Match these nicknames with the pictures above: (A): El Pato (B): Psycho T (C): Douchebag

After a three-week hiatus of working, drinking and getting kicked out of Baltimore strip clubs, the APR is finally back! Not sure if the long delay has been more influenced by a lack of football news to write about, or simply a three-week stint of laziness. Either way, you better watch your step…cause I’m about to drop some sports knowledge.

While most of you were ripping up your brackets after losing another NCAA Tournament pool, I was busy collecting my winnings from North Carolina’s anal-raping of Michigan State. Alright, so you can’t really call it “winning” if you place third and only get your money back, but I’ll take what I can get at this point. Besides, a poll conducted earlier by my grandma shows that I’ll always be a winner no matter what anyone says…so HA!

Now that college basketball and accepted in-office gambling is officially over, the only thing we’ve had to look forward to is Major League Baseball’s Opening Day. Unfortunately, that excitement lasted about as long as CC Sabathia’s off-season diet. I must say though, it has been rather rewarding to watch the collective assholes of Boston and New York slip to the bottom of the American League East standings. Nothing makes me enjoy Yankee’s baseball more than a left fielder pitching a better game than their starting pitcher. Who knew Nick Swisher could sling heat?

Just as baseball was getting things jump started last weekend, sports fans were also able to enjoy a nice hungover Sunday watching the Masters. There’s no better way to remedy a long night of bachelor party shenanigans, than by laying on the couch with Gatorade,  greasy food and listening to the soothing sounds of Jim Nance. However, I could have done without the tee-shot microphone. I mean honestly CBS, do we need that ground mic three feet from every tee shot? Each time I’d slip in and out of consciousness on the couch, I’d immediately wake up to Tiger or Phil’s next sonic boom of a fucking drive! Even with the occasional volume outburst, it was amazing to watch the two best golfers in the world go toe-to-toe for the last 18 holes of the Masters. No one realized, or cared for that matter that Tiger and Lefty were not the last group(s) to tee off on Sunday. Kenny Perry might have been in the lead the entire day, but viewers were more focused on watching the best rivalry in golf unfold on the best trak in the world. 

More to come after the jump….(still not entirely sure what that means but apparently every damn blogger says it.)

The matchups are set, brackets are filled out and sick days are ready to be used for this Thursday and Friday. That’s right sports fans and part-time gamblers, it’s time to pick your one or two upsets that will inevitably get blown out in the first round, throw down $20 and watch as Duke bows out in the second round…again. It’s NCAA Tourney Time!

As a March Madness fan myself and defending champion of two NCAA pools last year, I can not help but feel giddy around this time of year. Since Selection Sunday I have filled out, ripped up and re-filled out six brackets (you can never be too careful). There’s something about looking at that blank bracket with a pen in hand, waiting to make your picks. It’s like that moment before the lotto numbers are called and you’re sitting in front of the TV, figuring out all the crazy shit you’re going to buy with all the money (hookers, a Ferrari and all the Natty Ice you can drink!). Then they call the numbers, however, and you realize you’re still the loser your girlfriend keeps making fun of because you put too much time and effort into watching a G.D. basketball tournament! Oh well, what does she know anyway! She picked Morehead State to go to the Final Four because she thinks it’s fun to say “Morehead.” Moving on.

If  you’re anything like me (devilishly handsome and a genius at filling out NCAA brackets) then you are involved in one, two or maybe five tournament pools. Be it with friends, coworkers, ex-coworkers or even ex-friends, you’ve pretty much whored youself out to every pool you possibly could. Some are free and others require a small (maybe large) fee. The small pools are the testers, the ones where you pick Binghampton over Duke in the first round because…fuck it, there’s no money involved. The pools that involve money, however, they can bring the best, the worst or even the douche out of coworkers and friends. Every paid-for pool will inevitably involve some form of douche-baggery. Over the next three weeks, keep your eyes, ears and blogs open for these tell-tale signs of office pool douchiness.

