RUGator

What a joke.

Imagine the police knocking on your door after an incident like this and you rebuffing them for a SECOND time.

What a freaking joke!

http://sports.yahoo.com/golf/pga/news?slug=ap-woods-accident&prov=ap&type=lgns

Consider the following “hypothetical:”

-how much incentive is there for reporters to investigate “fishy” incidents involving celebrity athletes if the networks they work for are subsidized by companies who sponsor the athletes they cover?

Said differently,

-if company “X” is paying “X” athlete “X” dollars to use their products and that same company pays “X” network “X” advertising dollars, how motivated will that network be to uncover “inconvenient truths” about “X” athlete?

Say what you will about public figures and private lives. There is a price to be paid. And silly questions from an accidental observer.

Whenever I see this figure attached to anything, I think, “but it’s the .1 that concerns me.”

Why would someone spend this much of their “own” money to be a mayor?

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/24/nyregion/24mayor.html?_r=1&hp

Eat your heart out, Harvey Korman!

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/27/business/27geithner.html?_r=1&hp

Something very fishy going on here:

http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2009/04/24/sports/AP-US-Pitino-Extortion.html?_r=1

Here’s a link to a forgotten time and place:

http://artofmanliness.com/2008/05/20/rediscovering-the-barbershop/

…I had to walk three miles to school. In the snow. In summer.

…we never talked back.

…there was no such thing as “your side of the story.”

…we wore our older sibling’s clothing.

…we swam in the Passaic River. And we were thankful.

…we ate our food uncooked.

…money didn’t grow on trees.

…we went to school when we had “the flu.”

…there was no such thing as air.

…we hunted for dinner.

…gas was free.

…politicians were honest.

…men opened doors for women.

…our parents hit us when we misbehaved.

…we ate our allowance.

…we paid for everything in cash.

…nobody cursed.

…we respected our elders.

…no one lied.

…we just made things up.

…we were just like you.

Where are all these cows I keep hearing about. And when are they coming home?

Who let them out in the first place?

And what’s gonna happen when they finally do come home?

If they’re smart, they’ll stay out there.

Or better yet, “A Poor Man’s Camping World Truck Series.”

And yet that’s precisely where I found myself. Looking around I saw the unhidden body art, the left-eared piercings, the cuckolded masses, and those with Camaro envy. They were there too.

All of us trying to maintain. Some even slipping and falling enraptured within their own self-imposed primal yawps of SportsCenter-esque reverie.

You know the types: not quite as endowed as they think they are. B-list actors caught up in 21st century Blackberry/iPhone/Bluetooth/Leased vehicle purgatory. Jersey Shore summer stock characters dragging rusted-out Plymouth Dusters with big-haired gold-diggers in tow.

All on a stage of their own making, seemingly inure to the harsh realities of reality. (and me too?)

Getting a little too round for our own good, thinking otherwise. And who’s watching? Caring?

In a bowling alley in small town America.

I wondered to myself about the game we were playing.