Thinking outside the batter’s box.

I’m not saying Derek Jeter is old, but in contract negotiations he used the word “multi-vitamin” as much as he did “multi-year.”

Jeter is more washed up than a seashell on the Long Island shore.

A-Rod is also similar to a seashell, in that both once likely contained crabs.

At this point, it looks like The Situation has more productive years ahead of him than Jeter. Abs>ABs (at bats)

It’s true, Jeter considered an offer from the Mets. He also considered an offer from Metamucil.

If coaching was a staring contest, Jim Caldwell would win.

There’s at least one book we know Caldwell doesn’t own, Blink by Malcom Gladwell.

The Yankees are taking the Lee rejection so hard that they’ve banned Cliff Bars from the stadium concessions. They’ve also cut Lee jeans as a sponsor.

Into the Woods: If Tiger's tweeting, we're joining the club.

It was probably a bad Choice for Tashard to ask for Vick’s autograph after the game. Should we treat him with kid gloves if the gloves were for a kid?

After Romo got hurt, Cowboys had to open their emergency Kitna.

It’s no coincidence that Big Ben has had his clock cleaned twice this season.

President Obama had to get stitches after an errant elbow in a pickup game with his staff. That’s what he gets for appointing Dikembe Mutombo to his cabinet (as Secretary of Defense, naturally).

I’m not saying Brett Favre is old, but he’s Facebook friends with Father Time.

I’m not calling Brett Favre old, but he remembers when defeating the Redskins meant taking their land.

I’m not saying Brett Favre is old, but he has Gatorade make him a special flavor: prune.

Sal Alosi’s trip was dirtier than Rex Ryan’s napkin after dinner.

The Lakers were invited to the White House to be congratulated on last season’s championship. Andrew Bynum was injured shaking the President’s hand. He’s out 6-8 weeks.

Yao Ming is more fragile and expensive than a Ming vase.

Tiger Woods has trouble taking his children out to dinner — not because he’s famous, but because every place reminds him of a woman he’s slept with. Wendy’s, Dairy Queen, The Olive Garden and especially Hooters. You don’t even want to know what Fuddrucker’s makes him think of.

Michael Vick has been playing at an MVP level and it’s all thanks to his dogged determination, his refusal to roll over.

McNabb was replaced by a dog killer and then by a man whose name could be a dog’s (atta boy, Rex). Throw him a bone.

It didn’t take Mike Shanahan long to adapt to D.C. culture and talk out of both sides of his mouth.

We’ve read the SI cover story on Vick so many times, the pages are dog-eared.

Of course Michael Vick should win the MVP award. It does stand for “Most Vicious to Dogs,” right?

Andre Johnson hit Courtland so hard, I thought we’d be holding Finnegan’s Wake.

Johnson and Finnegan have agreed to settle their dispute in People’s Courtland.

The Winter Classic is the one day when hockey comes out of hibernation to show its face on national TV.

In the Coaches vs. Cancer Classic, it’s like the coaches are the Washington Generals and cancer is the Globetrotters. Cancer always wins.

There’s going to be some Urban decay in Gainesville.

We won’t see Giants acting as stupid as on Sunday until Gulliver’s Travels with Jack Black opens.

Giants fans were so upset after the loss, they destroyed every Dodge in the parking lot.

The only recent NY performance worse than the Giants was Spider-Man: The Musical. Both breakdowns are all over the web.

We’ve reached a breaking point with how much poking and prodding we’ve allowed airline security to get away with. When checking in requires the gentle nature of a prison rape scene, somehow a cross country car ride with your grandma farting up the family car starts to seem like a much more viable option. United’s even thinking about changing their slogan – “Fly the friendly skies! But first bend over and grab your ankles”.

With the gruff demeanor of a 57 year old ex-con manhandling every hoo-ha, wing-wong, and taint between, you’d swear you were reliving the repressed memory of “Uncle Handsy” when you were five. And while they may have marginally more power than your local mall rent-a-cop, it doesn’t mean you have to take it. Here now, the Concentrated Awesome guide to making it through the TSA security checkpoint.

Unlike “A Scanner Darkly”, it’ll have way less Keanu. Strike one, TSA.

