ESPN: You are some triflin motherfuckers. So Rex Ryan has a foot fetish. He and his wife even get down with BDSM and swingers. Big fucking deal. Does it affect the New York Jets? No. Does it affect his job performance? Please. Does it have any impact on the NFL? Not at all. So why do you have anything to say about it? You had no trouble going silent on Ben Roethlisberger's sexual assault allegations, but ensuring that Sports Nation knows that the NFL and the Jets consider this a personal matter we should all fuck off from is news? Fuck that. You're Deadspin with a larger staff, better videos, and a played out Bill Simmons. The sooner someone drops a bomb on Bristol, the better off the world will be. 

Chris Berman: I hate you with the fire of 10,000 suns. And no, it's not because your lack of preparation causes you to stutter and stammer while reading the teleprompter; or that your cultural knowledge was cryogenically frozen around the time Tears for Fears broke up; or even because you're so fat that you can't say more than five words without descending into a breathless grumble.

It's this: “Just don’t call me a personality. What is that? That’s a morning disc jockey. I entertain, but I take what I do, the journalism part, seriously.”

FUUUUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK you. My left breast has more substance. You are an automatic mute; a clown; a jester; a jock sniffing beached whale in a Men's Warehouse suit whom Greenpeace needs to tow back to sea. Sports coverage is buried in the avalanche of your journalistic inadequacies, you fat, vaudevillian fuck, and it'll likely never recover. Die.

Jenn Sterger: While I enjoyed your near-botched shaming of True Grit Favre, why don't you and your gold digging cock socket do some real philanthropic work and mount Chris Berman? He'll die of a coronary, and I will celebrate you forever as the Whore of Occasional Good Deeds. It's win-win.

Size-challenged men who send pics of their junk: If you're attempting to seduce someone with this method, logic dictates that you send shots of your business at its largest, hardest, and most impressive. But most men aren't logical, are they? Instead of fluffing up and showing off a piece that's ready to do work and turn us out, too many of you send pictures of flaccid, wounded turtle cock and wonder why we aren't turned on. It's as if you're saying to yourselves, "She's been a little resistant. How can I fix it? Ah, yes - a picture of my dick. It's only four inches long and looks like an enlarged thumb, but if I get it at the right angle…" Sorry (Brett), but no. A rule of thumb to all you romantic gentlemen out there: show us something we can use. If your stock looks like it'd be at home with a little relish, mustard, and a bun, put it away.

The AofG: This site was a must visit for years, unlocking the magic on various topics five or six times a week. What happened? Your demise makes me sad, and it must become great again. Cozmo? Jackie Chiles? Frank? Are you out there? Please do something. I want to live here again.

My man's lesbian assistant: You asked your boss to donate sperm to you and your partner three weeks after he found out he's going to be a father. Then you told him that I should contact you if I have any questions or concerns. Bitch, are you crazy? This isn't a fucking sorority. His sperm is claimed, spoken for, taken. It flies my flag. So you and Vanessa need to take your asses to the sperm bank, Vietnam, or a foster home, because the only person having his babies on this planet is me. "We'd like to use your sperm." I ought to kick you in the goddamn neck.

Ron Washington: You do realize Neftali Feliz was in your bullpen, right? He of the 2.73 ERA, .176 opponents’ batting average, and 71/18 K/BB ratio in 69 innings? Since you kept running out Darren Oliver – a corpse with pubic hairs older than you – I wasn't sure. Oh wait, you're the type of fool who snorts up week-old cocaine when there's a purer, fresher batch wasting away right in front of you. Darren Oliver makes perfect sense.

England World Cup team: God save the Queen, huh? For the fifth time in 10 years, you have shamed our nation. Eat a hot bowl of dicks, you preening, gutless slags. I would rather England quit footballing all together than see any of you on a pitch in Her Majesty's colours again. You disgust me.

Robert Green: Yes, I'm still mad at you. I'm also wondering why someone has yet to throw you down a well and fill it with hot tar and bricks. I'd do it myself but I don't know where you live.

Arsenal Football Club: No inspiration, no discipline, no passion, no glory. Oh to be a Gooner.

