Posts Tagged ‘Rosie Jones’


8 Pound 6 Ounces Colton, Don’t Even Know a Word Yet

June 23, 2011

DISCLAIMER: This is for the people who wrote on my facebook wall yesterday. If you didn’t, aside from sucking, just stop reading now. You don’t deserve this particular blog post.

DISCLAIMER #2: Even if you read this, it makes almost no sense. It’s like part fiction, part biography, part delusions of grandeur. Basically, it’s a lot like Obama’s book, “Audacity of Hope.” Only he was serious.

So in the past, I became notorious for my personalized facebook birthday-wall-post-thank-you’s. Consistently banging out a hundred plus messages like it was just a walk in the park. Yesterday, however, I think my wall completely altered facebook forever. My computer ran slowly, I struggled to follow my fantasy baseball team, and facebook creeping came to a near-screeching halt as every five to seven minutes someone else dropped some love on my digital canvas. Sure, Verizon has been having some trouble in my area, but I think the reason behind this slowdown is obvious. Yesterday, I put up numbers that Wilt Chamberlain could be proud of. Clearly, it’s not every day I’m born. In fact, yesterday is the only day I celebrate my birth. If you missed the event, or took part and are suffering from post-partem depression, calm down, it’s only 364 short days until the next time you get to write on my wall. In between, our great country will celebrate its own birth, Jesus’ birth, George Washington’s birth, and Marisa Miller’s birth. Now I’m not saying my birth is nearly as important as all of those (with the exception of maybe G.W.), but none of those people or sovereign nations will write you a blog, either. So here we go…

If you thought anyone else would take the first spot in my birthday blog, you probably didn't know me well enough to write on my wall.

If you want to know how I came to be, I’ll forward you to the post John MacKinnon left on my wall. While it basically caused me to stare at my computer screen unblinking for about 6 minutes, it’s unfortunately most likely pretty accurate. Now that we’ve reached the point where I know I was not, in fact, dropped on the doorstep by storks, left in a basket by the Nile like Moses, or birthed through the head of Zeus like Athena, we can move on to the important things. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard about those people who can recall details from every single day of their lives, but I’m not one of them. I can only assume the thoughts going through my head while I was chilling in the womb.

For one thing, I obviously decided I wanted a Y chromosome. Can’t even imagine being a girl. Constantly persecuted for my good looks. Switching best friends every month: depending on who got hotter than me, or started a menial conflict over a guy. Spending potential alcohol money on fake nails, tans, make-up and shoes. Draining my dad’s bank account and going on a Eurotrip for “culture” that doesn’t extend itself beyond the pot in Amsterdam, the clothes in Italy, the sex in France and the stalking of Prince Harry in London. Basically, after two girls, my dad hit the jackpot with me.

Don't let that above paragraph make you think I'm not grateful for XX chromosomes like Leeann Tweeden...

After diving into the world feet first, because that’s how ballers do, I thought I’d play a little joke on everyone and fake a suicide by wrapping the umbilical cord around my neck. Talk about your all-time backfire. Everyone started freaking out and screaming and stuff. Obviously, my sense of comedic timing has improved tenfold since this original stunt, which may or may not be true for the purposes of storytelling. For the first couple years of my life, I just chilled out, mowing Gerber and soiling myself like it was going out of style. Pretty soon I started forming memories, an addiction to David the Gnome, the WWF, baseball (specifically, the Red Sox) and Strawberry Milk. This all built up to my first grade birthday party. My dad made toys for a living so he got 20, seven year olds into the company meeting room where we rated the new action figure line with a 🙂 😦 or :-/ face. I’m not sure what you call that last face, but I call it the uneasy/constipated face, depending on my mood. After some smiles, frowns and constipations, the party favors of GI Joes and Transformers were given out. My dad basically cemented my legacy as the coolest birthday host until Billy Madison started throwing his blowouts.

Sometime after this glorious first grade banger, I became disenfranchised with the whole birthday party concept. Perhaps it was due to the stretch from 3rd grade on when I stopped having parties thrown for me because of Little League All Stars, having two older sisters, and only two parents capable of getting us everywhere. The summer birthday is an amazing thing, but it does not lend itself to easy elementary school celebrations. The last day of school rarely made it to June 22, unless there were a bunch of snow days. Thus, teachers never started the day singing to me, giving me gold stars, hoodsie cups and letting me make friendship bracelets all day like the rest of the kids born between September and early June. From that point on the extent of my birthday celebration was a Wiffle ball game in the backyard while my dad grilled meat and my mom kept the pink lemonade flowing like it ain’t no thing. Sure, I never threw wild pool parties with wet t-shirt contests and chicken fight contests, that’s what ASU is for, but I was happy raking home runs into my driveway.

ASU absolutely has to be fake life. Like this does not happen...