Carrying on about your carry ons

Be aware of your belongings at all times – but check your pride at the door. This ain’t no flower hour (despite the touchy-feely nature of everything) so don’t expect a song and a dance before you get down with the romance. Let security know exactly what you want – spell it out for them (even if they don’t know how to spell). Your baggage (physical, not emotional) should include all of the following for inspection: a twig and berries, a bag of marbles, a coin purse, a pair of eggs (hardboiled, if that’s what kinda guy you are), an atari joystick, a door knob, assorted deli meat (kielbasas, bratwursts and salamis preferred), and just so we don’t leave out the ladies, a clam with a hilariously tiny beard glued on.

Looking your best

You don’t go out on a Saturday night without dressing up a bit do you? Well, if you’re reading this, you probably don’t go out any night period. If TSA is checking you out, give them something to stare at!

• Stuff an afro wig down your pants big enough to make Disco Stu look like he’s rocking a crew cut. For added effect, just before getting your groove on with the agent, pull out an afro pick and give it a quick toss. Or, take it the other direction – shave a landing strip and alert the agent “the plane is ready for take off”.
• Rock a full on Batman suit. Walk up to the scanner and eye them suspiciously, muttering about your “secret identity”. Insist “I didn’t need to take off my belt on the way here and I’m not going to now!”. Refer to the agent the entire time as “Alfred’.
• Fake a foreign accent – you may be able to get an arranged marriage and a couple goats out of the procedure.
• Throw on a red hat and claim membership in bloods (or blue/crips, if you feel it’ll make your eyes pop more). See how well the TSA can handle the NWA.

Playing the part

So you’ve got your outfits – now you have to make good on your preparation. Even those who’ve been around the block a few times get the shakes (getting groped in front of 20 other strangers can do that). Some good habits to keep in mind:

• Humor always has a place at the airport, especially during those long waits. A quick way of making friends is taping a sign reading “I promise I’m not smuggling anything up my butt” to the passenger in front of you, though they may not fully appreciate it until later when they can comfortably sit down again.
• As the agent puts on rubber gloves, pull out a condom from your pocket and feign readiness to put it on. Mention how amazing the ladies of Amsterdam were, “so you’ve got quite an act to follow”. If you can apply some fake cold sores beforehand, even better.
• Desperately plead to bring a small bottle of shampoo on board with you. When denied, scratch your junk furiously, pat the agent on the head and wish the agent better luck than you’ve had with the little fuckers.
• Make sure to take notes as passengers ahead of you are screened. When questioned, explain how it’s preparation for your job as a camp counselor next summer. Whisper “I won’t tell if you don’t” and give a sly wink.

The Afterglow

As quickly as it came (or as quickly as you did, we’re not judging), so will your examination end. Remember that snuggling is frowned upon despite how cuddly your bear of an agent may look. Other things to keep in mind:

• Ask for directions to the nearest scalding hot shower. Shake back and forth as your rub your hands together, with a few “the dirt just won’t come off!” for good measure.
• Boners should not be hidden. Rather, they should be proudly displayed as “Freedom Towers” you’ve erected in the name of liberty.
• Crotch/butt sniffing is permissible if the lines aren’t too long, but don’t take all day – 2 to 3 seconds only. You don’t want to get weird, after all.
• Don’t call us to bail you out of jail.

There’s been a great deal of speculation about my absence, although not enough to send out a search party. “He’ll return when he’s ready,” was always my parent’s attitude. As a result, I’m still waiting for my childhood canine, Doggie Howser, to come home.  Some said that after our 200th post, success went straight to my head. Lies. Just because I started substituting cocaine for salt, then began heavily salting all of my food (over-salting, according to my sponsor, but I say blow really brings out the flavor in Bagel Bites).  I didn’t turn into a hedonist just because I hired Tia Carrere as my personal escort, made her wear a stovepipe hat and a beard, introduced her to everyone as “Babebraham Lincoln” and myself as a schwing voter (coincidentally, her services cost mere pennies a day). There were rumors I became a J.D. Salinger-esque recluse, which is half-right, since I was working on my own novel about teen angst, Pitcher in the Barley (it’s about a boy’s love of beer, but it’s not auto-biographical, I swear). As is often the case, the truth was stranger than fiction. Here’s how I actually spent my time away:

Convinced the Crayola folks that they need a new shade of orange named “Boehner.” Wrote a dozen jokes about how the new Speaker of the House resembled Garfield, including that his first order of business would be to kick Odie off the table and how he would refuse to come in on Mondays. Scrapped them when I decided he looked more like Heathcliff.