Arsene Wenger: Some say that Arsenal can't play beautiful football and win silverware. I disagree. It's a very real possibility, but do you know what stands in our way? You. We don't have a viable keeper, a true striker, or any experienced leadership because you sold it all away and replaced it with fetuses. What's that, you say? Cesc can lead us? Please. Cesc couldn't lead this squad of children into a hole in the ground.

"That was the big difference that played in our heads," said Fabregas, after ManUre humiliated us. "Sometimes we seem scared of losing these big games. We don't really go for it and we're tempted to drop back and see what the opposition will do."

Oh Captain, my Captain. Thanks for guiding the troops. The thing is, Arsene, I'd pray for the board to force you into action instead of allowing you to sit untouched in your ivory tower of footballing genius, but what good would it do? If you had to act, all of your buys would be 15 years old still sucking on their mamas' teets. "Our new captain has acne and isn't old enough to drive? That sounds about right, Arsene." Fucker.

My unborn child: Being pregnant is crap. These are supposed to be the most magical 10 months of my life, so this opinion probably makes me a bad mother. There have been magical moments, mind you. I cried when we heard your heartbeat for the first time and again when we watched you punch and kick like a lunatic before relaxing to suck your thumb during the ultrasound. But apart from those amazing 20 minutes and my ramped up sex drive, I'm in a bad way.

If I'm not peeing, I’m nauseated, and if I'm not nauseated, I'm playing chicken with your father's hands, which involuntarily grab at my boobs even though I keep reminding him that my chest feels like it's been pummeled by large, hot rocks. My OBGYN banned me from surfing until you're born (an understandable yet soul-crushing edict), a scene in the Boardwalk Empire finale made me cry, and random people touch my stomach without asking.

However, I now realize my grievance shouldn't be addressed to you but to your father – the guy whose enthusiastic sperm beat the pill; the guy who – much to my extreme dismay – already bought you Celtics onesies and then suggested your middle name be Truth; the guy who runs around dropping "we this" and "we that" as if he also has a human being growing in his body and jumping on his bladder. Some days all of this makes me want to knock his cheery ass out. Needless to say, Baby Flash, today is one of those days.

Happy Festivus, one and all! 

As such, the only thing that can spoil the 2010 Masters is mind-numbing commentary about Tiger's time away from the game and how that's affected his play, the sport itself and, really, the world at large. Even though all of that has been covered ad nauseam since last December, it's all we're going to get from Thursday to Red Shirt Sunday (even if Tiger doesn't make the cut). Sure, they'll try to even things out by mentioning Camilo Villegas' new haircut and making remarks about Phil Mickelson's banned Ping fiasco, but by and large, we're effed.

So like any immature drunkard, I have devised this simple yet effective game for surviving the Masters (or dying in the middle of it). 

Take a shot or chug any time the following is said:

• 1 shot - Layoff, rehab, scandal, sex
  
• 2 shots - Transgressions, 2008 knee injury
  
• 3 shots - Any mention of public apology or sponsors
• 4 shots - Family: Earl, Kutilda, Elin Woods or pictures of children
• Shot and a beer - Commentary from a golf legend (Nicklaus, Palmer, Player, etc) OR Jesper Parnevik
• Ultimate Warrior Challenge - Gentle Path Rehab Facility
• Blackout Bonus - Any named mistress

I'm picking nits here but this carelessness is not only annoying, it also illustrates just why football will never gain a true foothold in American culture. The one medium that claims to do all it can to improve the game's popularity in the States (and the only one with the power to do so) can't even pull together the effort required to generate an accurate headline. And it's not just any headline. It's one that covers a massive accomplishment from one of the world's best players who happens to play in one of the world's best leagues.

Further, it was in the top stories for hours before cycling off the page, and in all that time, no one noticed. Or maybe they thought no one would notice who actually cared. Either way, it's ridiculous.

When Kobe Bryant scored his 20,000th point against the Knicks, the headline didn't read Celtics. When Ken Griffey Jr joined the 500 Home Run Club against the Cardinals, the headline didn't claim it was the Cubs. I know not many people care about football in the States and the media doesn't take it particularly seriously but have some respect. Chelsea and Arsenal have achieved too much in the world of football to be treated as interchangeable afterthoughts by some web editor who can't be bothered to read the article to which he's linking.

