idea. They're not too small, the goalies are too big. Just make the goalies wear equipment that's not made at a Michelin factory. Anyone who doesn't think the equipment is too big should compare a picture of Patrick Roy from 1999 with a photo of Bernie Parent, circa 1975. One of Roy's pads is about the size of both of Parent's combined. And what shoulders that Roy had. That couldn't have all been padding -- he must have had one hell of a trainer.

Yeah, right.

Anyway... What the owners need to do to save the game, other than putting it back on the ice, is to get back to basics. Make the players wear equipment that isn't made for a mountain gorilla. Call the obstruction penalties. Call all the little hooks. Hell, give the referees carte blanche to call anything where the stick is used for anything that doesn't involve shooting the puck.

"Penalty to number 12, two minutes for illegal use of the stick."

Kinda has a nice ring, doesn't it.

Stay tuned...

Monday, March 28, 2005


Dear Sir and/or Madam,

I am Mr. T.R. King, a spewer of interesting anecdotes who once had positive cash flow through a reputable bank in the Dominion of Canada. While this lack of flow of monetary proportions may no longer be of interest to you, it is not relevant for the purposes of this particular communication. I will head for a tangent of a most different directional nature.

I have an urgent and not so confidential proposition for you, for I am in need of assistance for the making of a sizable deposit. This deposit is non-monetary and may contain sharp corners and jagged edges.

The deposit, in this case, is in response to your communication, which was not solicited on my part. In any event, how would you like to take your stupid little Nigerian e-mail scam, and stick it up your ass?

Should there be space in your anal cavity, any future withdrawals of this deposit will be held in the strictest confidence between yourself and your proctologist.

Further communication is neither necessary, nor desired.

Worst regards,

Mr. T.R. King

Stay tuned...


Nobody knows her.

Yet everyone knows her. Or what they think is right for her, at least.

There is only one good thing that will register with Terri Schiavo's death, and that is the end of what has become a sad existence. No more questionable consciousness, no more non-existent existence. She will move on to what awaits her at the next stop, whatever that is.

Whether it was/is her wish, we may never truly know.

Right To Life. Right To Die. She said. He said. He said she said -- that's what it's come down to.

There are so many issues with so many contradictions, who knows where to begin.

There's Michael Schiavo acting in the best interests of his spouse, as per her supposed wishes, even though he's moved on and cultivated a relationship with another woman resulting in two children. Normally this would be called adultery, but then these are hardly normal circumstances.

There's the discrepancy over what is and isn't humane. An animal that is suffering is euthanized quickly, as is a criminal sentenced to die. Terri Schiavo is neither an animal, nor a criminal, yet she is given the cruelest sentence of all. There is nothing humane about starving a person to death, regardless of the circumstances.

There's the political left and right wrestling over a body while it's still alive. The right spews sanctity of marriage while trampling over Michael Schiavo's marital rights. The left rallies against capital punishment while doing all it can to kill an innocent woman.

There's the Kevorkian factor. If Terri Schiavo does want to die, then the removal of her feeding tube with the aim of ending her life could be called an assisted suicide. Dr. Jack Kevorkian, the notorious suicide doctor, risked his own freedom to assist terminally ill people take their own lives with dignity. For that, he was charged, prosecuted and incarcerated. In the Schiavo case, the Judges are bending over backwards to end a life.

And, in the days yet to come, there will be the TV networks that will begin climbing over each other to be the first to film and air Something, Something: The Terri Schiavo Story. They won't even wait for the body to cool before they start pre-production on such "sympathetic" projects.

Hypocrisy abounds.

None of the protesting and politicizing matters anymore, assuming it ever did. Maybe she does want to die, and maybe she doesn't. Robbed of her life fifteen years ago, the poor girl will die a second death any day now. But it isn't any less tragic.

Go in peace, Terri.

Stay tuned...