Tried to cast a spell that would make a bottle of booze appear, by chanting, “Expecto Patron.” Tila Tequila appeared instead, thus ending  once and for all my curiosity with magic.

Played parlor games with comedians. There was spades with David Spade, hearts with Kevin Hart and mahjong with Ken Jeong.

Pitched my TV show ideas: 1. A comedy about a group of misfit Muslims who own a hookah bar, set in the city of brotherly love, It’s Always Sunni in Philadelphia and 2. A reality show with celebrity cokeheads, Whose Line is it, Anyway?

Founded a combination bakery and strip club, Hot Cross Buns.

Honored the NES’s 25thh anniversary by raising money to get Sister Sledge to sing my remake of their hit, “We are Famicomly” (sample lyric: I got all my plumbers with me/Mario and Luigi/ to stomp on a goomba, press ‘B’)

Polled professional horse racers to find out if they feel obligated to wear Jockey and surveyed produce sellers/weavers to see if they feel similarly about Fruit of the Loom.

Paid tribute to JCVD by resolving the decades-old pop culture question of which catalog of his films is better: the theatrical releases or the straight-to-video ones? Conclusion: Get James Lipton on the phone and graft some extra thumbs onto Ebert’s hands so he can stick them up in approval because his body of work should be declared the eighth wonder of the world.

Campaigned heavily to make sure McCheese won another term as Mayor (the Hamburglar wasn’t going to steal this election).

Pondered what would happen if the double rainbow guy met Rainbow Brite…on Diwali (or Christmas or Hanukkah).

Deleted a bunch of pictures Brett Favre kept sending me of his groin. As if I don’t get enough junk mail.

Petitioned President Obama to boost the economy by re-branding turning back the clocks as “Rolex Presents: Daylight Spending Time.”

A lifetime of neurotic tendencies will often manifest itself in some funny ass ways. You have your general what am I going to do with my life, health scares, existential crises, etc. that are a common thread amongst us all. That becomes a nice white noise in the waiting room of daily bullshit. You notice it, but it’s so pedestrian that oftentimes it’s safe to ignore it.

For example, my quirk is that every time I take off in an airplane, I’m about 115% sure it’s going down in flames.

That might be a bigger deal for most people, some kind of mental instability that would require the management of copious amounts of prescribed narcotics and the wallet-raping advice from a shrink. Always the eternal optimist though, I’ve manage to rationalize it in the following ways:

The sweating is just a glandular disorder – I’m actually pretty mellow about the whole thing.

1) Those babies on board seem to be getting a way shittier deal than I. At least I’ve had a beer or two, grabbed a boob, seen an R-rated movie with JCVD in it, all that good stuff. Then again, they can safely poop themselves as the plane is going down and no one would be the wiser. We’re about to bite it and some grandma sitting next to me rocking the colostomy bag is going to look down on me? Eff that.

2) I’m too tired to care. Unlike the dentists office or moving to a new place, the kinds of experiences where you have to be an active participant, a plane crash seems pretty passive, not to mention final, as soon as that door closes. An apathetic New Yorker may be cliche, but it damn well comes in handy when you’re about to face plant from 20,000 ft in the air.

3) It’s like winning the lottery, except just the opposite. The “you’re fucked” lottery. Gotta feel lucky that within the confines of billions of lives that have scoured this planet, I’m one of the few lucky thousand ever to exist that goes out crashing straight into it. Take THAT Mother Earth!

Now if I can only get Leslie Nielsen on a plane with me, I’ll be all set…

Congrats to President Obama, who Sunday joined the illustrious “random shit thrown at an American President” club. Previous inductees include better known candidates such as President Bush, who dodged a penny loafer during his second term, and lesser known like Howard Taft who on two separate occasions had a rabid possum thrown at him (or quiet possibly a perturbed shrew – some documents are still undisclosed from the “varmint years” of his term).