The Duke Douche: This guy/gal is a mainstay in every tournament pool. They’ll come to work with their faded Elton Brand/Chris Duhon or JJ Reddick  jersey over a button down shirt. They’ll spat off facts about the late 90′s teams and tell you how many tattoos  Cherokee Parks hasthese days. They’ll constanty talk shit about UNC, how the Tar Heels are overrated and how Tyler Hansbrough will be the NBA’s next Mark Madson. The best part about this douchetastic cheering “fan” is not only did they NOT get into Duke University…but the closest they ever came to Durham, NC is the one time they got hammered at a Duke Lacrosse party.

The Bracketologist: He knows the stats, the records and the cities of birth for every g.d. player on Morehead State. He can tell you how many points DeJaun Blair scored as a Sophomore at Schneley High School in Pittsburgh. This kid knows his shit thanks to “the experts” on ESPN.com and Rivals.com…he pretty much lives and dies by the “expert analysis” of Joe “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing” Lunardi. The douche within will come out when he somehow picks an unexpected Sweet Sixteen team, then texts everyone in the league how “I told you Cleveland State was fo real biatch!!” He will inevitably lose by picking UCONN to win it all because Jim Calhoun never loses a game after 6:00pm on a Monday.

The Chalk-Picking Douche: Screw upsets! Teams like  George Mason, Valparaiso and Gonzaga mean jack shit to this non-fairy tale believing douche. This top-seed picking asshat simply runs through the bracket picking the top seed for each draw. They’ll be at the top of the office pool when all number one seeds make the final four, while the “Bracketologist” is wondering what the hell happened to his ingenious pick of #4 Wake Forest over #1 Louisville! This douche refuses to believe in underdogs and most likely has a Derek Jeter jersey-shirt hanging in their closet, ready for next October.  Pay attention to this chalk-picking douche, he’ll probably end up with your money at the end of the tournament.

The Homer Douche:Actually, this person is not so much a douche, but more so a guy who doesn’t mind losing a quick $20. They  simply love their favorite team/Alma Mater so much,  they feel obliged to put them in the Final Four every year. They’ll walk around the office on the first day of the tourney, wearing a Maryland shirt and hoping this will be the year they bounce back into the championship game. Unfortunately for this homer, the Terps will barely make it through the first round and their $20 will soon be in the wallet of the number-one-seed-picking asswhipe.

 Got another “douche” idea? Submit in through the comments section. What other sorts of Office Pool Douchbaggery have you seen at your place of business?

edunn

“This es mi casa!!!!!”

In case you missed D-Wade and the El Heat’s buzzer-beater the other night, scope out the video above. After scoring 48 points and already hitting the game-tying shot that sent the game into a second overtime, Flash somehow one-upped himself with a last second three to clinch the game. Here’s what you had to love about this game:

1.) The new “Hispanic Friendly” uniforms. Thanks to that “C” in 9th grade Spanish, most of us monolinguals were able to translate the new latino-infused unis. The concept for the Hispanic uniforms is part of the NBA’s “Noche Latina”. Since most of you have trouble even speaking English well, I will use my one year of Spanish skills to translate… (here’s where I quickly type “Noche Latina” into my iPhone translator)…”Latina Night!” The NBA and the Miami Heat have implemented more Latin flavor into the sport because of the influx of more Spanish speaking players and fans. AKA, the Heat play in Miami, an 85% Hispanic speaking city. If they want fans people who would rather be watching futbol to attend a few home games, the marketing department knew at the very least, they had to make their uniforms legible in Spanish. To be honest though, I’m highly disappointed in the marketing department for simply adding “El”  to the unis. If you’re going to draw a bigger Hispanic crowd, really change that shit for the Hispanic fans! If D-Wade would have played that game in a button down shirt, with only the top button fastened and  a pair of Dickies down around his ass…Hispanic fans would have been dancing to Salsa and screaming “Ariba Ariba”  in the stands!

2.) Dwyane Wade is finally getting cocky! He’s without a doubt one of the top three players in the league, it’s about damn time he step-up his self-righteousness as well. Seriously, Kobe raped a chick in Colorado and still won the MVP award! LeBron has “Chosen One” tattooed on his back and sprays spectators with talcum powder before games.