So given my extreme fear of ghosts, I'm going to take an extreme leap in logic and assert that if anyone can identify them, it's me. And I'm pretty sure that's exactly what I'm seeing in the cockpit (left window) of this plane crash that happened outside of Cleveland yesterday.

That Donovan can be a cracking player when his mind is right is a fact that cannot be denied. If he musters even half of Mikel Arteta's creativity while at Goodison Park, Everton will have scored a helluva bargain and Donovan will win a permanent job in Europe. But that's a massive if for a man whose career has been defined by them.

"If he'd been more mature at Bayer Leverkusen..."
"If he wasn't buried on the depth chart at Bayern Munich..."
"If he didn't disappear in the 2006 World Cup..."
"If he hadn't sailed that penalty kick into the night sky."
"If his head is in the right place..."

In a nine years as a professional, Donovan has spent the last five choosing comfort over sacrifice; whinging instead of leading; and choking when the lights burn brightest. Sure he's been quality for the last six months but that didn't stop him from flaking out in the MLS final - a match he should have owned. After a beautiful assist, he disappeared, only to reappear during the penalty phase and blow it. You know what he said about all that?

"I just put it in the air," Donovan said. "It's probably partially due to tired legs and not concentrating in that moment... "I'm not sure what happened on their goal. It was pretty sloppy. But in the end, they probably deserved to get a goal at some point."

There is a spineless weakness about this quote that makes me ill. Great players focus when others fold, and when they're beaten, all they can say is "too good. Get em next time" because they have no regrets. But then, Landon Donovan isn't a great player is he? He could be. He should be. But right now, he's just a good one who has flashes of brilliance against class competition. Sometimes he plays with tenacity and shocks the world. Other times you wonder if he left the match and got back on the bus.

Donovan will have but a few weeks to find his feet at Merseyside before he's fighting to be more than a fringe, bench player when guys begin returning from injury and the African Nations Cup. According to some, it doesn't matter because he has everything to gain and nothing to lose, but let's be real. This is his fourth try in Europe. He is well beyond fool me once, fool me twice. He's a footballer in his prime whose chance for a significant career outside the United States and true respect within it hinges on how he performs in 2010. He can't just show up and play in Everton. He needs to show out. That's a lot of pressure and adversity for a man with little experience with either one.

"What about Confederations Cup? What about his play in MLS? He rose to the occasion like never before!"

Donovan lead a team of underdogs in an improbable run to the Confederations Cup final and that should be applauded, but when was the team under any pressure to perform? And MLS, for all its improvements, remains a junior varsity league that he should dominate year in and out. That doesn't require much grit. But pressure and adversity will be there in spades when Donovan tries to make an impact on a squad that is not only perilously close to relegation but also must continue its push in the Europa League knockout stages against a Champions League castoff. And unlike the Confed Cup and the MLS season, this time, the entire world will be watching. The British tabloids will give them no choice.

The last time Donovan went up against a legitimate challenge of any magnitude on the European club level, he took his ball and went home. In a way, it was the right decision, as he's been able to stay in form. But what has his time in MLS done for his mental toughness? When has it really tested his tenacity? I wish Landycakes all the luck in the world on this one but I think history is about to repeat itself - not because he's lacking in skill but because he hasn't the spine. 

So when news broke about Tiger Wood's International Cooze Tour, my only surprise was that people were, well, surprised. The shocked were divided in two camps:

1. "How could he cheat on Elin Nordegren? She's a goddess!" Yeah, she is. But show me one woman that no man would think of cheating on and I'll show you twenty that only the strongest of men could resist.
2. "I don't understand. He was such a focused family man!" No, he's a billionaire, larger than life athlete whose best friends are Michael Jordan and Charles "Around the Corner for a Blow Job" Barkley, two men whose four interests are money, sex, glory and the annihilation of anyone who interferes with that short list.

Unless you were a child or a naive fool, learning these things about Tiger shouldn't have been shocking. The only real surprise here is this:

These are some nasty bitches.

When a man has the ability to not only sleep with 98% of the women on the planet but also be permitted to have degrading, dehumanizing sex with 80% of them, why opt for the paper baggers? And this isn't just a problem that afflicts Tiger. A lot of men cheat with uglier and/or skankier women than they have at home. Maybe it's self-esteem, maybe ugly girls are freakier and easier, maybe these guys are addicts who don't mind dipping their puckers into toxic, cavernous wastelands. I really can't say. The one thing I know for sure is if a man disgraced me with random infidelities, the broads on his ho stroll had better be top shelf tail whose natural beauty would cause even me to nod begrudgingly with understanding. It's the least that cheating bastard could do.