Even my 21st birthday started off as tame as possible. When it came time to choose my stomping grounds, I selected the bar that has treated me so kindly for the two years prior to my legality. Some people turn 21 and forget about the little people, make new friends who can go to the cool bars and ditch everything else. I paid homage to the old reliable J Tree by having my party there. Even though the original plan involved going after midnight so I could use my real ID, people got drunk and antsy and I decided I’d just use the Maine, 23 year-old version of myself one last time. After eight of my friends got kicked out of the bar in three distinct incidents, the next thing I knew I was being pulled from a cab and thrown to the ground. Apparently the poor townie whose friends took her to JTree for her bachelorette party told her fiancee to meet up with them?! Who knew…

Which brings us to present day. While I may never forgive my family for the toys and riches I missed out on from all those lost childhood birthdays, I take solace in the fact that I’m not one of those painfully annoying people who start birthday countdowns, create entire weekend agendas mapping out each afternoon and night using adjectives like: “sloshed” “Shwasted” “wasteyfaced” or even the repugnant combination, “shwastyfaced.” After all that self-promotion, how can anybody expect people to actually care that their day meant anything at all. I guess not everyone can rely on great friends to flood their wall all day with well wishes without that kind of promotion. If you read this post until now, you truly earned this thank you. And this…

Just wouldn't be a birthday blog without Rosie Jones. PS- googling her and finding anything with clothes on is getting tougher and tougher. It's amazing what the Revolver has done for her career.




The Party Bus Survival Guide: Nighttime Addendum

May 12, 2011

While the references are rare, her powers are enumerated through brief, forceful examples throughout Greek mythology. Nyx, goddess of the primordial night, spawned some of the greatest mythological representations: death, sleep, the fates, and ironically enough, day, just to name a few. She represents a figure of such magnitude that Zeus himself did not dare anger her, as witnessed in Homer’s Iliad, when Nyx’ son, Hypnos (sleep), runs for her protection after angering the god of all gods. I swear none of that is plagiarized, I just write the goodest, sometimes. Naturally, since this knowledge required an exhaustive researching of Wikipedia, I have reserved this parallel of omnipotence to be drawn between the Greek goddess of the night and a Night Party Bus.  See, I’m back writing gooder thanks to my edumacation. As you’ve all undoubtedly read the Party Bus Survival Guide, allow this blog to act as the night bus’ addendum on those aforementioned daytime laws.  Yes, that means there are entirely new genus’ of riders, potential bus pitfalls, and of course, iTunde postulates. Without further ado…

I'm so excited for this blog, I had to get Rosie Jones involved. Never forgotten.

GUEST LIST: New Species

a. Eagerus Imbiberae

For whatever reason, the cloak of darkness facilitates a speed and intensity amongst some drinkers that is unmatched.  The warming sun of a day bus may compel its drinkers to relax with a beer over the first 15-minute span before raging their spandex off. However, the night bus has people ripping shots, slapping the bag and ‘gunning beers as soon as the wheels part from the curb. Even though Michael Buffer may not be on your bus, his drinking equivalent is there to let you know you better get ready to rumble. While the overall state of the night bus is improved for everybody due to the selfless acts of the Eagerus Imbiberae who ride within, their individual night is often cut short around hour two due to blackout. Arguments can be made and won that “Eagerus Imbiberae” is the noblest of titles attained on the night’s ride.

b. Coherentis Solidaritae

We all remember the Dormis Comatosis from the first bus blog. That lone person who simply goes so hard nothing can keep them conscious. Well, at the night bus’ conclusion, the entire constitution of the bus is bass-ackwards. Now, just about everyone that actually makes it back onto the bus at the end of the night is strewned about, using shoulders as pillows, resembling Jigglypuff in a Super Smash Bros. Gamecube session in the Den. If you didn’t get that Pokemon reference, don’t worry, you probably just suck. Anyway, you may be wondering where the Coherentis Solidaritae factors into this equation. This rider is the lone person fist pumping in the front of the bus on the ride home, when they finally realize nobody else is cognizant. Doing a slow turn back, the crushing realization dawns on them like that Twilight Zone story about the guy who wants to be alone in a library for all eternity, then shatters his reading glasses: they didn’t get drunk enough. Scrambling to awake their closest friend to see if they have any rage left in them, the Coherentis Solidaritae is one of the most unenviable bus species. Take this as your warning.

c. Lordus Danceus

Whether pop n’locking to the musical stylings of the Biebs, bouncing to a mashup by Guetta or giving a tutorial to everyone yearning to Dougie, this rider sits no song out and is often the first to occupy the pole at the bus’ nucleus. Along the way, they somehow manage to constantly gyrate in some semblance of rhythm during each sip (slap or shotgun) of alcohol they take. En route to the bus’ stop at a bar/club they make the bold proclamation that the dance floor within that establishment is about to be held ransom, yet, ultimately murdered in ruthless fashion, regardless of payment… so somebody better call the cops now. Gender carries no relevance here, as the Lordus Danceus primarily acts as the first dancing icebreaker for all non-affiliated bus riders.

