As we’re degenerate gamblers forced to work off our debts while hustling rounds of “Blades of Steel” in underground NES casinos (the only time anyone ever enjoys hockey outside of NHL ‘94), you can say we know our gaming inside and out. Today being the Super Bowl, we’re obliged to throw away our hard earned blog money faster than Tony Romo going through a box of Kleenex during a Designing Women marathon on Lifetime. Vegas’s lines are all too pedantic for our tastes, though, so we decided to spice things up a bit with some of our own. If you care to follow along, here now are ours, namely odds that…

The last place The Who rocked was a chair.

…religious zealots jump the Colts running out of their locker room as they completely misunderstand comments made about “attacking the Saints” in Miami: 4-1.
…said zealots get crushed by the Indy defensive line: 1-450
…the collective willpower of several million football fans focus their hatred of Joe Buck to the point that his head explodes: 7-1
…we see a Sony commercial where Timberlake rips off the chest piece from Peyton Manning’s uniform: 15-1
…everyone in the city of New Orleans gets so drunk they all pass out before Brees can throw his first pass: 1:1
…Peyton Manning appears in more commercials than throws TD passes: 2-1
…Khole or Kourtney Kardashian (the lesser skanks, not Kim), are shown on camera and mistakenly identified as Reggie Bush’s girlfriend: 6-1
…you’re tempted to switch to light beer based on the hilarity of an ad for it: 1,000:1
…Eli convulses in a fit of jealous rage as he makes the “I’m going to choke Peyton harder than the Giants choked this season” face: 10-1
…The Who, to honor New Orleans, will perform at halftime as “The Who Dat?”: 200:1
…Carrie Underwood ends the national anthem with “and the home of the brave — and that two-timing bastard, Tony Romo.”: 300:1
…David Caruso flips off his sunglasses more times than we flip off our TV’s after listening to innumerable commercials for CBS’s CSI: Miami as the host city for the Super Bowl: 13-1
…we see a commercial starring Brett Favre in a commercial for IHOP describing his love for “waffles” during the Senior early bird 5am special: 4-1

While stuck in snowy South Carolina over the weekend (a cruel punishment I’d only wish on the cast of Gossip Girl), I reached the apex of boredom: I watched nearly an entire Nicholas Cage movie (on a Zenith, ironically). If only I’d had Apple’s latest device, the ipad, I wouldn’t have resorted to such shameful and desperate measures to attempt to entertain myself. If Steve Jobs and glowing media reports are to be trusted, the ipad is the greatest achievement since civil rights (a portable electronic reader was definitely part of MLK’s dream for the future. Anyone who says otherwise is a racist). For consumers who can’t get enough of the company’s costly creations, Apple has plenty of related products planned should the ipad succeed.

ipadlock. You’re going to need a security system to protect your expensive gadget. If someone attempts to steal it, the ipadlock sends a signal to the police to come stop the robbery. Any would-be thieves caught are carried away in Apple’s criminal transport vehicle: the ipaddy wagon.

ipad thai. After hours of staring at a screen and not stirring, you’ll have worked up an appetite for some stir-fry. All the rice is grown in special ipaddy fields. This meal generator puts the ‘yum’ in “tom yum gai.” Thai it, you’ll like it!

Apple engineers used their noodles to come up with ipad thai.

ipadma lakshmi. For the finicky/lonely eater who wants more culinary variety/companionship, a virtual version of the Indian model/chef. She’s a dish who can prepare almost any dish. She runs on flattery as much as batteries. So be sure to  compliment her cooking — it’s the best way to curry favor with the Chennai cutie.

ipaddle. Has this scenario ever happened to you: You take your ipad out on a motorless boat and become so engrossed in what you’re reading that you forget to bring a rowing instrument and drift out into sea? Thanks to the ipaddle, there’s no need to give yourself a stern reprimand. In trials, participants were so happy with how well the ipaddle steered them back to shore safely and swiftly, a few had oargasms. Apple is also working on a ping pong ipaddle (finally, table tennis technology enters the 21st century) and an ipaddle for irate parents to smack kids who touch their ipad.

ipaddington station. Having raked in more money than they know what to do with from its other iproducts, Apple is in negotiations to purchase the central and historic railway terminal in London, a city famous for being hip and pricey, a reputation that aligns with Apple’s. Talks broke down with the transit authority in New York City when Apple insisted on running only one line, the i, which doesn’t currently exist.