At least then I could rationalise his behaviour. At least then, I could salve my wounds with the false belief that his fidelity was only compromised because a seductive temptress and her hypnotic vagina got in the way. But I tell you this. If he dared rub salt in my wounds by having sex with a woman whose face looks like a foot (see 3rd row, middle), I wouldn't take it out on him with an ironic 6 iron. I'd have a fucking weapon. You want to disrespect me with other women? Fine. Pack your bags and go. But if those women are gutter sluts who look like they just got bukkaked at a truck stop, I'm gonna fuck you up and then call a couple of hard, pipe-hitting fellas to go to work on you with a pair of pliers and a blow torch. What's that? I don't need to get medieval? Oh, well you must be confused. You see, this is what happens when you cheat with a bitch who looks like a fried running shoe.

So a much delayed bravo to Elin Nordegren for taking action. Maybe next time, she'll knock Tiger out on her own instead of having a tree and a fire hydrant handle the end game for her.

Awesome picture from: dlisted

---

In other news, Eric Mangini, head "coach" of the Cleveland Browns took stupidity and hubris to a new level today when he refused to announce whether Derek Anderson or Brady Quinn will be the one whose life comes to a sad, unfulfilled end at the hands of Ray Lewis next Monday night. According to reports, Mangini knows who he's going to choose but plans to make his QBs and, laughably, the Baltimore Ravens defense, sweat it out a little.

Ray Lewis should slap this bitch around just for having the nerve.

When you're the conductor of the biggest on-field trainwreck in the NFL, you have no right to be secretive or clever or coy. In fact, as a dead man walking, you have no rights. The only things on your mind should be:

• Finding ways to improve the team
  
• Making the final three months as painless as possible
  
• Showing NFL owners that you're a competent head coach in a bad situation

Mangini has struck out looking on all of the the above, but even worse is that he's arrogant (or delusional?) enough to think the Ravens will buy into his bullshit. What, like they'll develop two game plans? The Browns could start G-d and still lose by 30. Even G-d would tell ya that. What He'd also tell you and what the Ravens already know is that Brady Quinn will be under center on Monday night. Not because this QB selection process was like choosing between agony and despair and despair tasted a little better, but because throwing Quinn back in the mix at week 9 allows the Browns to boost his trade value without triggering $10.5M in performance incentives in his contract.

If I can figure that out, so can the rest of the league, Eric. It's not rocket science. I just wish I could go back in time and un-do that Radiohead bet, so I could throw 5 grand down on the Frowns to be torn limb from limb, set aflame in a funeral pyre and then sent out to sea.

I would have been the winner on that one. 

At first, it was just a pound here and there, but then I got on a roll and landed what had to be the Holy Grail of the game - a high ace and a low ace. "Bet the pot, kid! Bet the pot!" Back then, I was an albino outcast with mad athletic ability but no social skills. You have no idea how good it felt to be palling around with 17 and 18 year olds who were living and dying with your every move. So I did exactly what they told me to do, and, perhaps justly, went down in flames when another ace landed in-between.

As devastating as it was to lose, I'd never felt such a rush. From then on, when I wasn't competing, I was gambling. The last of my £100 pounds spending money was lost to a 17 year old boy on the plane back home. We bet on the flight attendant's hair color. Turns out she wasn't a natural blonde after all.

These days, I'm backed by a self-replenishing gambling fund that keeps me from turning into Antoine Walker. Though I still betting on everything from horse races to sporting events to whether I can beat you in a footrace (you don't want to take that bet), I like to think that I go about things with more smarts. But every once in a while, gambling nirvana sends down signs that force me to remove any amount of good sense from the equation. Case in point:

Radiohead to get crack at Breeders' Cup

Radiohead, the impressive winner of the Norfolk Stakes at Royal Ascot during the summer, has been sold to the New York-based owners of 2008 Kentucky Derby hero Big Brown for a crack at next month's Breeders' Cup Juvenile.