Kate Upton, SI Swimsuit Model- redefines hotness and the Dougie, at once.


 While I hate to completely remove the notion that the Neonus Feminae is not an extinct species on the Night Bus, it is certainly on the endangered list. Only in the rarest of instances is someone capable of both dressing slutty enough to get onto a dance floor AND being in neon. While always leaving the door ajar for that sort of greatness, it is often a threshold that goes uncrossed. More regularly, the night bus consists of two relatively specific templates for how one is dressed. They are obviously gender specific and go a lot like this…


Kim just killing the middle 1/3.The guy on the right just killing my retinas.

1- Some variance of dress that presents the optical illusion of it literally being painted onto the skin due to tightness. (It can either be a one piece that requires all bodily effort to be squeezed into, similar to the casing of a sausage, or one of those high-waisted skirts that consistently blur the lines of sex/secretary on Mad Men.

2- Legal length of this dress is not to exceed more than 2 3/4 ‘’ past the curvature of the butt cheek measured from the waist, or less than 1/3 of the subjects body. Yes, the dress should not be covering more than the middle third of the wearer.

3- Regulation fc*k me heels. No further explanation necessary.


1- Dark Jeans.

2- Button-down Ralph Lauren shirt.

3- Sperry’s.

Natural observations for each gender:


Look, I don’t run a fashion blog like my good friend Logan @ … So I’ll let him do a better job describing it. I basically detailed what I wear out, every night I go out, bus or not.


a. Just as God intended, the females will look far more beautiful then the males.

b. The females undergarments will almost certainly be on display for all to see at one point. It’s the simple formula: skirt+alcohol(bus + sitting/standing)= panty.

iTunde Playlist Updates 1.1 (as always, quotes from Tunde set the tone)

Ammendment 1: “There is literally no time to mess around, so you gotta get hits in early, because people just DIE on the night bus!” Couldn’t have said it better myself, Tunde. For this reason, Khia’s “My Neck My Back” is the easy choice as the commencement song. After that, waste no time getting to the most popular songs within your group because by hour three, people will forget their own phone number.

Amendment 2: “Really? like really…it’s a night bus, there’s no room for relaxing songs. That playlist better be damn TOUGH!” In case you weren’t sure from the Khia song, Tunde isn’t messing around here. We are talking hit after hit, no matter how hardcore, or sexually explicit. Some songs that might fall under this umbrella include: Rick Ross “MC Hammer,” Madcon “Freaky Like Me,” Fabolous “You Be Killin ‘Em,” and YC’s “Racks.”

Googled: Huge Rack. Got: Heidi Montag. Who knew Heigh would ever make it into the Revolver?!


This is perhaps the most pressing issue one must be prepared for when taking part in a night bus. While desertion is a term generally reserved for war, myriad reasons ensure the people who get on the bus to start the night simply will not be riding home on it. Dropping from the ranks worse than a Confederate soldier at the Battle of Antietam, the dangerous elements of a night bus exact their toll quickly and without warning. Let’s first take care of the obvious reasons for straying from the group: darkness, food, sickness, maming, emergency room, strip club, public urination arrest, cannibalism and hallucinations of Ewoks dubbing you their king and carrying you away. Now, let’s touch on the more rare, animalistic survival tactic that often comes into play when excessive drinking and overwhelming human interaction mix.

It's time to go if things look like this.

We all know the scene. You’re unclear of how you got there, but as sure as the day is long, you’re standing in the middle of a dance floor, disoriented, foggy and haphazardly clothed. Without knowledge of the forensic analysis of rape for a few more days, you experience that queasy instinctual reaction: fight or flight. Since there’s nobody to fight because no one is paying attention to your stumbling ass, your brain shuts down all external receptors and enters into tunnel vision. You need to get out. Now. In one of the rarest of drinking miracles, nature has released the basic survival tactics that prevented early mankind from falling enslaved to Sauron’s army of Orcs in the fight for middle earth (if you subscribe to the Tolkien view of man’s evolution).

You alert nobody of your departure as you fumble, crash and spill into anyone who gets in your path. At this very moment, no other stimuli could prevent your ultimate goal: bed. Except for food: the first necessary means of survival. So you stop at 7/11 and stick a shrink-wrapped sub that is officially past expiration since it’s after midnight, down your pants/into your purse. Armed with sustenance, you begin the journey home. Whether it requires a three-mile walk in heels, haggling with an Uzbekistani cab driver over a fixed fare of three wadded up homeless bills, or bumming a ride off a stranger in the middle of a busy intersection, you will get home safely. Just not on the bus.

Okay, so not EVERYONE makes it home.