Now, Secret Service says it was an enthusiastic author who so badly wanted Obama to read his book, he rushed the stage and tossed it to the President. I suppose that’s one way to look at things – what actually happened. We expect a better kind of investigative journalism here at CA, so we’re taking it upon ourselves to look at the usual suspects here (I have a sneaking suspicion Marc is actually Keyzer Soze, but perhaps I’ve said too much).

• Christine O’Donnell w/ Harry Potter – What better way to distract from her bewitching ways than to shift blame to the White House? It’s not like she can just whip up a spell for every problem that comes her way (do you know the price of frogs eyes these days?). In this economy, even your every day sorceress, shaman, and general conjurers need to pinch those pennies.
• Anonymous Tea Partier w/ War and Peace – Just kidding. I don’t think your average Tea Party zealout could spell War and Peace, let alone find a copy of it in the library. Besides, they’re really more the book burner than the book thrower type.
• Jesus w/ a Bible – Man, no one reads that thing anymore! The Messiah’s gonna have to do a few book tours at your local Barnes and Noble if he wants people checking that thing out. And hey, if Obama casually mentions it during a speech, it’s win-win! Good exposure for the big man with liberals who might abandon their heathen ways and for Obama, conservatives may forget for 5 minutes he’s Muslim!
• Tony Romo w/ the Dallas Cowboys playbook – Really grasping at straws for a win these days if you’re hitting up Obama for coaching. Then again, ten yards away from the President and he still missed, so maybe do whatever you can. You also have to question his offensive line for letting Secret Service tackle him so easily.
• G.W. Bush w/ Everyone Poops – Because God dammit he wants to prove that EVERYONE poops. Second choice being a Winnie the Pooh book.
• Mark Zuckerberg w/ Facebook – Zucker-punching Obama, the billionaire CEO needed some kind of press to counter the negative image portrayed in the movie “The Social Network”. I guess throwing a sheep at his Facebook profile would’ve been too easy.

“If you only knew the power of the Dark Side”. It’s amazing what some parlor tricks and rolling around like a bad ass in a sweet ride can do for you. That said, Darth Vader, for all intents and purposes, is dressed like a clown.

Is this blasphemy among nerds? Perhaps, but he does walk around with platform shoes, a tricked out track suit, and a cape. There’s only one other dude who could pull that off (Elvis) and he didn’t even summon force lightning. You might be confused as to how they relate – it all comes down to mind tricks (yes, that’s technically a Jedi power; I’m mixing my Star Wars metaphors, but hear me out). You put on a good enough show and people will believe whatever you’re selling.

Christine O’Donnell may have given up witchcraft, passing it off as youthful hijinks. That doesn’t mean she isn’t still practicing some kind of dark arts to an ancient underworld god. The woman has done literally nothing and yet in the span of a week no one can shut up about her, including us. Palin, the Emperor to her Vader, at least was Governor of Alaska first.

My best explanation for this is a power I’m unable to fathom to its true depths – stupidity. You’d think with my Rainman-like ability to recall Simpsons episodes and unhealthy devotion to starting some sort of 80′s Renaissance that my personality would be balanced out with some sort of mental handicap. Idiot savant qualities aside, I’m smart enough to realize stupid when it smacks you in the face. Seeing O’Donnell launched into the limelight is like getting floored by a Mack truck. Which brings me back to my original point – if you only knew the power of stupidity.

Quick example. Go into a Burger King. You’ll see they have three size for their meals – medium, large, and king size. Try explaining the concept of “medium”, the middle size, to an employee. See who wins in that contest of wills as the employee sluggishly fumbles for a “small” button alongside a vacant, confused stare. What happens? You give up and ask for a medium. Stupidity wins.

I propose a three step process, the Looney Tunes process, for dealing with stupidity:

There may be a reason we confuse CNN with Cartoon News Network.

1) Distract – Elmer Fudd doesn’t understand a sound argument. What he does understand is that he’d rather kiss an anthropomorphic rabbit in a dress with a blonde wig than hunt Bugs (and who could blame him?). That would certainly explain the pitbull with lipstick.