IEAH Stables have purchased a controlling interest in Radiohead for an undisclosed fee, with current connections Carmen Burrell and Jonathan Harvey retaining a 10 per cent stake.

Radiohead will remain in trainer Brian Meehan's care until Santa Anita but the colt's future beyond then has still to be determined.

The deal represents a calculated gamble on behalf of IEAH, as Radiohead has yet to race beyond 1200 metres or on an artificial surface.

In addition to doubts about his stamina to see out the 1600-metre trip of the Juvenile, his new owners will also need to fork out the bulk of an entry fee because Radiohead was not Breeders' Cup registered as a foal.

However, on the upside, his sire, Johannesburg, successfully bridged the distance gap from the Norfolk to the Juvenile during his unbeaten two-year-old campaign in 2001.

"IEAH have been keeping a close eye on Radiohead ever since Ascot, specifically with the Breeders' Cup in mind," said Bloodstock agent Andy Smith, who helped broker the sale.

"He reminds me of Wilko, the horse Jeremy Noseda won the Juvenile with five years ago - a feisty, well-built sort who should do well out in America."

First, WTF on the Wilko bit? How random. Second, long time readers of this site know about my Radiohead fanaticism. The band captured my heart a good year before gambling did, so even though this mighty steed "has yet to race beyond 1200 metres or on an artificial surface," this whole thing just seems like destiny.

The Breeder's Cup Juvenile race is today at Santa Anita Park in Arcadia, California. Since I can't beam myself to California from London, I'll do the next best thing -- get liquored up and hit Ladbrokes. Right now, Radiohead is a 20/1 but I've never been more sure of a bet in my life.

(Picture courtesy of Pitchfork)

Whenever this is revealed, I catch the usual flak -- "Why not Rivera?" "Come on! Pettitte over Donny Baseball?" "Are you kidding? You ever heard of Derek Jeter?"

All things considered, their confusion makes sense. Unlike Jeter, Andy isn't a superstar loaded with G-moments. He's not flashy or outgoing or blessed with movie-star good looks. He doesn't even have Cooperstown-worthy regular season numbers. But what he does have is the uncanny ability to raise the level of his pitching in baseball's most pressurized situations.

Time and time again, Andy Pettitte has delivered without ego or excess, and while he's had his stumbles (2001, anyone?), there is no one I want on the mound more when a season is on the line. I know he's 37 years old and I know he's pitching on three days rest, but tonight, I'm not fazed. Andy Pettitte's career has been defined by games like this, and no one will stop him from delivering a 27th world championship to the New York Yankees. Not Pedro Martinez. Not Chase Utley. And not even Joe Girardi's atrocious attempts at management. My man has got this.

• ripping a phone out of press row
  
• smashing a $100,000 camera in a fit of rage
• drawing 8 suspensions between 2002 - 2004.
• starting a near riot in the Palace at Auburn Hills
• neglecting his animals
• abusing and confining his wife
• running up on Kobe Bryant in Lakers' locker room shower
  
• being generally violent and insane

Warning: Video contains uncomfortable and graphic images.

Too many of our athletes and celebrities sit idly on the sidelines even though they have platforms to affect change, so Artest deserves a lot of credit for what he's trying to do here. The problem, however, is his execution is a hot ass mess loaded to the gills with irony and awkward moments.

• Problem 1 - rapping about the horrors of domestic abuse while wearing a wife beater
• Problem 2 - rapping about the horrors of domestic abuse when he is, in fact, a convicted domestic abuser
• Problem 3 - using horribly misdirected lyrics, which give the impression that he wants to salve the wounds of abuse with his penis. NOT GOOD.
  
• "I wish I was there so you could feel me/run my fingers through your hair through your hair/caress your face to show you that I care"
• "Cupid open up the door. And if you do so, she will want more. If you want it, you know she got it stocked in store."
  
• Problem 4 - juxtaposing disturbing images of abused women with shots of him rapping serenely in a park
• Problem 5 - rapping with a flow that is as brutal as the subject matter
  

Absolute sadness. 