Wade came into the league as a good player with a great reputation. He married his high school sweetheart and had a child in college. Now that Flash has won a NBA Championship and a Gold Medal…he’s  starting to let the stardum from basketball and the T-Mobile Fave Five commercials go to his head. And you know what…thank god! If there were no Kobe or LeBron, Wade would undoubetebly be the best player on the planet. He has the quickness of Chris Paul, the fade away of Jordan and the ability to make plays like LeBron. So I say, wear those retarded looking Nelly-aids Mr. Wade! Enjoy your wild sex partieswith whomever you want…even if they don’t include your wife.  Just make sure you wrap that shit up…I don’t want to hear a Magic Johnson-esque retirement speech from you in the next few years.

edunn

Look at that sportsmanship! Now that’s a guy who does not deserve to struggle in this deflated economy.

Before I tell you this little heartwarming wrenching tale, I must caution you to make sure there are no babies, kittens, puppies, Rihannas or anything fragile, adorable and easily prone to bruises around. Just trust me on this one.

Albert “The Face Stomper” Haynesworth just signed a contract with the Washington Redskins worth $100 million. That’s right, the overweight shitstain who thinks opposing players look better with metal cleets on their face, just guaranteed himself $32 million over the next 13 months.

Go ahead, soak that knowledge in. While you’re sitting at your small desk working on TPS reports, making $32,000 a year and NOT stomping on people’s faces…think about this obnoxiously wealthy asswhipe.

The seven-year deal came early this morning after at least six teams had offered “The Stomper” $30 million in guarantees. This all happened while most of us less-paid and less-likely to stomp on co-worker’s faces were sleeping, dreaming of that three percent cost of living raise we are praying to receive.

Redskins owner and asshole afficionado, George Steinbrenner Dan Snyder, beat out lucrative offers from teams like the Tampa Bay Bucs and Haynesworth’s previous team, the Tennessee Titans. The seven-year deal will guarantee the fat fucking face-stomper $41 million, and could max out at nearly $115 million based on his future face-stomping abilities.

As a current DC resident, I must say a big “F you” to Dan Snyder. I have to roam these streets at night worrying about guns, knives and gang members. Now, thanks to Danny’s thick wallet, I have to look over my shoulder for a fat fucking face-stomper too! Thanks Dan, maybe if you signed more people like Warrick Dunn, a man who builds houses for families in need, your team wouldn’t be such a complete pile of face-stomping horse shit.

*More news from the asshole front, Dan Snyder has just one-upped himself by also signing dickhead extraordinaire DeAngelo Hall. The Redskins agreed on a six-year, $54 million deal, that will guarantee the Redskins another 9-7 season. Congratulations Redskin Nation, your owner just spent over $150 million on making sure your team stays…average. Yay for asshole players and a 90,000-seat stadium that’s in the middle of fucking nowhere!!!!!

edunn

Sage is delicious on chicken...terrible on offense.

At what point does a successful desperate NFL franchise decide Sage Rosenfels is their missing piece at quarterback? The GM goes through the list of available QBs and probably says something along the lines of “Ah fuck it, he can’t be any worse than Gus Frerotte”.

Congratulations Vikings fans, your GM just signed Gus Frerotte Jr., aka Sage (not the marinade) Rosenfels to be your new, not so improved starting quarterback. If anyone in the state of Minnesota got excited about this recent signing…kill yourself now.

As a person who actually watches NFL football games, unlike anyone on the Vikings personnel, I have seen what Sir Rosenfels does with a football in his hands…and that usually does not include crossing the goal line.

Listen up you purple cladded Minnestoaites — I could have picked a better quarterback prospect for your team…and my only general managing experience has involved two 5-8 fantasy football teams. Here’s my plan for your piss-poor franchise… if you work for the Viking’s front office, grab a pen and paper and write this shit down.