2) Confuse – Rabbit Season! Duck Season! Primary Season! Election Season! You don’t confuse an idiot with logic. What do you is ask a blindingly simple question that should be answerable to anyone who can tie their own shoes. “What magazines do you read?” stumped Palin. Hell, you might be able to get away with convincing O’Donnell that she’s a Democrat and have her run a smear campaign against herself.

3) Anvil – They’re distracted and confused. That’s when you hit ‘em where it hurts, sarcasm, the Acme anvil of the debate world. Both ridiculing and baffling to idiots, smart-assery is our best defense and our most potent weapon. Which just goes to show that Jon Stewart is the Luke Skywalker in this poorly constructed analogy.

And that’s where we come in. When we look back and question years spent on TV and JCVD movies, we don’t think we’ve wasted our time with mundane trivial pop culture references and general idiocy. We’re preparing for the future. We like to think we’re doing it for the greater good. Your good.

Concentrated Awesome – the last line of defense against stupidity.

Tragedy struck Brooklyn Thursday as thousands of hipsters were displaced after the touchdown of a tornado in Park Slope. Lens-less horn rimmed glasses were scattered along sidewalks as residents in Williamsburg attempted to pick up the pieces after a storm broke through NYC, leaving many without power to their Macbook Pros.

“How will I know what I should be buying from Steve Jobs!?” worried one resident. Small coffee houses were quickly pulled together as small “shanty towns” where the survivors could band together to check their Facebook status and, even more critically, their social status. For those lucky enough to have rescued them, unopened copies of Kerouac and Kafka placed strategically for all to see are keeping their street cred afloat for the time being.

Fighting and minor riots have broken out at several bars after a sense of lawlessness gripped many as ownership of the establishment has flip flopped multiple times. “I don’t give a crap how many badges he’s earned on Gowalla, Foursquare says I’m the mayor!” cried one resident. “And don’t even give me that ‘Checked in with Facebook’ bullshit.” Looting has been at a minimum simply because no one wants the crap the hipsters have hoarded.

This man lost his ironically bad porn star mustache.

Not everyone is as distraught about the disaster, though. “A tornado in NYC? How very mid-western, Mother Nature!” quipped one Brooklynite sporting a blue jumper and a recently purchased terrier named Toto. Residents have attempted to take something from this senselessness by being even more senseless, starting the “Oz” fashion line. Ruby slippers sales have gone through the roof in the last day.

It’s also been a great chance for hipsters to finally achieve the disheveled, homeless lifestyle of the poor they’ve sought for so many years. Of course, without a true sense of the world outside of their wardrobe, this irony is lost on them.

The Salvation Army has been requesting volunteers to keep up with demand. “These assholes buy us out every Saturday already. Now we’re doing double duty! We should’ve had one of these tornadoes here a while ago!”. Specifically, requests have been made for donations of outdated audio equipment, specifically tape decks and 8-tracks, and faded 70′s throwback tees.

Still, the community suffers and several charities have been set up to rebuild. “If you’ve got a little sister, raid that closet. Her size 2 jeans could mean the difference between life or death for these douchebags out here! We’re also taking donations for clove cigarettes and any shitty beer you may have – I’m talking Pabst, Milwaukee’s Best, Keystone, you name it – please donate it. It’s the lifeblood of this community.”

Google Instant launched today, which sounds more like swill Starbucks is looking to charge $7.95 for rather than a new technology from the web’s search giant. So what’s it do, you ask? Well, you could go to Google itself and find out, but you’re lazy, drunk, and most likely have some sort of mental handicap, which explains why you’re here.

“Clicking buttons? That’s for suckers!” you belch out along with half a case of Mountain dew, Doritos crumbs spilling from your gullet. Even Amazon still makes you click 1 button when purchasing their shill. Faster than you can scream “I want a golden goose egg!”, you Veruca Salt your way to Google, where you find that no longer do you need to click that pesky “search” button to get your hourly fix of T&A. Google jumps right to it and grabs your Twilight/Anne Rice slash fic before you even feel the hint of regret creep up your spine.