So, today is February 2nd, Groundhog Day. Originally invented in 1796, it was first started to commemorate Doc Brown’s failed attempt to travel back in time to arm wrestle Napoleon over the name of the famous dessert. Of course, while weight training to win said challenge, the good doctor’s fingers became far too pudgy to press the number keys correctly and was instead vaulted to the middle of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.

The Groundhog’s 2nd place finish in the Daytona 500 is sadly overlooked.

Upon arriving and having no opponent with which to do battle, he and Slimer from Ghostbusters had come too far just to turn back. Instead, they challenged the nearest rodents to a battle of Simon, the light up memorization game. Groundhogs, having been invented the previous year during the “Sinning Against Nature Fall Classic”, were the most naive and the first to accept the challenge. Having been bred to excel at ColecoVision, they were at first considered the heavy favorites. Unfortunately for them, the mix of flashing lights and sounds were too much, scaring them back into their holes.

In retaliation for this perceived slight and intoxicated from a mixture of steroids and horse grade tranquilizers, Doc Brown took it upon himself to release the radioactive core from his DeLorean’s Flux Capacitor, causing a small nuclear winter upon the Northeast. Later regretting his actions, he made a deal with Bill Murray (who is, in fact, an immortal highlander) to cover up the disaster.

The groundhog, for its cowardice, is assumed to have seen a shadow causing the winter that fell upon Pennsylvania. In return for his cooperation, Murray was given the lead roles in the movie Groundhog day and, with the help of Slimer, Ghostbusters. For his crimes against humanity, Doc Brown was given a full frontal lobotomy, which left him able to do little more than smack his forehead, yell “Great Scott!” and hilariously misunderstand 80’s slang about a situation being “heavy”.

Feels like just yesterday I was half ass-ing a post at the end of January by commenting on Marc’s birthday. But, history repeats and I have a startling lack of self-respect for my writing ability and a near unfathomable depth of loathing for you poor suckers who think I may say something funny one of these days. How else would you explain my aspirations to keep this out of control train wreck of a website continually updated?

In any case, I’d like to celebrate Marc’s birthday the best way I know how: pointing out what an old fart he is at the ripe age of 28. No longer the spry, young pup, he is now a leather faced ghoul of a man, clinging on desperately to the shreds of youth as they pass through his bony fingers. As he places one foot in the grave, I hope I can offer some solace in these his waning years:

Denim’s the pits – So our campaign to ban pants altogether failed. C’est la vie. I say ride those suckers up to your armpits and completely buck the “low riders” trend. The alternative is to let your slacks fall to the floor, but I’m informed by the internet you’d be “lookin’ like a fool with your pants on the ground”. You can also get away with calling them pantaloons without admonishment.

I also know of a llama who does windows.

Monkey see, monkey do – Despite what the inbred masses of West Virginia would tell you, the civilized world believes in evolution. Every year older you get, the better chance you’ll see our chimpanzee brethren take up their rightful place in butlering. The day we see a monkey fling his poo and immediately clean it up is just around the corner, with its odds approaching 1 on a long enough timeline. If that’s not a reason to rage against the dying of the light, I don’t know what is.

Steel hips in a steel cage – Van Damme’s kickboxing at 50, which is clearly the new 30. Being 28, that would mean you’re only about 8 years old in terms of martial arts skills, so your fighting prowess can only improve over time. As JCVD’s alias “the muscles from Brussels” has garnered him fame, so too might a pseudonym help build your mythos. I suggest taking up the mantle of “The Curry Fury”, “The New Delhi Devastator” or the “Calcutta Clubber”. Peaceful civil disobedience my ass, Gandhi.