Unfortunately, the fun from the night before doesn’t end there. As the Sahara-like dryness of your mouth finally forces you to wake up at an otherwise ungodly hour, your first reaction is like the start of a Rick Ross verse when you literally verbalize the thought: “OUAHwha!!!… WHERE AM… OHTHANKGOD” as you realize this is real life.  Walking into the living room, friends immediately blow up your spot talking about the stuff you were unconsciously doing the night before. In this instance, I like to use the “shot at the doctor” coping method. When you need to get bloodwork done, you know it’s coming, you know there’s a sharp prick, and you know in the end things are going to be fine. After the bus, deep down there’s some discomfort as you sit there and take the shot (or retelling of your actions) , but there is also the everlasting memory of a night you’ll never forget you forgot and got told about.  If you’re lucky, you’ll even get the following text sent to you: “I woke up… in only a thong… and a plate with mustard on my desk which leads me to believe I ate a hot dog.” Yup, it’s like that.

There's the mustard!

 Stay tuned…



Smorgasblog: Obama Bro’ing Out! Sheen’s Power, Uncle Tom, Youtube Chick “Singers”

March 16, 2011

Porn stars, the president, Uncle Tom, and internet video sensations. Unfortunately, not all in one story, or we’d have the best blog ever, today. But, it’s still damn good, and even Rosie Jones would be proud. Too much awesome stuff to mix into one pre-determined hot girl as your presenter of today’s Smorgasblog, so I’m just going to let it flow and see what hotness can be conjured up… Enjoy. But first…

Oh, Rosie... so good to have you back in my internet space.


Barack, I know I’ve been writing gold, but you need to chill out with this Revolver obsession. Mr. President has obviously been reading my last two blogs about Spring Break and March Madness. First, he’s on ESPN today making his NCAA picks with his brother from an American-born mother, Andy Katz. Showing his true political beliefs, Obama resorted to an often used tactic of his in the Illinois Senate as he simply voted “present” rather than taking a stand. Dude picked nothing but 1 seeds to make it to the Final Four. For the love of Allah, show a little backbone, Barry.

But, that’s not all Barack is doing to show his love for the Revolver. This weekend, he’s hopping a jet to Rio de Janiero to just shred it up with the finest hunnies in the world. Clearly, the Spring Break Survival Guide I wrote earlier this week got him too hot to just sit around being presidential. I mean, it’s not like Japan just exploded, the stock market has dropped, and Gadhafi is killing his own people in Libya and taking back power. To top it off, all White House events today are “closed press” except for a ceremony praising Obama’s “committment to transparent government.” Gotta love his style. Just spitting in the winds of adversity. Here’s some ass the president can expect down in Brazil.

Emanuela de Paula just melting keyboards and frying motherboards.


By now, you probably read about the letter Grant Hill sent to the New York Times. Hill responded to an interview from Jalen Rose’s documentary on Michigan’s “Fab Five” basketball team, in which he and other black Duke players were referred to as “Uncle Toms.” If you haven’t, here’s an excerpt: “In his garbled but sweeping comment that Duke recruits only “black players that were ‘Uncle Toms,’ ” Jalen seems to change the usual meaning of those very vitriolic words into his own meaning, i.e., blacks from two-parent, middle-class families. He leaves us all guessing exactly what he believes today.”

First off, Grant: who responds via letter to the Times? Nowadays you fit that shit into 160 characters via Twitter. Your response should have read: “Jalen Rose iz str8 buggin. Coach K wuz 4eva bumpin Milez Daviz in practice. If dat makes me Unkle Tom, #itizwutitiz.” Next up, Grant, you’re trying to make it seem like Jalen Rose doesn’t know what he thinks about you, or what an Uncle Tom is. Quite the opposite, Grant. Jalen knew he was calling you a “bitch” who went to play for a white guy at a white school who generally only recruits white players. His words, not mine. By definition, that’s what made you an Uncle Tom in his eyes. Not the fact that you have two parents who work in a middle-class community. Why would THAT be a white thing? Nobody grows up with two parents in a middle-class environment these days. I thought Duke was supposed to be a good school? Don’t you know more than half of all marriages end in divorce, and 1% of Americans make up 90% of the countries wealth? The middle-class nuclear white family went out the window with pre-nups and 9/11. Thanks a lot, Bin Laden.


Effing Bieber! Dude created this whole new genre of music where his little tard chick fans think they can just make music on Youtube, and get famous so he’ll want to give them his purity ring or some crap. Biebers don’t just grow on trees, especially American ones. Is Rebecca Black shitting me? Do her friends think she is cool? There’s no way this video is serious, right? Just a bunch of 14 year-olds looking forward to Friday so they can “party”? This isn’t a 90210 episode, hunny. You and your gang aren’t robbing any liquor cabinets and dabbling in the booger sugar. At best, you’re chugging a Red Bull or two, playing “Truth or Dare” and buzzing off that caffeine while you send iChat videos to each others Facebook walls while sitting in the same room.