Take a list of all the available quarterbacks in the NFL, place that list on a dart board. Blindfold yourself, take four shots of tequila then spin around 10 times. While spinning and possibly vomiting, begin throwing darts. Don’t even aim or pretend like you know where the darts are going, just throw those pointy fuckers as hard as you can. Sure, a few might end up stuck in the arm or back of your fellow Viking’s  staff, but workman’s comp will take care of all that noise. After all that retardery, take off your blindfold and look at the list of available quarterbacks on the dart board. If your dart had the misfortune of landing on “Sage Rosenfels”, then…and ONLY then should you consider signing that no-talent-ass-clown. Because at that point, at least you would have an excuse as to why you just buried your franchise even further into the ground.

Reporter: “Why the hell did you guys sign Sage Rosenfels? What, did you blindfold yourself, get drunk and start throwing darts at a list of names?”

Vikings Personnel: “Exactly.”

Reporter: “Oh…well that explains it then.”

edunn

Phelps and A-Rod cross swords while Favre retires/cries again

For those of you who have trouble reading, i.e. most of you who check this site…then you’re in luck! I don’t feel like spending more than a few sentences on the only three stories going on in the world of sports. You know which ones I’m talking about, don’t play dumb with me! If you’ve turned on ESPN, CNN, PBS or Christ, even C-SPAN, you have seen one or all of the only three things worth talking about in sports. Since I’m not one to ram the same things down your throat as every other sports medium (Must. Not. Make. Sexual. Innuendo!) I refuse to waste anymore of your time on these redamndiculous stories. So, here are a few more words to sum up these non-important events of the past few days:

If you’re anything like me, you’re intelligent, charming and devastatingly handsome. Besides being an awesome human being and most women’s fantasy, however, this also means…you’re kind of poor. You work too hard and get paid too little. (Well, maybe not so much the first part.) Half of your paycheck goes towards rent, hookers, alimony or all three.  The other half, your “spending money”, is used on booze, food and probably more hookers. What I’m getting at here, is people like you and I need alternative ways to get into expensive ass sporting events like the Super Bowl. Because if I’m spending $2000 to see a football game, I better be sitting in a box. And by “box” I don’t mean a section of a stadium…I mean an actual vagina.

With the economy in the crapper and my favorite team in the Super Bowl, here is how I made my trip to the Super Bowl a long lasting and economical weekend.

Try these tips for next year’s Super Bowl in Miami:

Step One: Book your flight immediately after your team’s conference championship game. Not only will you know for sure that you’re team will be playing in the big game, but you’ll be so hammered up by this point that you’ll completely forget you have no place to stay and no ticket to the game.

Step Two: Start calling friends who are fans of the same team, or ones who are as shitfaced as you. Convince them to book a flight by simply saying “South Beach in February.” If that doesn’t sell them on the idea of making an unscheduled trip to South Florida in the winter, then nothing will.

Step Three: Find a place to stay. This sounds easy, but hotels will be too expensive on your budget so you’ll be forced to find a friend who lives in or around the area. You’re friend will most likely be dealing with a barrage of phone calls from random people asking to stay at their place as well. My advice, don’t worry about whether or not you’ll have a bed, just be glad you’ll have a roof over your head and a floor to pass out on.

Step Four: Stop worrying about finding a “cheap” ticket, they simply do not exist. Even the assholes selling tickets at face value want $800 – $1500. Do you know what you can do with that kind of money? You can pay rent, pay off your debt, make it rain like Pacman Jones at one of Miami’s many gentleman’s clubs…or just save that shit. Trust me, you’ll wake up Monday morning with a blistering hangover, but at least you’ll smile a little easier when you realize there is still $1000 in your checking account!

Step Five: Grab a flask, some cash, your walking shoes and possibly a 10 piece McNugget to go. With the nonstop bingefest you’ll most likely forget to eat, so grab some nuggets to coat your stomach. Renting a car is too expensive and cabs are few and far between. 

-Also, try to remember that cop cars look an awful lot like cabs. Do your best to not bang on what you think is a cab’s window, screaming “Give me a fucking ride asswhipe!!” Only to realize it’s a Miami Metro PD Officer throwing you to the ground by your throat.