Google has a great model on their hands – giving your more while making you do less. Tons of other companies could learn a thing or two here, most notably:

Google Instant: Because your porn can’t get there fast enough.

1) Burger King – Having it my way means I don’t have to “drive through” to get my arteries clogged. Chewing AND swallowing? FUCK YOU! Burger King has teamed up with your local free clinic to inject the cholesterol directly into your vascular system. It also comes with a cardboard mask of “The King” to cover up the loss in muscular control in your face after your first stroke.

2) Windows – Don’t boot your computer. In fact, better not take it out of the box. It’s got several viruses and a hacker in Russia already has your credit card info. Dasvidaniya bank account!

3) World of Warcraft – We’ve taken hundreds of dollars from your wallet, 5 years of your life, your sexual prime, and any chance at having a normal interaction with anyone outside of an internet cafe. In return, here’s a pixelated picture of an elf with some “unique” armor that everyone else has.

4) Facebook – Save your time logging in. We’ve already clicked on every one of your Farmville and Mafia Wars accounts. No one who matters has commented on your wall and your favorite band isn’t going to read your latest post on theirs. Also, we know everything there is to know about you. Here are a bunch of ads for you to look at.

5) Twitter – Summing up every tweet ever: People had some delicious sandwiches today, a bunch of people took a poop, and Ashton Kutcher is still a douche.

6) Fox – Don’t worry, before you even have a chance of enjoying a show, Fox will cancel it on you, saving you the heartbreak. As for Fox News, they’ve gone ahead and blamed every crisis from now until 2016 on Obama. “We’re fucked. Thanks Obama!” will flash in a corner of the screen at all times.

7) LA Clippers – They’re just going to sit this season, and why the hell not, the next five out. If you have season tickets, you’ll receive a package in the mail marked “Shame” that’s just a recording of all your annoying friends who jumped on the Lakers bandwagon taunting you. If you have the floor seats, it’ll also come with directions to the nearest bridge or tall building you can jump off.
Concentrated Awesome – Your next 1,000 posts: Zombie zombies zombies. Pun. Incoherent cursing. 0 Pageviews.

Marc

200 posts is no laughing matter. And not laughing is exactly what you, dear readers, have done at least 200 times (we understand that you’re all LOL’ed -out after looking at grainy pics of housecats butchering the English language). The only audience who’s waited this patiently for a chuckle without it coming is Jay Leno’s. It seems like just yesterday that we were at 100, but, then again, I have no sense of time and thought yesterday was March 11, 2009. To emphasize the magnitude of this achievement, I thought I’d turn to one of the most significant speeches in our nation’s history for help, revising it slightly to suit our tastes. Four high scores and seven beers ago…

I’ll admit I didn’t travel to Gettysburg, PA to deliver the address, but I did stand in front of an abandoned Getty gas station and I think that’s close enough. Like a spoon, I was stirring. Those hobos clapped so hard the part of their gloves covering their fingers fell clean off. You haven’t truly been honored until a pack of vagrants gives you an ovation and a half-crushed cigarette out of respect. I may not have grown up in a log cabin, but if home is where you feel most at ease, then the internet is my home (Lady Foot Locker being a close second) and Will and I have built an impressive blog cabin with our bare, dirty hands and minds. What’s more, our abode is impenetrable to termites (stick that in your stovepipe hat and smoke it, Abe). It’s no coincidence that we sometimes receive a penny for our disjointed thoughts, the very coin that bears Lincoln’s face. With so many similarities to our 16th President, it’s no wonder I’m paranoid that Powers Boothe is planning to assassinate me (fitting, that a man from Tombstone will be responsible for my death, although ironic because I want to be cremated).

200 posts means it's "Go" time.