Really, I blame the parents here. At some point, your kid’s dreams have to get crushed. Simple fix to the cyber bullying their daughter should be enduring over this video would just be: “Darling, we know you want Justin’s purity ring, but your songs make as much sense as Helen Keller’s early work, and have the intellectual depth of a toddler’s soiled diaper.” Instead, this chicks rich-as-Satan parents decided to dump money into studio time, a freelance videographer, and whoever the old black dude is who dropped the hook that literally may have murdered Nate Dogg, today. What a sell-out. And Jalen Rose thinks Grant Hill is an “Uncle Tom.”


Kacey Jordan, the porn star who joined Charlie Sheen in his epic January booze and cocaine bender that landed him in the hospital, may have attempted suicide. Jordan posted a series of suicidal tweets on Twitter Monday night from her Chicago hotel. “Those 16 hours i was with charlie sheen . . . messed me up . . . i can’t get that image out of my head . . . i think i keep trying to feel his pain,” she wrote.”I took a bunch of pills . . . drank a hotel size bottle of jack [Daniels whiskey],” she wrote in another tweet that sparked her followers to send cops to the Peninsula Hotel.

Classic porn star move. This is right out of the “Dirty Whore” book. Even when you’re a porn star, and you’re getting paid in Aston Martins by the Sheen to do drugs, have sex and be a rock star from Mars, there’s a certain code of conduct to follow. You don’t rat out the Sheen for his recent, now-epic drug binge. You had your sex, you got your car, now shut up and be gone. But no, you have to cling to greatness. Trying to ride those golden coattails into legitimate porn star status, because the only thing worse than being a porn star, is being a porn star no one had ever heard of. “Those 16 hours… really messed me up… I think i keep trying to feel his pain…” Seriously, toots?! Feel his pain? Charlie couldn’t feel pain even if he weren’t more numb than an icicle on novocaine due to decades of cocaine abuse, because he’s too busy winning! Now pick yourself up off that cold bathroom floor. Nobody is buying it.

This story just made me so angry I need some Rosie Jones…

... with an automatic rifle.

And that brings us to the end of yet another successful Smorgasblog! Who knew Rosie Jones would start and finish it? Okay, maybe we all did.

Stay tuned…


Brady vs. Manning? Easy Answer

January 10, 2011

The NFL playoffs just got a whole less ugly. The Mannings, are out. First, the Giants choked their way out of a playoff bid, sparing us the sulking sour puss of Eli Manning. Then, the NFL’s golden child, Peyton Manning, could not guide his team past a lackluster toe-suck effort against the Jets. Just like that, all the attention of irate fans has been turned on Tom Brady. Suddenly, ignorance is flowing like the beer consumption at a kegger. “Whatever, the Jets are gonna smack the Patriots, Tom Brady sucks! He’s a system quarterback! Rex will figure him and Belichick out!” Laughable, I know, but also true. The problem is, when I see these blasphemous status updates of my friends, who don’t know a nickelback from the band “Nickelback”, I can’t blame them. At least not entirely. I blame the analysts on  national networks who keep up the charade of comparing Tom Brady to Peyton Manning for all these years and for all the ratings.

Total bad ass. Just cruising around Central Park, shredding pavement with his Razor. Ready to roll to another Super Bowl?

Now as I’m sure you all know, based on the wonderful analysis of ex-NFL players, and Chris Berman’s guidance, that Peyton Manning has the stats, while Brady has the championships. But when you take a look at these stats, you find out much more. First, Manning has thrown 2,500 more passes in his career, so you cannot compare raw numbers. When you compare statistics based on yards per attempt, QB rating, and TD:INT ratio, you get these two lines for their careers…

Brady: 7.4 yards per attempt, 95.2 QB Rating, 2.6:1 TD/INT ratio

Manning: 7.6 Yards per attempt, 94.9 QB Rating, 2:1 TD/INT ratio

Based on those simple numbers, you can see that Brady is a tick better in QB Rating, and considerably better in the amount of touchdowns he throws per interception. Manning averages a fraction more yards per attempt, but it would seem to be negligible. Two-tenths of a yards is 7.2 inches after all. My head hurts from mental math, so I’m going to get back to easier stats. It seems the thesis of all those moronic Brady haters (who probably don’t know what a thesis is) rests at: “He’s a system quarterback. He never throws the ball more than five yards. Manning can at least throw the ball down the field.”

Sorry. That’s just not true. If the “system” you’re referencing that Brady runs is the West Coast offense, then yes, it’s true he is a system quarterback. That’s like calling Bar Rafaeli pretty, because she is a byproduct of a “system” in which she wears a bikini, professionally. If that’s true for any girl, my time at a beach would be much more enjoyable. However, since half the offenses in the NFL run some form of a pass-heavy West Coast offense, the first part of your argument is invalid. Jay Cutler in a bikini or running the West Coast offense is still ugly. The opposite of Bar Rafaeli in her bikini.