Step Six: Game day. Walk down to the stadium early and scope out the scalping situation with caution. There are plenty of shitstains trying to scam innocent drunk fans such as yourself. So try not to get pissed when you find out that bum in the old school Dan Marino jersey just sold you a fake ticket for $1000. (Come to think of it, I should move this up to Step One: Never buy a Super Bowl ticket from a guy in a Dan Marino jersey!)

Step Seven: This is about the time you’ll realize that spending $1000 or more on a ticket is a complete waste of money. Grab your shit, beeline to the nearest bar around the stadium and set up shop with your fellow fans. You’ll have a waitress or bartender bringing you beer instead of waiting in a long ass line in the stadium. Also, bars do not stop serving alcohol after the third quarter like NFL stadiums, so feel free to continue your Super Bowl binge long after the fourth quarterhas started. After your team has won, file out into the streets with the rest of the obnoxious fans. Grab a bottle of champagne from someone, spray it on passers by and pretend you are actually part of the team. As people come pouring out of the stadium, you’ll smile when you realize you’re just as drunk (if not more) just as excited about the win and just as overwhelmed by the atmosphere. The only difference is, you’ll wake up in the morning with $1000 still in your wallet. That is unless you spent it all on celebratory strippers and Moet. Either way, you still come out on top.

Anything you’d like to add to the Poor Man’s Guide? Put it in the comments section.

edunn

Ahh Tampa, Florida…it’s a warm place with shady people, and the site of this year’s Super Bowl. Which means the influx of shady people is about to multiply by 100,000.

As a somewhat-obsessed Steeler fan, I’ll be attending the festivities down in Trampa this weekend. No, I do not have a ticket to what some would call the “actual game”, but I will certainly be begging, borrowing and possibly selling myself on Bruce B. Downs Blvd. for a game ticket. If any reader happens to have an extra $2k lying around, let me know and I’ll send you a free “I read the Annexation of Puerto Rico and all I got was this louzy fucking shirt” t-shirt.

You asshats ovbiously know who I am rooting for, so throw in your comments as to who you think will come out on top (besides your mom). If you need me, I’ll be stumbling around Raymond James Stadium with a Terrible Towel in one hand and my dignity in the other. Hopefully I don’t lose both!

Here we go Steelers…Here we go!!!!

edunn

You could smell the change in the air...or maybe that was just marijuana"

I know what you are thinking, you didn’t come to The Annexation to read about politics. You came to have your mind blown by incredible sports satire with the possibility of a masturbation reference or two. Well guess what asshat, some things are more important than why Jeff Kent is retiring or which NFL coach just got canned. Some stories supersede athletics and vile analogies. So, if you were hoping for an article about Kurt Warner’s spikey-haired wife reappearing at this year’s Super Bowl, or a story about why Mark “Dirty” Sanchez will be a bust in the NFL like his mentor Matt “Beer Bong” Leinhart, you might be disappointed today. Funny story though, this is my sports blog and I can write about whatever the hell I want. If you don’t like it, you can take your ungrateful attitude over to www.withleather.com. (Here’s where I quickly realize this blog only has three dedicated readers.) Sorry, I take it back. Please stay, I promise I’ll write about sports with metaphors about pooping in the next article.

Let me start by saying, waking up before 8:00a.m. is something I try my damnedest not to do. There are few things that are worth getting up before the sun rises. Unless you’re expecting presents under a Christmas tree, or trying to duck out of the hotel room before the hooker wakes up, waking up before sunrise is a terrible idea. Alarms even sound different when they go off before 8:00a.m. They make this screeching, high pitched noise…like fingernails on a chalkboard or the sound of hundreds of crying babies. When you open your eyes and see a blurry 6:00a.m. coming out of your asshole of an alarm clock, it can honestly make you sick to your stomach.

On this morning, however, the sound of 6:00a.m. somehow didn’t make me want to kill a kitten. I slid out of bed and felt proud of myself for being up so early. You know that feeling when you know you’re going to be early for something? It’s kind of like saying a big “screw you” to all those people who will be stuck in traffic or waiting in line. Well, that pride lasted a solid two minutes until I flipped on CNN. Thinking I was the only person out of two million who had the bright idea of “beating the rush,” I quickly learned that I was in fact an idiot. By 6:15a.m., half of the Mall was already full. That means that nearly one million people woke up EARLIER and said a big “screw you” to me.