Wednesday, March 23, 2005


Originally posted at The Sports Fang

"Can you get my son in here, too, just not on me? So you guys can show the pain you're causing my whole family. You wanted to bring me down, you've finally brought me and my family down. You've finally done it. So now go kick a different person. I'll do the best I can and that's about it. I'm physically, mentally done. I'm mentally drained. Tired of my kids crying."

-- Barry "It's Everybody's Fault But Mine" Bonds

* * * * *

Yeah, whatever. Methinks Barry Bonds has jumped the shark.

It's a pretty impressive accomplishment, considering he isn't even a TV show. But with yesterday's manipulative, tear-jerking, scenery mulching performance, Barry might have found a new industry to conquer.

In can just see it now -- The Barry Show.

Anyway, in case you missed it, the world's number one Barry Bonds fan -- AKA Barry Bonds -- sat before the media to explain how he will be affected by a wonky knee. Then, after he was done with the "woe is me" schtick, Barry went on to blame the media for world hunger, the war in Iraq, the crumbling economy, starvation in Africa, the sinking of the Titanic, World War II, the breakup of the Beatles and, last but not least, the misery that apparently is Barry.

Okay, so he really only stated the last one. But with the acid in the venom Bonds was spewing, you'd think the media had done something really horrible. Like creating world hunger, starting the war in Iraq, etcetera, etcetera...

That's assuming they've done anything at all.

It's amazing that a person as vain as Bonds has apparently never taken a good look in the mirror. Either that, or all the mirrors in the Bonds mansion are relics from amusement parks. Surely Bonds can't be looking at the same Barry the rest of us are seeing.

If he did get a clear look, he'd see a snivelling, self-righteous jackass who can't take responsibility for his own actions. And if the clarity had room for two bodies, he'd see his poor son standing next to him, reduced to a pawn in Bonds' never-ending battle with the press corps.

Rarely has a human looked more like a snake.

Never mind the fact that the guy was, by his own supposedly confidential admission to a Grand Jury, "unknowingly" juiced to the max when he hit 73 dingers, nothing will top Bonds exploitation of his own kid as some sort of human buffer between himself and his paranoid delusions about the mafia, er, I mean media.

At least, I think nothing will top it. You just never know what's going to happen on The Barry Show.

Stay tuned...

Tuesday, March 22, 2005


Hey, Michael.

How's it going?

That's okay, you don't have to answer if you don't want to. I know you're busy with that legal thing and, uh, what was it? A bad back, you say?

A lack of spine, I say.

Suck it up, man. You're so pathetic. Millions of dollars in the kitty, and you can't even keep your shit together. I mean, just how hard can it be to show up to court on time? Lots of people do, and without the aid of chauffeurs, bodyguards, chiropractors and manicurists.

This "ooh, my back hurts" schtick ain't foolin' anyone, with the possible exception of the 12 fools in the jury box... Aah, now I get it.

You're playing them. Good on ya, Mikey. I was beginning to wonder if there was any creativity left in you. This just might convince the jury to get you off, which would be a significant turn of events. Afterall, everybody knows it's usually the kidlets that get you off.


Don't worry, man. I won't tell anyone. Besides, you're in California, where the cosmetic products run freely, just like water from a faucet. Because of the chemicals in the hair dye that's used down there, you have nothing to worry about. That shit penetrates the skull. If the members of the jury are well coloured and coiffed, their poor, defenseless brain cells don't stand a chance.

You'll be back at Neverland stroking your llama and diddling your monkey in no time flat.

I kid you not.

Stay tuned...

Monday, March 21, 2005


Seasons change.

So do colours.

That said, I apologize for the recent power failure. The darkness that befell this page was merely an experiment in, uh, something. Which just goes to show, that if you do enough experimenting, your short term memory can be affected. Let's just call it a chemical imbalance, shall we?

Fer now, you can all relax -- I've seen the light. Except that it's kinda brown...