Grave Robber – Speaking of “steel”-ing, Nick Swardson’s right, get old and just rob the shit outta places. When you’re 90, you should be going 90. Right now at 28, though, you’re not going to get so much as a speeding ticket except driving around a hospital zone.

Golden Years = Golden Showers – Only two groups can void bowels and bladder alike without condemnation: Old people and children. Your perpetual 5 o’clock shadow excludes the latter. Break 65 and you can break wind wherever you like. Personally, I’d like to poop myself in the White House, what with secret service scrambling to handle a “dirty bomb”. I guess that “depends” on what you dream is, though.

Drugs – I may be wrong, but when you’re a senior citizen, the government gives you money to get whacked the fuck out on all sorts of sweet prescriptions. Who’s going to question an 80 year old needing a pound of your best medical grade marijuana?

Creeping out kids – Since you’re now back in the South, I don’t think you can get away with being an outright asshole (unless you’re in the KKK and I somehow don’t see there being a strong Indian chapter). You might as well go for the asshole neighbor shtick. Pop a couple footballs that land in your yard, sic your dog on trespassing kids, or go for a casual nude stroll on a Tuesday morning if you’re feeling particularly saucy.

Here at Concentrated Awesome, we often obtain exclusive scoops — and we’re not just talking about the experimental ice cream flavors we get to try at Baskin Robbins because our ex is the assistant manager (Darryl Strawberry, with its cocaine sprinkles, was truly addictive). However, this may be our biggest one yet: a transcript of the speech President Obama plans to deliver tonight during his State of the Union address.

Good evening, my fellow Americans. Before I begin, I’d like to thank the Vice President  for warming up the crowd with a Lady Gaga medley, which I know was a hit with the troops on his overseas visits. It’s important to have, uh, light-hearted moments once in awhile in these otherwise somber times. I’m not sure the wig was necessary, Joe, but it was, uh, colorful.

Many of you watching on TV may be wondering why the Congressmen seated before me are wearing 3-D glasses and, well, it’s because I’ve asked them to. I’ve reached across party lines, as I promised to do during my campaign, and sought out their help. You see, 3-D worked for Avatar, turning an otherwise mediocre movie into an amazing, memorable experience. I’m hoping the glasses can do the same for my Presidency. I took office over one year ago, asking the American people to don rose-colored glasses. Well, that hasn’t worked. I, uh, fully acknowledge that. The prescription in those lenses, so to speak, wasn’t strong enough. I understand now that only 3-D spectacles using the latest technology offer a way to see my true vision for this country’s future.

Van Damme was gunning for Gam-gam, but Obama’s death panel idea was killed by Congress.

In fact, the 3-D effects in Avatar were so distracting, no one even bothered to mention the film’s astronomical budget. With any luck, we’ll get people to ignore our ever-growing national debt, which is why I not only plan on distributing a pair of these to every person in America, but more importantly, all Chinese government officials will receive them.

I know there has not been much reason for optimism these last 12 months. The conflict in Iraq drags on. The economy has yet to rebound and our experts on the matter, such as Ben Bernanke, are borderline retarded. The housing market continues to decline. The Mayweather-Pacquiao has been called off. Rush Limbaugh’s heart attack was a false alarm. Conan won’t return until at least next fall, and even then, we,uh, have no idea what network he will be on.

In the face of all this unrest and uncertainty, I’m here to reassure you that hope is around the corner. The season premiere of Lost is less than one week away. President’s Day is in February, so that’s one less day you have to, uh, work, assuming, of course, you have a job. We may not have prosecuted members of the Bush regime for torture, but Balloon Boy’s father is in jail as we speak, so on some level, justice has, uh, prevailed. The Salahis have grown silent, and, fingers crossed, the Gosselins’ 15 minutes of fame appear to be expiring.  The price of both the PS3 and the Xbox 360 have been reduced. All of these are signs of societal progress and all have come under this administration.