Before our two and a half mile walk to the Capitol began, we stacked on about 37 layers of clothing, 10 to 15 hand warmers, lip balm, two pairs of gloves and three pairs of socks. I felt like the little brother in A Christmas Story, remember when he can’t lift his arms because he’s stuck in too many damn layers? Picture that kid with a Steelers beanie on, that was me.

Surprisingly, our long trek down to the Mall didn’t seem too cold, or too long. Every street corner and sidewalk was lined with thousands of people fighting the cold with good spirits. We were colder than a polar bear’s toenails, but no one really seemed to mind. By the time we got to the lower street numbers near 3rd street, we followed a large crowd heading into a street tunnel. Walking into that tunnel, there was no exit in sight. The only thing you could see were thousands of people, shoulder to shoulder, wall to wall, walking into an abyss. At that point, however, we all said fuck it and followed the crowd.

It was at this moment that I realized how different this crowd was. We’ve all been through large crowds at sporting events or large concerts, but there was a different vibe amongst these people. Thousands of people were smiling, chanting and waving American flags through the bitter, winter air. Strangers were rubbing against each other in the large stack of people, but it bothered no one. There was no pushing, shoving and aggravation to be found. We all were excited to be a part of history.

After an exceptional amount of weaving in between people and a barrage of “excuse me”, we made our way to our specified ticketed area. People with tickets were separated by color. Our silver ticket granted us access to the very front portion of the Mall, just behind the Capitol Reflecting Pool. By the time we made it through security (they checked bags and waistbands) we set up shop in the very center of the first block of the Mall. With the crowd, the lines and the two and a half mile walk, we finally sat down at 9:15a.m. For you non-math wiz people out there, that’s nearly three hours.

With no food in our bodies and no water around us, people still found energy to scream, chant and continue to wave their flags. Among the 22 jumbo trons set up throughout the Mall, we sat just behind the first one. Our energy was exuded when the jumbo trons would portray famous celebrities, congressmen and Senators who were up in the bleacher area. They’d show Beyonce and Jay-Z, Ted Kennedy, John Cusak (thought that was pretty damn random) Denzel Washington and Leonardo DiCaprio. With each face they’d show, the crowd would start shouting.

Have you ever seen what 2 million people looks like? I’ve been in stadiums with nearly 100,000 spectators  and thought to myself “holy shit that’s a lot of people.” But 2 million? Imagine you’re at the beach, you look out at the ocean and all you can see is water. Now picture the ocean is filled with people. That’s what it looked like when I turned around. It was literally a sea of people. Cold and excited people.

One of the funniest moments of the morning was the reaction 2 million people gave President Bush as he appeared on 22 jumbo trons. I expected a massive collection of boos, hisses and maybe a few things thrown at the TV screens. The reaction, however, was laughter. No one booed, screamed or threw trash. People just laughed at him, like a joke.  This was Bush’s coups de gras, and all we could do was laugh.

After nearly two hours of standing around, just about the time my hand warmers cooled off, the announcer introduced President Elect Barack Obama. When he finished shaking hands and kissing babies, he met Chief Justice John “I can’t memorize my lines” Roberts at the podium. Apparently someone forgot to inform Roberts that today was Inauguration day. You know, January 20th! The day that’s been on his calendar for the past four fucking years! As Obama placed his hand on the Lincoln Bible, Roberts started off the Oath of Office as if he were a nervous actor trying to remember his sole line in a movie. Obama, being the genius that he is, smiled and corrected the stammering idiot. (Some people have been saying Roberts messed this up on purpose because Obama did not support his seat to the Supreme Court. To that I say: ”I fucking hope not!” I can only hope that our highest ranking judge in America does not hold grudges or pass “judgements” on people based on hearsay. That might defeat the whole purpose of innocent until proven guilty.