The point is, 200 posts in, we’re still not responsible for a civil war. We haven’t even caused a flame war. However, we are responsible for the Food Network’s Cupcake Wars (we’re so sorry). But now is not the time to wallow in disappointment. Instead, we must bask in our success…the overwhelming success of our breathtaking failure. Failure to attract an audience or advertisers or investors, failure to turn a profit, failure to produce any material of quality or value, failure to come to a complete stop at an intersection (I can’t help it that I’m red-green-yellow colorblind). In a medium rife with pointless distractions, we’re still striving to be the most pointless. If I have one regret about Concentrated Awesome (besides not writing every post three sheets to the wind), it’s that when you Google search the site, the engine helpfully suggests “concentration camps.” Good to know that Google would rather direct its users to read about heinous acts of genocide than our latest paean to JCVD. Yes, the only ‘hit’ we’re associated with is “Hitler.” Being wrong never felt so Reich.

Readers, I stand before you today, seated in a chair, which I had hoped to be a jewel-encrusted throne, for our goal was to be kings of the internet by now. Yet, we’re no closer to royalty than that mysterious Minnesotan musician, Prince, who declared the internet dead.  If that’s true, we’re going to attempt to resurrect it — like Mickey Rourke’s career — and command it to feast on your grey matter or whatever’s left of it after reading 200 of our posts. We’d be doing a disservice to you and, more importantly, ourselves if we didn’t try to zombie all that we can zombie. After all, we’re still looking for someone to be the brains of this operation.

Will

They said we’d never get this far. Well, ok, no one said that. They, being an audience that knows who we are, don’t exist. So I suppose I said we’d never get this far. Well you’re wrong, brain. DEAD wrong. Hm, my head feels funny…

Whew, ok, I just climbed off the floor. You obviously didn’t see it, but my brain just threw me into a full body seizure for 5 minutes and I peed my pants. I guess we know who runs the show. Well played, noodle. Just be wary the next time I stick a Q-tip in my ear…

What have we learned in 100 posts since our last state of the blog? Very little, which means we’re right there with the rest of the country, except of course we know that Obama wasn’t born in Kenya. He was born on Mars (which does actually make him socialist, being from the “red” planet and all).

We did get sued earlier this year. That’s kinda like getting published, if said publication is run by assholes. I guess I can see how we fit in. Totally caving in to the demands of Hollywood makes us like the rest of the sell outs, except we didn’t get paid. Half way there!

I gripe about our audience, but there’s value in obscurity. Conan hosted the Tonight Show and, despite being really funny, still got fired. Until El Maestro Del Internet finds us, I suppose we’re safe in our tiny island of ambiguity. And hey, Jersey Shore got renewed. If that’s your idea of fame, you can keep it (except for Marc’s rock hard abs – I saw him out crush a garbage compactor with them once!).

We don’t do this for the glory – or the money or power, for that matter. Sure, the girls are nice (we don’t mean women sleep with us, we mean our moms pack us lunches with notes inside), but we have a higher calling than that. At least, I’d like to think detailing events from The Expendables is the Lord’s work. It’s like that part in the Bible where Jesus fights the three headed snake, then surfed at the Sunnyvale competition to raise money for the teen center. Billy Zabka would totally make an awesome Satan. There’s no doubt he went to Duke, so he’s already got the Blue Devil thing going for him.

My shaky grasp of Catholicism notwithstanding, we tell ourselves we do it for you. We do it for the craft. We do it because talking to the void in a blog post comes off as less crazy than muttering about it on the subway and cheaper than paying a psychiatrist. Besides, if there’s a drug to cure preparation for a zombie apocalypse, I don’t want it.

Tell Chris Berman to put on one of his hundreds of hideous blazers and rub some smelling salts under Al Michaels’ nose because the NFL season is nearly here — and not a moment too soon because baseball is clearly the Charlie O’Connell to pro football’s Jerry (although we’re still disappointed that Crossing Jordan wasn’t about players who dared challenge a certain Chicago Bulls legend). Since no kneecaps were shattered following last year’s predictions (we owe you one, mafia), we’re providing them again for 2010. Who better to handicap the teams than people who’ve been accused of being handicapped? Either way, helmets are involved. Since the Madden bus isn’t running anymore, climb aboard the short bus with us as we make our picks.

New York Jets: Expectations are high for the team HBO’s Hard Knocks — which it turns out isn’t about door-to-door salesmen — followed in training camp. Disgruntled cornerback Darrelle Revis will continue his holdout. To have an income in the interim, he will accept a reality show offer, Survivor: Revis Island. It will be lowest-rated CBS show ever, indicating that the network should’ve cast him in a scripted drama instead, CSI: Meadowlands (tagline: You’re on his turf now — astroturf.).