When someone is humiliating you without breaking a sweat, all you can say is "too good. Get 'em next time." But as great as Lee was (and he was just frightfully nasty), the Yankees hitters were equally listless and uninspired. This was game 1 of the World Series and I saw no passion; no fire. By the 4th inning, this group couldn't even be bothered. Taking cues from the indifferent, corporate non-fans who pay $2,500 for Legends seats and then fail to show, perhaps? Or maybe the flawed outcomes of the ALDS and ALCS lulled them into a false sense of security. Who needs to hit when a braindead, undisciplined opponent will cock things up for you?

I'm not saying Lee was hittable, but we didn't make it hard on him either. Jeter aside, our players were defeated before they even reached the batter's box. With that in mind, it's not out of line to wonder if they'll come to play tonight. The Phils are coming at us with Pedro Martinez and a patient lineup that can hit from top to bottom. The Yankees? Well, we've got the skittish A.J. Burnett, Joe Girardi's management, middle relief that is cracking like a desert of burning shame and a lineup that can't string together big run innings. Someone gets on base, only to be followed by a guy in a woeful slump, or, even worse, Nick Swisher, who is a case study in the failure of positivism to translate to post-season reliability. Then suddenly, it's rally over, inning over, game over.

With the Phils, you know what you're getting, but with our guys? One can never truly say and that's what stresses me out. Tonight, we're either going to blow Martinez back to the mango tree in the first inning or not bother showing up until the 8th. If it's the latter, this will be a quick series indeed.

1. Last night, Andy Pettitte worked the strike zone like an attentive lover. I wish I could trade places with it. I'd tell him myself but he's yet to respond to the last letter I sent with locks of my hair in it.
   
   
2. If Robinson Cano was a genre of music, he'd be jazz -- one of those smooth Charlie Parker joints with cool, easy getout phrases and soft, sweet, fairytale solos. Though Cano's defensive play ranges in quality, the way he turns double plays is absolutely sublime.
   
   
3. Vladimir Guerrero is dumber than hair
1. In related news, the bulk of the Angels roster is shockingly dumb as well. The words fundamentals and smart should never be used in the same sentence as "Angels" ever again.
   
1. I mean, wow.
   
   
4. The Yankees were .187 (how appropriate) with RISP in the ALDS, but unlike the Angels, the Phillies are aware that they play in the major leagues. This means they won't play like asshats in the World Series. it also means they will pound us into submission if we dare leave 52 men on base. You hear that, Posada, Swisher and Teixeira?
   
   
5. After watching the New York Jets violate Jamarcus Russell and the Oakland Raiders, I've come to the conclusion that the Silver & Black should change their logo to the Gordian Knot. It is the only image that can truly define this sad organisation.
   
   
6. In related news, I got a call from my 9 year old nephew, Alejandro, who was distraught about the Raiders' spectacular ineptitude.
   A: Aunt (Flash), I'm confused.
   F: And I'm here to help.
   A: Well, we are Warners.
   F: Sure are.
   A: And Papa says that makes us winners. (We have a lot of family pride. If we were chavs, at least one of us would have our surname tattooed in Old English across his or her shoulders)
   F: Don't ever forget it, hombrito. Papa speaks the truth.
   A: Then why are we cheering for the Raiders? They are not winners.
   -- I had no answers for him. Sadness abounds.
   
   
7. When will the Indianapolis Colts and the New England Patriots stop running up scores like they're in the SEC? You don't need style points to impress BCS voters, assholes. You're going to the playoffs, not the Sugar Bowl.
   
   
8. ESPN fired Steve Phillips, the former Mets GM who had an affair with a 22 year old production assistant. If ESPN cared as much about the quality and competency of their on-air talent as they do about scandal being brought upon them, they wouldn't be doing to sports what MTV has already done to music.
   
   
9. Like all public figures who get into trouble, Phillips has decided to enter "a treatment facility to address his personal issues." I assume this means sex addiction rehab, but the reality is that Steve Phillips doesn't have a sex addiction problem. He has a Settling for Ugly Bitches problem. If you're going to cat around and ruin your career, do it with a woman who is worth a damn. Not some hideously fugly broad who looks like Snoopy and spreads like peanut butter because she's insecure. I wish I had more hands to give this man more thumbs down.
   
   
10. The man in my life is a very fit fellow of Middle Eastern descent. As a result, people keep suggesting that we attend Halloween fancy dress parties this weekend as Aladdin and Princess Jasmine. I don't know whether to be offended or amused.