Anyway, there is a point to all this: Spring is threatening to make an appearance. If it does actually show up on Monday, it's going to make a liar out of me, while at the same time vindicating a giant, smelly brown rat. I may have to cancel a planned rodenticide road trip to Punxsatawney Pencil-vania.

You see, I've noticed that the snowbanks outside are slowly receding, to the point where they're no longer blocking the sunshine. Just another few feet to go and I'll have the ol' lawn back. Hence, the brown.

Bitch, bitch, bitch...

You might be surprised to learn that I count myself among the kajillions of people who can never, truly be pleased. Yes, I must confess that I'm a whiny sonofabitch.

In January, I'm too cold. Erect nipples ain't a turn on when you're connected to 'em. Except when they are.

In May I'm pissed that the Blue Jays are already out of the pennant race. All I can say is, f*ck George Steinbrenner and the limo he rode in on.

In July, I'm too hot. Rashes in inaccessable places -- yay, summer...

And in September, I'm one year older. Aging was cool when I was 18 and stupid. But now that I'm older and slightly less stupid, it ain't so cool. Quite the opposite, in fact. I keep having this recurring nightmare where I suffer third degree burns from trying to blow out a cake that has a couple of hundred candles on it.

That's okay for a fossilized windbag like Joan Rivers. But for me, not so much.

So finally I sit here, somewhat satisfied with the look of this blog thing. The snow is melting. Baseball season's starting in a couple of weeks. Any week now TV networks are going to start cancelling my favourite shows, while renewing all the reality schlock. Hockey talks are going nowhere. Britney Spears is still Britney Spears.

If only I had something to write about.

Stay tuned...

Thursday, March 17, 2005


The bigger they are...


Major League Baseball's dirty laundry received its first airing out today, as a group of current and former players went before congress, undoubtedly to ensure MLB's laundry makes it to the spin cycle.

Steroids are rampant in the game, of that there is little doubt. Players have seemingly grown in size, leading to a growth in stature that comes about when defenseless little baseballs constantly disappear.

But thanks to public scrutiny and Jose Canseco's inability to keep his mouth shut, MLB is finally taking steps to curb the influence that steroids have on the game. While this is a noble endeavour from the whole "we don't want cheaters in our game" point of view, there is one significant issue that has been lost in the steroid shuffle.

In today's game, there is not nearly enough tugging on the athletic supporter.

Steroids can make a regular Joe into a real Babe. The visual spectacle of the muscle bound driving the long ball is something to watch. But the increase of muscle is not without its side effects, the most notorious of which is the shrinkage of certain orbs in a man's groin area. This has led to a better fitting jock for some players.

The players in question will deny using steroids, but the effect is undeniable. While the brightest of America's scientific minds have put humans into space, cured diseases and put the caramel inside the chocolate, they've never quite been able to find a protective cup that fits properly.

This has led to one of baseball's more enduring images: the subtle shifting of a player's nether region. If steroid abuse continues, I fear that this hallmark of America's pastime will disappear forever.

Whether baseball can continue to be successful without this maneuver is difficult to say. The game has taken great strides to return to its roots: Artificial turf has been pushed aside; stadiums now look more like ballparks than toilet bowls; and the number of Canadian teams has been cut in half.

But all of this will mean nothing if the players aren't adjusting their manhoods. It's time for baseball to put the shift back on.

Stay tuned...

Monday, March 14, 2005


T.O. and Nicollette are off the hook. It's too bad, really. They looked so good up there.


All kidding aside, the controversy caused by The Great Gridiron Towel Drop can finally be put to rest. The Federal Communications Commission has ruled that the Monday Night Football/Desperate Housewives teaser that aired in November was not indecent.

To quote millions of kids, ironically enough -- "DUH!"

What to do, what to say? Well, in the spirit of the recently completed Academy Awards I'd like to give a little speech. I'd like to thank ABC, Terrell Owens and Nicollette Sheridan for having a sense of humour. I'd like to thank all viewers who could have cared less. And I'd like to thank the jackasses who wasted the FCC's time. Without their brainfarts, the writing on this site would be a little less on the prolific side. God bless you and your neurosurgeons -- I hope your procedures are successful.