To the critics who say I have not accomplished much, I submit the following acts as evidence to the contrary. I have already Twittered more than any President in U.S. history. I picked a puppy, albeit with significant input from my daughters. I planted an organic garden. Ok, that was mostly Michelle, but I do water it occasionally. I toiled tirelessly to draft a universal health care bill and convinced Congress to pass it, even revoking the death panels, which, for the record, would’ve employed two super-human Universal Soldiers to carry out the executions. Look, perhaps I could have used some of my time more wisely, but I’m pleased to say I have not spent a single second of my Presidency clearing brush, and that is a fact everyone — liberals and conservatives, Democrats and Republicans, blacks and whites, heterosexuals and homosexuals — can be proud of.

There are many reasons some ads never air. Some are simply too cool for public consumption, like this one (Nike  found focus groups couldn’t stop stiff-arming each other and people became preoccupied with picking up the blitz).  Others are too topical or insensitive , such as this commercial based on a recent event (although it’s still not worse than the current Domino’s campaign where the company admits they’ve been selling you an awful excuse for pizza for countless years — we think their new slogan should be “Now more edible than ever!”).

Hi, I’m Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab. You might not recognize my name, but I’m the one who had the balls to carry a bomb in my underwear (let’s be honest, sticking it in your shoe is for sissies). And there’s only one brand I trust for the task, Fruit of the Doom, the tighty-whities tailored with terrorists’ needs in mind.

Briefs have been added to the no-fly list.

When you want to cause calamity, you need to be comfortable and Fruit of the Doom understands that. The elastic waistband stretches out enough for you to store almost any explosive device alongside your genitals. Yes, that is a stick of dynamite in my pants; it’s not that I’m happy to see you. If you’ve got to stash TNT, don’t bother with BVDs, only Fruit of the Doom has enough room. A special pocket sewn on the inside lets you tuck the fuse for your bomb in — because you don’t want to walk around with your wick hanging out (that would be embarassing).

Hanes may work for Michael Jordan, but if you’re from Jordan, you want Fruit of the Doom. Would a wealthy Nigerian, whose words you’re reading on the internet, ever steer you wrong?

Not only are Fruit of the Doom briefs functional and durable (they’ll last Yemeni years), they look great, too. I’m just nuts about them. When I wear my Fruit of the Dooms, there’s at least one group of police I don’t have to worry about being arrested by — the fashion police! In a recent survey, 68 out of 72 virgins agree they prefer their martyrs in Fruit of the Doom, instead of the leading brand. The days of waging Jihad in Jockeys is over.

Fruit of the Doom — I wouldn’t be caught dead in anything else.

Bad news for all the ladies out there (“out there” extends beyond our audience consisting of a cat walking across a keyboard and randomly hitting this site). In a recent Journal of Sexual Medicine (no, not Playboy) study, researchers claim that the widely popular “G-spot” on women does not exist. Of course, they released this study several days after the New Year to avoid the ever embarrassing “Worst Lovers in the field of Science” award (the best, once again, going to Stephen Hawking for his Theorem on Booty Shakin’ in a Zero G Environment).

This whole study sounds like a bunch of crap to me. Who am I supposed to believe, years of women’s magazines telling me “73 different ways to get your boy to be a MAN in the sack!” or a bunch of scientists from England, quite possibly the most frigid locale outside of Antarctica? Let it never be said that I’ll hold back on our faithful readers. I’ve taken it upon myself to do some investigative work (unfortunately this was not a physical “hands on” experiment but merely a theoretical one).

Here now, my queried subjects and the results from my own personal study:

Online porn – Getting a woman to achieve an orgasm apparently requires little to no effort on the part of the man, as every inch of a woman is her G-spot. To keep it in PG-13 terms, a man need only be anywhere in a four block radius, have a body weight and thickness of hair slightly less than Chewbacca (see Ron Jeremy) and occasionally ask if she “likes that” (which, without exception, she does). Oh, he also possesses a phallus rivaling the monsters from “Tremors”.