Consider this the football equivalent of a West Coast offense guided by Tom Brady. Thank you, Bar, for the visual aid.

If Brady not being able to “throw the ball more than five yards” is the next part of your argument, you’re more wrong than a Super Bowl 4th quarter pick six to Tracy Porter . Here are two mystery players statistics over the past six full seasons as NFL Quarterbacks.

Player A: 20+ Yard Completions: 309, 40+ Yard Completions: 63

Player B: 20+ Yard Completions: 293, 40+ Yard Completions: 46

That’s right. Your stomach just dropped when you realized Tom Brady is player A. The man who never throws a pass more than five yards somehow, miraculous as it may seem, has completed more deep passes than Archie’s prodigal son over those last six full seasons. Now, I’m about to compare postseasons, but you can imagine it’s only getting uglier for Peyton’s apologists.

Brady is 14-4 in his postseason career, with three Super Bowls. Peyton is 9-10 in his postseason career, with one Super Bowl. Manning has thrown 29 touchdowns and 19 interceptions. Brady has thrown one less touchdown and five less interceptions, in one less game. I’m going out on a limb and assuming Brady won’t throw five picks against the Jets on Sunday, since he only threw four all season.

Peyton can't bare to watch the gap widen.

What shouldn’t be lost in this blog, is that I don’t think Manning is a bad quarterback. Far from it. It’s just that he’s not on Brady’s level. Sure, Manning has done amazing things in his NFL career. He’s also done it with two hall of fame wide receivers in Marvin Harrison and Reggie Wayne, and a potential hall of fame tight end in Dallas Clark. Brady? He had hall of famer Randy Moss for two full seasons (not including Brady’s lost year for ACL surgery, or Moss’ being traded this season). Otherwise, Brady has thrown to guys like David Patten, Troy Brown, Deion Branch, David Givens, Donte Stallworth, Jabar Gaffney, Daniel Graham, Ben Watson, Wes Welker, and the rest of the 2010 misfits turned stars, like Danny Woodhead. Sure, all those wide receivers had very productive years with the Patriots, but once Brady got them their stats, and another team made them rich with a big contract, we rarely heard from them again. Just ask Deion Branch how much easier it is to be a wide receiver with Tom Brady delivering perfect passes to your chest.

When this post-season is all said and done, Brady may be a four-time Super Bowl champion. He will almost definitely be named the 2010 NFL Regular Season MVP, his second. That’s one department Peyton does have Tom beat. Manning’s four regular season MVP awards trump Brady. But if you think Peyton Manning is more valuable than Tom Brady, you’re dead wrong. Look at the stats. Look at the records. Look at the wins and losses. Look at the supermodel wife. No matter how you cut it, Brady beats Manning.

How can you beat this?

Stay tuned…


Smorgasblog II: Four Loko, Tony Parker, Unfriend Day, Etc.

November 17, 2010

Smell that? It’s another wonderful buffet of steaming hot Smorgasblog! I just want to lead off today’s entry with a quick thank you to last Smorgasblog’s guide, the lovely Rosie Jones! Gracing the pixels of my

You have big... shoes to fill, Kristin.

blog is always a big thrill for the smoking hot women who have no idea this blog exists. But, for Rosie Jones, something magical has happened since she guided you through my last Smorgasblog. Some time last week, the Revolver started getting over 100 hits a day for no apparent reason. Upon further review, those hits were pouring in because for whatever reason, google is referencing the Revolver when people are googling “rosie jones.” The only explanation is that boobs are in fact the mystical power that the Fellowship of the Ring hoped to harness. In this upcoming part deux of Smorgasblog, Rosie has given way to the Maxim Hometown Hotties 2009 winner, Kristin Gustafson. With the 2010 winner being named soon, Kristin has only a couple months left as the ultimate Hometown Hottie, so giving her this honor may be the last good thing to ever happen in her life. Unless you consider marrying for money a good thing, in which case she will have absolutely no problem finding a rich silver fox who pops Levitra like skittles and smells like cedar, gold bond, and preparation H. In this Smorgasblog you will find commentary on Four Loko, Tony Parker and Unfriend Day.


Take it away, Kristin...