Of course, the FCC could also use a stir of its head soup. While they did find the common sense to refute the validity of the complaints, they did end things by suggesting that broadcasters reel things in a little bit, going forward. "As stewards of the public airwaves, broadcasters can and should do better," says FCC talking head Michael Copps.

Say what, dude?

I can only assume that, while this skit was not found to be indecent, Copps was suggesting that broadcasters should make a concerted effort to be more, uh, non-indecent.

I sincerely hope the league and the networks are not paying attention. If ABC and the other broadcasters were to pay any attention to these words, MNF would have to become MNTF -- Monday Night Touch Football. Cheerleaders would be outlawed, unless dressed in fleece from head to toe with accompanying turtle necks. Beer in the stands would be replaced with Sunny Delight, and tailgating would be replaced with prayer meetings.

Meanwhile the NFL, in an attempt to shed it's new Bush league image and regain a little of the violence, would respond by awarding an expansion team to the city of Rome, to be called the Gladiators. This would be somewhat appropriate, since we've obviously been punted back to the dark ages.

Boy, this is all starting to sound like one really bad dream. Somebody wake me when it's over -- like maybe in November 2008?

Stay tuned...

Friday, March 11, 2005


Ick. Ick. And furthermore... ICK!

I'm thinking of starting a petition to have the drinking water for the denizens of Hollywood tested. For what, I have no idea -- there are too many chemicals enmeshed in this planet's ecosystem to count. Almost anything could be responsible for tainting that which is consumed by the rich and famous.

Of course, testing the water in the greater Los Angeles area would be a waste of time. But the next time a supply of imported spring water from the Swiss alps arrives at LAX, I say we grab some beakers, a microscope and the nearest chemistry nerd. There are questions that need answering.

Like... Why are so many Hollywood couples so, um, esthetically incompatible.

What mystical force pushes a Hilary Swank in the direction of a Chad Lowe? What makes a Julia Roberts run off with a Lyle Lovett? And what deity decided that Angelina Jolie shacking up with Billy Bob Thornton was a good idea? Figuring out that last one is about as easy as finding the missing link.

It's not just the ugly romancing the chronically hot, either. There are mismatches of people who are pretty, but are lacking in other areas. The most notable example would be the hip-joining of Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore. People have gone bald scratching their heads over this particular merger. Both are good looking, but Kutcher can't spell I.Q. and Moore may or may not be from this planet. Plus that whole Bruce Willis being buddy-buddy and cool with it is just plain weird.

Speaking of the man who should be McClane again...

The rumour mill -- AKA -- reports that the 50-ish Willis and 18 year-old Everywhere Girl Lindsay Lohan were doing some "die-hard canoodling" this past Tuesday at the after party for Willis' latest flick, Hostage. Apparently they spent a great deal of time together, which included several embraces, before they allegedly went back to Willis' hotel suite for who knows what.


Clearly Bruce is not thinking straight. For him to put himself in that kind of situation with a girl like Lindsay Lohan could put his career at risk.

Let's face it -- this demented little pop-tart ain't nothin' but trouble.

Her partying ways; her on-set diva-like attitude; her fake 'n bake permatan; her poorly fitting upper body clothing. The last thing a guy like Bruce Willis needs is a young girl, with bad skin, getting wasted and ordering him around while her boobs pop out.

All that scary stuff in the Die Hard movies would pale by comparison. Willis would be traumatized, leading to a long schedule of shock treatment for post-traumatic breast disorder. By the time the rubber room Docs finished their therapy, Willis would be mush. Playing John McClane in Die Hard 4.0 would be impossible.

Then I'd be traumatized.

Stay tuned...

Thursday, March 10, 2005


I hate Bob.

You know Bob, don'tcha?

You don't?