Google Maps – “Turn East towards the Atlantic, 100 miles.” This may be a Darwinian protocol embedded within the app.

Television – I need to tease and gel my hair 5 inches straight up, gain enough muscle mass to carve the Grand Canyon with my bare hands, and wear enough fake tan lotion to put me next in line for the Syracuse Orange mascot. I don’t care if that is the answer, nothing’s worth it.

Video Games – “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBS!”

Medical Doctor – “Son, I’m a proctologist. Wrong end.”

Cosmo – As far as I’ve extrapolated, It’s always in the next issue, but doesn’t matter since he’s a dirtbag and doesn’t deserve you. Also, I’m a fat fat fatty fat and need to tone my buns if I want to get the ring from Mr. Right.

Genius at the Apple Store – “We’ve still yet to understand the two button mouse on a computer. You really think pushing the right buttons on a girl is our forte?”

Recently Divorced Neighbor – “According to my hag of an ex-wife, I couldn’t find it if my life depended upon it. But as she has no soul, that heartless bitch is merely a succubus put on this earth to steal my very life essence, so she probably doesn’t count.”

Mom – Mostly tears and incoherent bawling of “her baby growing up too fast”.

Dad – No response, just a smack to the back of the head and mild threat of a boot up the ass. I don’t think that’s where it is.

My Own Personal Sexual History – After contacting several ex’s (they exist), uncontrollable laughter didn’t seem like positive data to include.

I hate to leave this year behind me without a few brief thoughts. Mostly, they involve lots of obscene gestures and various locations in which to place a pineapple. And if you don’t think 2009 has an asshole, you clearly weren’t paying attention during the Madoff scandal.

If I may be so grotesque (and I will, as this is our site and you were dumb enough to visit), I’d like to share a few parting shots to everything and everyone I hated in 2009.

Tiger Woods – Every husband, fiancee, boyfriend, what have you is now left out in “I know he’s cheating on me” territory despite any and all good will, casting us all in the doghouse. So thanks for fucking us all over. Well, not me, I’m still flying single. Crisis averted there! Also, all sexual puns about golf jokes have been completely exhausted for the next 5 years.

My underwear is now classified as a dangerous weapons. Laaadies?

The attempted Detroit pants bomber – We had the shoe bomber several years ago and they started making us take off our shoes to check for incendiary devices. Do we gotta drop our skinnies now? Let’s just cut out the middle man and ban pants, ok? It’ll save me a lot of excuses/court appearances.

Death – Patrick Swayze AND John Hughes? Really? I will never have a perfect sweet 16 nor be swept off my feet by the man who had one of the greatest 80s mullets around. I swear, if you come anywhere near Johnny 5 from Short Circuit…

Pinnochio – Quite frankly, I blame everything that Jeff Dunham has done this year on you. Jiminy Cricket can kiss my ass.

The Boston Red Sox – No real reason, I just hate to pass up the opportunity to rub our Yankees World Series win in your dumb faces. Booyah.

Vince “ShamWow/Slap Chop” Shlomi – After punching his girlfriend, I can’t look at any absorbent materials the same way again, nor will I ever love nuts quite the same way. Wait, that last part came out wrong. I love nuts just as much as I ever did, if not more so. 2010, bring on the nuts! There, all better.

Snuggies – My ass is cold cause I’m not wearing pants. Where’s your solution to that? Lazy bastards.

Jersey Shore – This is some kind of 80’s douchebag renaissance that needs to stop. If Billy Zabka makes an appearance, I’m going to go Karate Kid all over his ass

Zombies – Because you deserve mentioning on this list every year, as both an undying (or, really, undead) love of brains and as the source of my eventual demise upon your apocalypse. Be warned – Left 4 Dead 2, World War Z and Zombieland were all in my wheelhouse this year. I’m training.