Then came the very moment we had all gathered to see. “The Moment” as CNN so eloquently called it (wanking motion) was “President Elect” becoming “President Barack Obama.” When the words “So help me God” were spoken, the crowd erupted into a sea of waving flags, cheers, hugs, high fives and tears. White, Black, Latino, Asian, none of that mattered. People were coming together like I’ve had never seen before. For those few minutes, none of us were strangers. Peace, love and camaraderie engulfed the Mall like a scene out of Forrest Gump, minus the whole Jenny running through the reflecting pool thing.

Before President Obama’s speech, I could not help but imagine what it would be like to stand at that podium and see 2 million people instantly go silent. The fact that he did not pass out with anxiety was already a victory in my mind. Just as Obama has done with speeches in the past, he mustered up the confidence and self-control to tee up his speech and once again knock it out of the park.

The crowd fell absolutely silent for those 10 minutes. We clutched onto the people we love, some even grabbed onto strangers. We starred incessantly at the jumbo tron, tears streaming as we all realized the importance of where we were and what we were witnessing. It was a feeling a will never forget, the kind where you close your eyes and whisper to yourself  ”I’ll remember this moment for the rest of my life.” Kind of like when you lose your virginity, except this lasted more than five minutes.

The thing that gave us all  goosebumps, besides the 18 degree air, was the reason why so many people had descended upon the same place. They all wanted to be a part of something much larger than themselves.  More than just being a part of history, but also to soak in how far our country has come. Because whether you voted for him or not, Barack Obama represents the growth of our nation, from where we have come as  individuals, to the future cultivation of our country.

More to come soon, just keep refreshing. Don’t pretent like you don’t refresh this site every hour on the hour anyways. Sorry for the length of this article, ladies, I know you don’t mind the length. Eh, get it? Length? Fine, I’ll shut up now.

edunn

Just take a quick ganders at the ticket prices above for Super Bowl XLIII. I must caution you, however, take your laptop in the bathroom before doing so…these prices could make a grown man shit himself.

Notice how many numbers are to the left of each decimal place? Then just to the right of that decimal where it says “each?” Now take a second to realize, I found this page on StubHub by clicking a link titled:  ”Cheap Super Bowl Tickets.” First off, what asshole at StubHub.com decided to throw the word “cheap” in that link? Some dickwad in the IT department, probably taking a break from playing Halo 3, thought it would be funny to mislead football fans by making them  believe the ticket prices they were about to read…were actually not too expensive! Then we inevitably click with hopes of  affording tickets to the Super Bowl for once in our GD lives and quickly notice that “cheap tickets”,  should actually be labeled: “Who are you kidding, you’re broke ass can’t afford Super Bowl fucking tickets!” Awesome. Another exciting year of paying to get in a bar, buying $6 Miller Lites and blacking out before the game ends. Super Bowl Sunday fuckin rocks!

Here’s a little something that might keep you up tonight, crying in the fetil position and wondering what the hell you’re doing with your life: Some people scan through those ticket prices, see the $2,000 price tag and still say: “I’ll take four.” These are the same dicks who make Christmas bonuses the same  size as your annual paycheck. I like to refer to them as “fucking assholes”, however, some people call them “wealthy.”

The hard truth is that Super Bowl tickets are so GD expensive, because assholes like your boss will drop four bills (that’s $4,000 for those who don’t speak street) on two tickets and think nothing of it. Where as when you drop a bill (actual one dollar bill)  on something, it usually involves a four piece McNugget or double cheeseburger. It’s a simple case of the haves…and the have nots.

So, long story short (probably too late) my beloved black and gold boys from the ‘Burgh are playing in Sunday night’s AFC North showdown. If they can make it a perfect 3-0 against the purple assholes of Baltimore, I will be flying back home to Tampa with hopes of going to Super Bowl XLIII. And when I say “going to the Super Bowl”, I mean “getting  shit-hammered and walking around the stadium in my beer-stained Big Ben jersey.” Because let’s face it, buying one ticket to the Super Bowl is like buying an expensive hooker for the night. It will feel great and certainly be memorable, but once your girlfriend/wife finds out you just spent the entire month’s rent for one night…you’ll have wished you at least got a BJ out of the deal. If that didn’t make sense, guess what…this is me not caring.

edunn