Minnesota: Brett Favre will take his indecisiveness to another level, alternating between calling it a career and coming back every quarter. His teammates will become so fed up that they’ll dump him at the Canadian border, thereby forcing him to “retire” to the CFL. The grey beard will stay up north — at his age, he could use the free health care — and win the Grey Cup.

Washington: Donovan McNabb’s first year will resemble that of President Obama: hope will be high and a lot will be expected of the new leader, but nothing of note will be accomplished. Sulking tackle Albert Haynesworth won’t be in shape enough to contribute and will continue to believe that conditioning is only done after shampooing.

New Orleans: The defending Super Bowl champs will have an underwhelming season, which they’ll blame on still being hungover from celebrating. Hey, it’s only been seven months, you can’t expect Drew Brees to have recovered yet from all those Sea Breezes. Their fans will both forgive and console these po’ boys, even offering to buy them a drink.

Oakland: Eccentric owner Al Davis said new QB Jason Campbell is reminds him of Hall of Famer Jim Plunkett. That’s the craziest thing uttered on tape in California since the last time Mel Gibson spoke (if the Raiders struggle, let’s hope a frustrated Davis doesn’t wind up screaming, “I spent more than 5 million dollars on you!”)

Drew Brees needs a fishbowl Margarita "this" big.

San Francisco/Houston: 49ers standout running back Frank Gore will leave football midway through the season after being convinced by a Hollywood agent that, based on his name alone, he is qualified to be an action hero. Following the same name dictates profession trend, Texans quarterback Matt Schaub will depart to become an insurance salesman.

Indianapolis: This will be the first year that perpetual Pro Bowler Peyton Manning’s number of endorsements exceed his team’s wins. In hindsight, he probably should’ve passed on promoting Colt 45.

Denver: When highly-touted rookie Tim Tebow scores his first touchdown, he will set a Guinness World Record for the most number of people to orgasm simultaneously. However, all his conservative Christian fans will deny receiving any pleasure from the act.

Miami: The Dolphins will host a LeBron James Night, intending to welcome him to the city, but fans will misinterpret the meaning, casting aside their loyalty to the home team in favor of one with better players (and better weather). As a result, 50,000 people will show up to the stadium wearing San Diego Chargers apparel.

Tennessee: Chris Johnson, who last year became one of only a handful of players to rush for over 2,000 yards in a season, will surpass that mark, running even faster and harder. After the seasons, he will reveal the secret to his success: drinking a mixture of gasoline and Gatorade.

Philadelphia: Passionate but stupid Eagles fans will fall so madly in love with the team’s new quarterback that appreciation groups, dubbed Kevin Kolb Klubs, will spring up all over the region. The KKK will hold regular meetings to discuss why he is superior to Donovan McNabb and burn crossing patterns in yards.

Cleveland: The lone Cleveland sports fan not on suicide watch will be placed on the list by week 3.

Dallas: Indulgent owner Jerry Jones, not content to have a cathedral of a stadium, which will host this season’s Super Bowl, will ruin his team’s chances of contending by dipping his most precious players in a most precious metal: gold.

Pittsburgh: Not a single female fan will use the restroom at the stadium this year for fear of Ben Roethlisberger following them in. Several bladders will burst (which will be re-purposed to make footballs), but the “Steel Can Ban” will remain in effect.

Cincinnati: Brash Bengals wide receiver Chad Ochocinco will make a spectacular one-handed catch for a touchdown. It’ll have to be with a single mitt because his other hand will be busy tweeting about the grab in real time. His relationship with Carson Palmer will sour, but his bond with his Palm Pre will blossom (teammate Terrell Owens will be so jealous he’ll buy an enV).

New York Giants: The Giants will discover the only thing worse than sharing a new stadium with another football team (the Jets), is sharing a room with your sibling, a pain Eli Manning will be forced to relive when Peyton calls the bottom bunk before the brothers’ matchup in week 2 (Eli will throw no touchdowns in the game, but at least two tantrums).