My Sports Page

Football has ended, at least here in St. Louis, baseball will soon be heating up and hockey has moved to the forefront, with an agreement finally being reached between the owners and players. On the national side, we have a BCS Champion, the Super Bowl is right around the corner, the PGA Tour has begun and I continue to not give 2-shits less about what NASCAR or any of soccer’s 127-“professional” organizations are doing.

This National Championship game played out in the exact manner that most who kept half an eye on the season, and were honest with themselves, figured it would. Notre Dame was, once AGAIN, exposed for the overrated, media-propped “paper powerhouse” they have so often been on the football field, as well as in cinema…fuck you “Rudy” – yeah, I said it.

This game proved that the Fighting Irish were not only over-ranked in the country, but would probably fall about halfway down the list of SEC teams, and this is from a guy who is as goddamned sick of the SEC as the rest of you likely are…I just hate Notre Dame even worse. Like Elvis or the Dallas Cowboys, it’s more the “aura”, if you will, than the team itself, but that doesn’t change my feelings.

The good news was this thing was over quickly enough that network cameras were able to focus on more visually stimulating action than the game, like Crimson Tide quarterback A.J. McCarron’s girlfriend and mother, surprisingly 2-different people, DESPITE being from Alabama.

And for those out there popping off on their self-righteous “Brent Musburger went too far” bullshit soapbox, I’ve got two things to say: One – there was nothing inappropriate about his comments in the first place and, two – if there had been, it is, and has always been, an unwritten societal rule that 73-year old men can get away with whatever sexual, racial, political or religious thing they want to blurt out in a public venue, and it’s simply looked upon as “cute”.

Hell, Musburger was Mr. fucking Rogers to my Grandpa’s Larry Flynt by comparison. There wasn’t a waitress within 10-square miles of any fishing town in Missouri whose ears weren’t anally raped by the shit that flowed from his mouth between 1982 and 1992, but they still smiled, laughed at and even hugged his perverted ass – which was all beautiful by the way. I can’t fucking wait to be old!

On to Rams football, they’ve obviously improved but I wouldn’t go sucking each other’s cocks just yet. That sophomore chic with the hearing aid that gave you your first handy was better than jerking off into your gym sock, but the prom queen, she was not. This team’s been pretty bad, so let’s not take mediocre as some fucking miracle and give it some time already.

Besides, I’m on the “Sam Bradford is NOT the answer” bus, regardless of how many statistical websites Bernie footnotes and skews to support his assertions, while also calling us all idiots. On the same note, those that argue that Bradford is only bad because of his supporting cast but then are moronic (hypocrisy in action, folks!) enough to trash Steven Jackson can’t have it both ways. This guy has done nothing but take a beating, AND PRODUCE AT A HIGH LEVEL, throughout a career surrounded by a team that’s had barely a sniff of success, all without grinding a perfectly deserving axe.

Carpe Douche Bag started this “goes down after first contact” horseshit sometime ago, propelling every half-minded minion of his to regurgitate this shit on football call-in shows in St. Louis for the next 3-goddamned years, without ever bothering to watch with their own two eyes.

Speaking of that stat, Taylor Swift is quickly becoming the all-time leader in that department. See what I did there…you know, “goes down after…oh never fucking mind!

The Cardinals will be reporting to camp in the blink of an eye and be doing so without Lance Berkman, Skip Schumaker and, more than likely, Kyle Lohse.

Lohse and Berkman were pretty much givens and, while I hate to see them go, make sense financially and organizationally with the upcoming arbitration-eligible mainstays and the seeming plethora of pitching on the horizon and production at the outfield and first base positions.

Skip, on the other hand, joins the likes of Colby “Wah”-smus and Brendan “I forgot my glove” Ryan on the list of players I incessantly bitch about until they’re moved, though he at least played hard, was a great guy and could actually spell “list”. Not to mention, his father was never seen breastfeeding him in the video room, but that’s here nor there.

I often advocated trading Schu for a sack of BP-balls or a Fungo bat, which is essentially what they’ve done. Nice fella’ and was here quite a while, which reminds me, name five “Skip moments” off the top of your head…exactly…ho-hum.

Saving the best recent news for last, the St. Louis Blues will soon be back in action and hopefully continue to build what they started last season, when Ken Hitchcock came on board. With a relatively unchanged roster, what should be very strong goaltending once more and the experience gained from a hard-fought playoff run last spring, some talking heads are already penciling “The Note” in for the Stanley Cup Finals.

I’ll again leave the statistics behind how they agreed, and who won or lost, to the likes of Miklasz and his number-laden ledger of a column, and just be content that they’re back. I’m happiest for the sax player out front of Scottrade Center and saddest that I have to watch that attention-whoring fucking towel guy again.

Seriously, can they just run a promotion where, upon any 10th-goal in a game, THIS asshole is actually tossed on the ice in lieu of his towel? If you seriously still enjoy this gimmick, I now wanna’ punch you in the face for that fact alone.

Muck, grind and fore-check, that’s what it’s all a-boat, boys…KMFP-out!


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