Dish #1: Four Loko

By now, you should have drank it. If you’ve drank it, you’ve loved it. If you’ve loved it too much, you’ve probably blacked out, and removed pieces of clothing en route. Along the way, you undoubtedly cultivated friendships with strangers at the bar, and possibly destroyed relationships that were built upon years of good memories, because you got on a karaoke mic, and outed a friend for cheating on his girlfriend with his hot neighbor from 3B. Unfortunately, all that amazingness is being strapped down and waterboarded by the same people who made Coca-Cola remove the actual cocaine from it… the FDA. Obviously, none of these people ever elected to drink Four Loko on their own and see how it makes them feel. With cautionary reviews of the drink spreading like lice at Woodstock, Four Loko has earned these phenomenal nicknames: “Blackout in a Can” “Liquid Cocaine” “Coke in a Can” “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” “Liquid Roofies” and my personal favorite “Stripper Mixed with Choir Girl Dipped in Paradise Riding a Rainbow Along the Crystal Coast of Bliss” (editor’s note: that last nickname won’t be found on google, until this gets posted to all the internets).

Exactly! Who wouldn’t want to drink that stuff! Well, university officials and state lawmakers, for two. In a maneuver that has become as American as apple pie, the government is once again making up the minds of its people by banning the drink in certain states. First, they decided you could die for the country at 18 but couldn’t drink liquor until 21, and now, when you are 21, you can’t drink a highly caffeinated alcoholic beverage because you might drink too much, and wake up naked in a snowstorm outside your front door with the keys in the doorknob. Thankfully, that last scenario didn’t actually happen to me. Oddly, it’s the first scenario I conjured up stream of consciously. The smorgasblog rolls on! Kristin…

Maxim gets girls shirts unbuttoned as much as Four Loko.

Dish #2: Tony Parker Cheats on Eva Longoria

Wait, you didn’t think a Belgian-born, French basketball player who works in San Antonio could marry a Mexican-American actress who works in Los Angeles, and everything wouldn’t work out? Oh wait, you’re right. Turns out, even though his name and ability to play basketball don’t make him seem French, Tony Parker is in fact le douche of le day. I’m not saying it takes a pathetic Frenchman to cheat on his wife (see: Woods, Tiger), but I am saying it takes a rare form of cold-blooded frog to do so with his teammates wife. Sure enough, after a bit of espionage, Tony was in fact rendezvousing with Erin Barry, the wife of his ex-teammate, Brent Barry (i’ve officially used every french-english word I know).  Sure, Erin’s a milf and all, but Tony really couldn’t keep it in his pants until Eva was done filming her crap TV show? Fortunately, since she’s made her name as a Desperate Housewife Eva should have no problem playing the role of desperate ex-wife, now that she is divorcing Tony. Personally, I always thought Eva could do better than a creepy looking Frenchman with a shaved head and weird scars all over it. Turns out, he always thought he could do better than a smoking hot latin woman who makes millions of dollars. Funny how that works. Kristin…

Kristin would never fall for a Frenchie.

Dish #3: Unfriend Day

Since you didn’t see it live on Jimmy Kimmel, because nobody watches his show, you may not have even read about it on the internet. However, today is apparently “Unfriend Day” on Facebook, in an interesting stunt by Kimmel to be funny. The concept is simple: go on Facebook and unfriend anybody who isn’t actually your friend. Naturally, I am against this day, because I have plenty of people I’m not actually “friends” with who I keep just to see their picture uploads after Halloween and Spring break. This concept is so flawed, I’m not surprised it originated from Kimmel, whose only contribution to the comedy world is the Entourage episode which culminates with Drama triumphantly announcing “Great F*@$ING NIGHT.”

Dish #4: Bill Nye the Science Guy

Any contemporary of mine remembers the amazing scientific feats performed by Bill Nye. We also remember that electro-pop intro music. He’s the first person to teach us how many pennies it takes to break a cup’s meniscus, or that lying on a bed of nails hurts less than lying on one nail due to surface area and pressure. But, In a recent lecture at USC on global warming, Bill Nye suddenly passed out. Unfortunately for Bill, the students in attendance elected not to go help him, but first updated their Facebook and Twitter accounts. When Nye came to he said he “felt like Lady Gaga.” I have no idea wtf that meant, but it doesn’t make it any less awesome. Just not as awesome as Kristin Gustafson.


Thanks for all your hard work in the Smorgasblog, Kristin!

Stay tuned…


The SmorgasBlog

October 20, 2010

The jigga whatttt, Colt? That’s right, today, I’ve got too much absurd stuff to drop lines on. So, I’m combining these smaller blog ideas into one, all you can eat, smorgasblog. Today’s topics range from the newest celebrity babies, to “wear purple day,” to the newest American Political Party. I may or may not even lust over Rosie Jones.

Who? This chick below…and you knew whether I actually lusted over her the rest of the smorgasblog, you were getting to see the goods.

I read her bio and flinched at “Born in 1990…” Once I did the math, it was love.