Hollywood – speaking of movies, a list of the crapfest we had to endure: Bride Wars, Hotel for Dogs, Paul Blart: Mall Cop, He’s Just Not That Into You, The Pink Panther 2, Confessions of a Shopaholic, Jonas Brothers: The 3D Concert Experience, Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun Li…Ok, I’m giving up. That was just the movies up to the end of February. If I list any more, I might bludgeon myself with my laptop and not make it to 2010.

The Year ‘09 itself – for being 60 years too early to be funny for 5th graders and idiots with their own blogs

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through my house

Not a creature was stirring, especially not my spouse.

Ladies stockings were hung by the chimney with care

By all the women with whom I’ve had affairs.

The sluts were nestled all snug in my bed

While visions of fame and fortune danced in their heads.

And them in their nighties and I in my Nike cap

Had just settled down after hours of hearing them yap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

It reminded me of when my SUV windshield was shattered.

Away to the window I flew like a flash

To make sure it wasn’t Elin threatening my head to bash.

Jolly old Jack Nick took time to swing by Tiger's place (we wish he had changed his sweater first).

The moon shone on the chests of my newly acquired hoes

And the luster of their midriffs made me content with the path I chose

When what to my wandering eye did appear

But an Escalade and eight senior golfers.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick

I knew in a moment it must be Jack Nick(laus).

One by one, out of the car they came

They all could shoot eagles and had courses bearing their names.

“Now Daly, now Duval, now Palmer and Strange

On Couples, on Curtis, and the two who staid at the driving range.

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall

Let’s hurry up, so we can get back to hitting balls!”

Because the old guys don’t move around so well

They didn’t bother climbing the roof and instead rung the doorbell.

Jack Nick was dressed all in plaid, from his head to his foot

It would’ve been an improvement if his clothes were covered in soot.

A bundle of clubs he had flung on his back

Nothing but Titleists were in his sack.

His face — how it wrinkled — his arthritis, how scary!

I said, “Jack Nick, I hope you brought me Katy Perry.”

He spoke not a word, but before getting to his work

He looked at the 14 stockings and then called me jerk.

And laying his finger on my chest he chided,

“You can’t stay inside until the scandal’s subsided.”

He hobbled to his vehicle and as he drove away I heard him holler,

“How many of your women would sit on Jack Nick’s lap for a dollar?”

Tiger's transgressions have some teed off.

Tiger’s alleged extra-marital affairs might cost him many of his endorsements (and we’re guessing Fidelity won’t ask him to be a spokesman), but we see an opportunity to plug a new product, which was at the center of the scandal. Expect to see this commercial soon:

Hi, Tiger Woods here. You know what I like, besides sleeping around? Long drives, on and off the course. And there’s no better vehicle to take them in than the all-new 2010 Cadillac Escalaid, specially designed for swingers of all sorts. It’s spacious interior contains enough room for your clubs and the women from the clubs. The leather backseat, which folds down flat, is both large and comfortable. Believe me, I’ve spent a lot of time there. Yes, the stylish and improved Escalaid assures I have game even away from the links.

The Escalaid has exceptional speed, whether you’re running late for tee time or running away from your enraged spouse, you’ll get going fast. GPS with turn by turn navigation helps you find what you’re looking for with ease, be it a new course or a new hotel to meet your mistress at. It delivers on safety, too, with shatter-proof windows and front and side airbags to protect you from harm, in the form of an accident or the wrath of your wronged wife. A padded brake and accelerator are perfect if you prefer to drive without shoes, like me. My favorite feature is the rear-view camera that lets you see objects behind you. It won’t help when you back out of tournaments, but it will help when you back out of the driveway in the early hours of the morning. The Escalaid is the best way to get around after you’ve played a few rounds or slept around.

With all these amazing amenities, there’s a “hole” lot to love about the 2010 Escalaid. What can I say, I’m fond of caddies. And cocktail waitresses.

Cadillac Escalaid, the car cheaters choose.