Archive for the ‘The Vick Criminal Empire’ Category

Now that’s just not fair.

Here’s Yoko Ono:


and here’s Jessica Simpson:


While I’ll admit Yolo’s rocking the Pilates legs at age 74, I don’t think that there’s an able-bodied male in our entire readership (both of you) who wouldn’t have made exactly the same choice as that young horn dog, Tony Romo.

I personally would do whatever it took to survive the weekend. I can only imagine what the customs agents in Cabo would think about my duffel bag full of viagra, popsicle sticks and duct tape, but I wouldn’t want to waste any time with detumescence.

On a related note, there is now a possibility that the Super Bowl could bring a coaching matchup between those two laugh riot quote machines, Bill Belichick and Tom Coughlan. I’ll bet the media is really looking forward to that week of interviews.

I’m afraid that it could mean more time for insightful commentary by Shannon Sharpe. Fuck, now I’ll have to wipe all the spit off from the inside of my plasma screen.


You know what they say about dogs looking like their owners…


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Whoopi “I was funny once 20 years ago” Goldberg went on the View and defended Mike Vick’s dog fighting operation. I saw a few seconds of it on ESPN. I honestly can’t go watch it again without my eyes bleeding, but I can’t let it go, so I will be paraphrasing a little as far as what the crazy bitch said.

First, she said he didn’t know it was wrong because it was part of his upbringing.

So Whoopi, were you Mike’s fucking nanny when he was little? How the fuck do you know what his upbringing was like? And if he didn’t know it was wrong, why did he do it secretly behind a big fence? Why did he deny it when first asked about it? Because he knew it was illegal, idiot. Whether he thought it was wrong or not is immaterial. Of course he didn’t think it was wrong. We can all see that. I don’t think smoking pot is wrong. But I know it’s illegal.

Then she said it is part of the culture where he was raised. One of the other crazy bitches asked where he was from, to which Whoopass replied, in a concerned, hushed voice, “the deep South.” The other ladies then nodded, knowingly.

Since when is Newport fucking News considered the “Deep South” you fucking douchebag? It’s a shipbuilding town on the coast of Virginia. You make it sound like he grew up pickin’ cotton for the man. Plus as we all now know, thanks to three solid months of hard-hitting dog fighting investigative journalism, the Midwest and urban areas like Detroit and Chicago are dogfighting hotbeds. Perhaps those poor misguided children don’t know any better, either.

So, yeah, Whoopi, it’s just like he was sponsoring cock-fighting in Puerto Rico. Except he was filthy rich and in America and knew it was illegal.

That’s all I saw. I’m sure there’s more, but I’m not going to take the bait.

Stay off my 24-hour sports network.

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From high on a ridge we see the three chained men running toward us.

In addition to their clanks we hear a distant chugging sound.


Laterally with the clanking, running feet.

The chugging sound is very loud.


Next to a freight train. A boxcar door is open.


The lead convict hooks an elbow in and starts hauling himself
up, his two clanking friends keeping pace outside.

Six hobos sit in the boxcar, lounging against sacks of
O’Daniel’s Flour. They impassively watch the convict clamber in as his two confederates run to keep up.

The convict hauls himself to his feet. In spite of his stubble he has carefully tended hair and a pencil mustache. He is Michael Vick.

As he dusts himself off:


Say, uh, any a you niggas smithies?

The hobos stare.

Vick gives an ingratiating smile as, behind him, the second convict starts to haul himself into the boxcar, the third convict still keeping pace outside.


Or, if not smithies per se, were you
otherwise trained in muthafuckin’ shop class
before straitened circumstances

forced you into being fuckin’ bums?

The convict running outside the boxcar door stumbles and disappears and the middle convict is yanked out immediately after. Vick, just finishing his speech, flips forward in turn, smashes his chin onto the floor and is sucked out the open doorway, his clawing fingernails leaving parallel grooves
on the boxcar floorboards.

The hobos impassively watch.


The three men tumble, clanking, down the track embankment.

Squush – they come to a rest in swampland at the bottom.

They shake their heads clear, then rise to their feet in the muck and watch the train recede.

Its fading clatter leaves the baying of hounds.

Jesus – can’t I count on you niggas?

The second con is TANK JOHNSON.


Sorry, Mike.

Vick looks desperately about.


All right – if we take off through that bayou-

The third con, Pac-Man Jones, bald but also with beard stubble, angrily cuts in.


Wait a minute! Who elected you head nigga a this muthafuckin’ outfit?


Well, nigga, I just figured it should be the one with capacity for abstract thought. But if that ain’t the muthafuckin’ consensus view, hell, let’s put her to a muthafuckin’ vote!


Word! I’m votin’ for yours truly!


Well I’m votin’ for yours truly too!

Both men look interrogatively to Tank.

He looks from Pac-Man to Vick, and nods agreeably.