Without further ado… THE SMORGASBLOG! (Numbered for no reason of importance)

1- Move Over, Suri Cruise

It’s official. After some unconfirmed and completely made up tales of pregnancy, reports today verified that Beyonce is carrying the fruit of Jay Z’s loins. I honestly never thought I’d write “the fruit of Jay Z’s loins” in a serious sentence, so what just happened was pretty neat for me, personally. Anyway, Hov’s loin fruit decided to get all up inside Beyonce’s egg loins and they mixed up a pre-natal celeb-baby.  Presently residing underneath Beyonce’s now-perfectly toned abdomen, but soon-to-be covered in cocoa butter baby bump, the little, currently genderless embryo, will eventually be rocking fresh baby Jordans, khakis with a cuff and a crease, and a crisp Rocawear button-up. (That sentence had a ton of commas. I’m not positive if it’s grammatically correct, but it seemed to read okay upon second look). Unless it becomes a chick. In which case she may be dressed in a flashy onesie… like this…

Will Gaga be the Godmother? Not if this baby wants a chance in life.

The only other question remaining is how soon this child will be turned into a musical icon. Rev Run’s son is rapping up a storm (not the older son who thought he could rap but sucked, the little one who actually can rap). Will Smith’s daughter, Willow, is like six (editor’s note: she’s 9) and already has a hit single called “Whip My Hair.” Which is musical proof that a celebrity’s child can essentially burp, vomit and poop into a microphone, and producers will mix in a hook and beat to make it a top-ten iTunes download. So, the sky is the limit for the child of two music legends like Jay and B.

Sidenote: That’s the last time I’m referencing either Jay-Z or Beyonce in this blog, so I went with “Jay” and “B” just to sound cool. It’s like when one of those super white hipster MTV VJs morph into Eminem’s cousin when a rapper comes on for an interview. Suddenly, they are saying stuff like, “Fo sho, Drake, that latest track about being right above it was tighttttt. Like, you straight murdered those lyrics and left them for dead. I didn’t know you were about to get up in it like THAT.” Followed by Drake laughing in said VJs face and mumbling to himself  “this crazy ass white boi right here.”

This pictoral blog break brought to you by Rosie Jones, again.

I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of Rosie in this SmorgasBlog. Because the writing is average at worst.

2. Wear Purple Day

If you’re reading this on… (seriously, who knows the date nowadays, it seems so inconsequential. Wait, maybe that’s only for us underemployed) hold on let me check… October 20th, 2010 then you may or may not be wearing purple. You almost may or may not have heard that today if you wore purple, you were supporting teens struggling with homosexuality, or you were a homosexual. Right about now, you could have some extremely mixed feelings. Don’t worry I’m here to help with this quick breakdown of what your outfit today meant.


1- And knew about “Wear Purple Day”

You = supporter of, or actually are, homosexual.

2- And did not know about “Wear Purple Day”

You = accepted by the Gay community. Unfortunately, many people may have come to some assumptions about you that are not warranted. If people of your same sex were being particularly confrontational/happy, they probably mistook you for gay. Kind of like how Ryan Seacrest feels every day.


1- And knew about “Wear Purple Day”

You= Disapproved of by the gay/friends of gay community. You may just be a straight male who simply doesn’t own a purple shirt, because, well, you’re a straight male. Or, you felt as though wearing a rainbow colored shirt would be more cause-appropriate.

2- And did not know about “Wear Purple Day”

You= Disapproved of by the gay/friends of gay community, even though you may or may not have worn purple had you known about the day.

I know! This whole day seems like a mess of ambiguity and unless proper “Wear Purple Day”s are coordinated in the future, I think the gay community should stick to their ostentatious parades that leave no doubt as to who is gay, and who supports the gays.


If anyone could straighten things out, Rosie could. That pun may or may not have been intended.

3- The Rent is Too Damn High Party

No, seriously. I’m going to let Jimmy McMillan present his parties platform to you in person.

Aside from the fact that this guy is obviously insane, lies the inconvenient fact that Jimmy McMillan does not pay rent. Back in the 80s he stopped paying his landlord for his 800-a-month flat in exchange for doing handiwork around the landlords property. Clearly, this hurts some of the credibility Jimmy has in his plight to run as the people’s candidate. It’s the sort of ironic combination that occurs only in America. Like how Carrot Top is a “Comedian,” or Adrian Grenier is an “Actor.”

4- The Newest Big D Nuts Girl

Only in the UK! Just when we thought Carls Jr. commercials with babes in bikinis washing cars was bad… Big D Nuts of the UK brings us… you guessed it… ROSIE JONES! The woman who has guided you through your first Smorgasblog is actually the latest model for the British company that offers, “the nation’s best loved pub snack. Big D offers cheeky nut treats for anyone who is nuts about snacking!” You have to respect a company that has combined their product, with their name so symbiotically. What “Big D Nuts Guy” wouldn’t love this girl?

You guessed it... you can find her topless on Google.

Well that sure was fun. The SmorgasBlog will probably appear in the Revolver in the future. Rosie probably will, too. Thanks for reading. Stay tuned…