Well, you need to stop having a life right this minute. Tell your friends that you're unavailable. Ignore those hotties that are trying to have their way with you. It's time to glue your ass to the couch to watch some late night TV.

Bob, as the twisted world of advertising would have it, is the permanerd star of a series of way past midnight commercials. It seems Bob has been playing the field with a limp noodle, but thanks to Enzyte, is now blessed with "natural male enhancement." Yep, a pill a day will keep his pecker in play -- what some guys will do for a larger richard.

Apparently poor ol' Regular Bob was a scoreless nobody. But Enhanced Bob's a cool guy. Because his peter is no longer measured in millimeters, he's the toast of the neighbourhood. He's the go-to guy at parties. He's got the key to the city. Hell, they're even throwin' parades for Enhanced Bob.

But as is the case with most pharmaceuticals, Enhanced Bob also has to deal with those wonderful side effects. You see, Enhanced Bob seems to have developed some kind of weird-assed dental disorder. His smile is so big and bright he's his own personal night light.

This has made Enhanced Bob just a tad annoying.

Any guy with a working libido will tell you that it's good to be gettin' it, but it couldn't possibly be that good. The way the commercial goes on, you'd think Enhanced Bob was banging the entire neighbourhood. Even people's pets are happy for him -- go ahead, draw your own conclusions.

All of this is a little too much, even for me.

A memo to advertisers: I don't want Enzyte. I don't want a larger torpedo. I don't want bigger teeth. I don't want what your selling. Why don't you just take your wonderful pills and go see how well they do as suppositories.


I suppose all of this could be tolerable if Enhanced Bob didn't seem like such a smug sonofabitch. These commercials have got to go, but I think an extra measure is necessary, to prevent the creation of Copycat Bob.

Bob, in every form, has to go. I'm Bobbed out. It's bad enough that every time I go into my e-mail I'm bombarded with offers to improve my, uh, self. But now every time I turn on the tube, I get Bob.

There's only one problem: I don't want to get Bob.

But I do want to "get" Bob. (Cue evil, maniacal laughter.)

I think it's time for those of us of regular length to rise up against Enhanced Bob. Not because he's surpassing us at a purely metric level, but because the schmuck with the terminal smile is so damn annoying.

Help me "take care" of Bob. Somebody. Anybody...

Stay tuned...

Monday, March 07, 2005


"Where are they now?"

It's a simple enough question, usually reserved for ex-athletes or former mistresses of failed American Presidential candidates. Quite often the answer is about six feet further down than those of us still respirating.

A long-term lease in a pine box isn't always the case, however. Sometimes folks just disappear, a la Garbo. And sometimes people, especially the famous kind, find it difficult to get good work.

This means you, Jennifer Love Hewitt.

Sure, Jen never really left the public eye. Whether she's making daft horror movies or filming moronic TV series pilots, she's always in front of a camera. Lately, she's been maintaining her photoJenic celebrity by popping up at awards shows, usually in outfits that also threaten a little popping out.

Despite this, I'm fairly certain she doesn't want to be known as a celebutante, since a total lobotomy seems to be a prerequisite for the position. She's not exactly an Albert Einstein, but I'm guessing she's not a Paris Hilton either. But while she gave things a good go a few years ago, stepping into the intimidating footwear of Audrey Hepburn -- and doing a dandy job of it -- she's still capable of wading through the smelly, brown stuff.

For example...

If she was a little smarter, she would have kept herself away from dreck like Garfield: The Movie. That's one cat that should have stayed in the bag. I mean, c'mon! The comic is lame, what made people think the movie would be funny?

Wait, I'm not done...

Don't forget The Tuxedo. A stupid movie with a stupid plot and stupid writing. Even Jackie Chan's stunts and Jen's cleavage couldn't save that one.

So what's up with Jen these days? Could she be dating Ben Affleck, perhaps? He's dated almost every other Jennifer in Hollywood. It could happen one day, I suppose, but for now it's an entirely different Jen that's Garnered that spot.