Okay – I’m with you niggas.

Vick makes a sudden hushing gesture and all listen.

The baying of hounds is louder now, but through it we hear a distant scrape of metal against metal, like the workings of a rusty pump. The men turn in unison to look up the track.

A small, distant form is moving slowly up the track toward them.

As it draws closer it resolves into a human-propelled flatcar.

An ancient black man rhythmically pumps its long seesaw handle.

The three convicts look out at the swampland which begins to show movement, the bowing grass trampled by men and dogs.

The flatcar draws even and slows.


Mind if we hop on yo’ ride, ol’ timer?


Join me, my sons.

The three men clamber aboard and the old man resumes pumping.

The three men exchange glances; Tank waves a clanking hand before the old man’s milky eyes. No reaction.


You work for the railroad, grandpa?


I work for no man.

Got a name, old-ass muthafucka?


I have no name.


Well, that right there may be why you’ve had difficulty finding gainful employment. Ya see, in the mart of competitive commerce, the-

If you ain’t got money take yo’ broke ass home!


You seek a great fortune, you three who are now in chains…

Got that shit right, Uncle Ben. I needs to get me some new chains.

I could go for some of that damn rice ’bout now.

The men fall silent.


And you will find a fortune – though it will not be the fortune you seek…

I just lost a muthafuckin’ fortune.
I sure as shit needs to find another.

The three convicts, faces upturned, listen raptly to the blind prophet.


…But first, first you must travel a long and difficult road – a road fraught with peril, uh-huh, and pregnant with adventure. You shall see things wonderful to tell. You shall see a cow on the roof of a cottonhouse, uh-huh, and oh, so many startlements…

Mike, you ever try to get cows to fight?

Shut the fuck up, nigga.
The cloudy eyes of the old man stare sightlessly down the track as the seesaw handle rises and falls through frame.


…I cannot say how long this road shall be. But fear not the obstacles in your path, for Fate has vouchsafed your reward. And though the road may wind, and yea, your hearts grow weary, still shall ye foller the way, even unto your salvation.

The old man pumps – reek-a reek-a reek-a – as all contemplate his words.

Loud and sudden:



The men start, then mumble polite acknowledgement.
The railroad tracks wind to the setting sun. Reek-a reek-a reek-a – the flatcar rolls, in wide shot, toward the golden horizon.

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It seems USC is the consensus #1 pick in just about every preseason football poll.  Well, every poll except the Knoxville Fulmer Sentinel, which will continue to pick UT number one until long after every conceivable permutation of  league championship games and potential plane crashes have eliminated any possibility of  the Little Orange even finishing 2nd in the SEC East.

But is anybody even really rooting for the Trojans?  The University of Spoiled Children doesn’t really project the image of needing outside support.  Shit, they’ve already chased off two tailbacks, leaving the cupboard almost bare with only eight Parade All-Americans remaining.

The Wizards of Watts are talented and deep at just about every skill position, to the point where Mitch Cumstain, er, Mustain probably won’t ever see field in SoCal unless he learns how to hold for kicks.  And matinee idol Pete Carroll could give a shit what Mitch’s mom says.  Fayetteville, Arkansas will start to look a lot better once the Mustains realize that the University of Second Choice doesn’t have what you would call the most supportive system for their non-performing athletes.  Kinda like the support system Michael Vick had for his non-performing dogz.

Even Mississippi State has dedicated fans, fer Chrissake, and they haven’t done anything to deserve support in decades. It’s not like a visit to StarkVegas is worth a road trip unless you have a particular liking for cowbells and rickets.  Yet hordes of SEC fans do it five times a year.

Rooting for the Universite of Sodomite Corksuckers is like pulling for WalMart.  Or the Yankees. They don’t need your support.  They’ll do fine without you.  And they’ll trample all over your grandmother to succeed if given have a chance.  At least if you have a diploma from USC, you can leave it on your dashboard and park in handicapped spaces.

So fuggem.


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1. “My argument was, if he makes wise investments, other than in gold chains, then he should be able to make the payments,” lawyer for one of the nine women that Travis Henry has impregnated.

2.  “You’re paying a media consultant — fire the consultant,” sayeth the judge in the Crazy Stalker Astro-Nut case after the aforementioned Astro-Nut complained about the cost and inconvenience of her ankle monitor.

3.  “It would be nice to have a little indoor facility nearby where you wouldn’t have to spend your whole life trying to figure out a new plan. It’s very frustrating. It gets very old, and I’m about tired of it.” UGA Head Coach Marc Richt sniveling that he can’t practice his team under these barbaric conditions. By barbaric conditions, he means “outdoors”.

4.  There’s no real quote for this Michael Vick story.  It’s just heartwarming to see a negligent father try to extort money out of his wealthy dirtbag son in exchange for his silence.


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