Nope, there be no Ben. Instead, it would seem that she's maintaining a minimum standard of busy-ness with her jaw-dropping award show appearances and her latest television work, which is a movie called Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber. Hey, quality roles like this are hard to find these days.

So while she may not actually be a Paris Hilton, there doesn't seem to be anything we can do to stop her from playing one. But that's cool, just as long as she gives a scenery-mulching, critically flaming performance worthy of the real thing.

Ya know, so I have something to rant about.

Stay tuned...

Saturday, March 05, 2005


Originally posted at The Sports Fang

The hockey lockout has come down to this: if there is no resolution in the next 90 days, the National Hockey League we've known and loved could be dead.

D-E-A-D. As in finit and kaput.

The recent revelations of Bain Capital LLC and Game Plan LLC's $3.5 billion offer to buy the entire league is shocking, to say the least. It's also fascinating, to say the very least.


Well, for one thing, the NHL is a rapidly declining asset, which makes one wonder how much the league might have been worth a year ago. But then a company doesn't get rich by buying high and selling low, which is why the league's owners have said a collective NADA to the offer. If they sell now, they all take a loss.

On the other hand, if they hang on to their teams and there is no resolution to the labour dispute, the value of most of these teams could go into a freefall. If that happens, there will be no winners except, perhaps, Canadian hockey fans.

Perhaps the owners should rethink this. But you know they won't.

Worse case scenario if they stay status quo is that teams will fold, leaving their owners in a bath of red ink. A clever accountant might will able to do something with the carcass at tax time, but lost money is often money that doesn't come back. As for the players, every team that folds means the loss of 23 jobs. Multiply that by 10, and you have 230 fewer supporters for union boss Bob Goodenow. Whether that means more support or less support is anyone's guess, considering how schizophrenic the union's membership appears to be.

What's left of the NHL will have little value, especially once the league trots out their replacement players. They won't be fooling anyone.

Meanwhile, Bain and Game Plan will have $3.5 billion dollars sitting there, looking for a home. So, naturally, I have an idea. It's probably already been suggested by someone, but I figure if you can't join 'em, beat 'em. In other words, Bain should start their own league.

Skeptics will refer to the professional sports graveyard, pointing at the various head stones of leagues gone past:

"A.B.A. -- It had balls, and they were colorful."


"U.S.F.L. -- Hope springs interment."


"W.H.A. -- what the puck was that?"


"X.F.L. -- He Hate Me, so did the fans."

These were leagues that had varying degrees of funds for start up and all suffered from equally varying degrees of poor planning. Not to mention the fact that they had hardly any good players, at least when compared to the big dogs. The all learned that it's hard to take on the big dog when the big dog has all the bark.

The NHL's current situation has one huge difference.

The NHL's players are essentially free agents. Bain has the capital to start a league, give each team a reasonable budget -- say, $45 million dollars -- and raid the NHL of its playing assets.

To the die hard hockey fan, who cares if it's the Hamilton Whatsits against the Quebec City Quoi-ques? Which league are you going to watch -- the one with replacements, or the one with the real guys?

I know which one I'd choose. It's been a slice, NHL.

Stay tuned...

Wednesday, March 02, 2005



I said, "melt."


This isn't working. It's everywhere, and it keeps getting bigger, and bigger, and...


Damn, this snow is stubborn. But then I probably shouldn't expect much of a response from something that's not alive.

(But it is.)

Huh, what? Who said that?

(You know.)

Oh, it's you. What do you want?

(The snow. It's alive.)

Um, no it's not. That's ridiculous. I mean, it couldn't be. It's just snow, right?

(You'd like to think so.)

What's that supposed to mean?

(Ever see The Blob?)

The original or the remake?

(Whatever, you pick.)

Okay, the original. That Steve McQueen was one great actor.

(If you say so.)

But it couldn't be like that. That thing would eat people and then it just kept on growing.

(Just like your snowbanks.)

Oh, shit.

(See, told ya.)


Stay tuned...