205 Drop: Top 10 reasons why this MLB season sucks

Today's drop has all kinds of misery, which I'm starting to realize is why the people who read this wildly unpopular blog, well, read it. Go click if you care.

205 Drop: Top 10 tips to get cheap heat from sports fans

Today's link is a good list of bad things for worse people, and I'm fairly sure that I've only engaged in some of these (in that the Photoshop work is beyond me).

I can also tell you, from having done this work for a couple of years now, that the big traffic posts are never the ones that you expect. A few weeks ago, I had a Lemur mention on a throwaway line following a Lakers recap; I also had a big traffic burst from a simple moment of appreciation for Stephen A. Smith. The latter also got me some relatively rare troll action (who knew Stephen A. had so much free time?), all for a fairly quick and dirty post.

The lesson: life, as Woody Allen once said, is 90% about showing up. So you just do the work and move on, and maybe get a payday or two if you're lucky. Or hated. That works too.

205 Drop: Top 10 most annoying sports fandoms

The top spot in the list today won't surprise any regular reader of the blog, but with any luck, it will be an equal opportunity cheap heat generator, because hey, that kind of thing is important.

There's also one more thing to say about this topic, which is that it's an entirely modern phenomenon. With the rise of Road Fan (and who can blame them, really, considering that airfare, hotel, rental car and front-row seats to see a top MLB+ team on the road is less than just going locally) and the Internets, we're all putting up with Other Fandoms more than we used to, and that's not going to go away anytime soon.

I am nothing if not cheery, kids.

Anyway, go click and get offended.

Status Oh No

Tonight, my eldest daughter, who is nine, was in her first talent show ever, at her school. She sang "America the Beautiful" alone in front of a couple of hundred people. As I work a long way away from where I live, it takes about 100 minutes to commute, assuming things go well. The show began at 7, and my day job doesn't usually end until 5:30. It was also something of a hair pull of a day, really... but by working through lunch and just hustling, I was able to get out early enough to catch the earlier train.

Things were looking good until about 6:30, when the train began to crawl... and a trip that's supposed to take 40 minutes wound up taking 70, which meant that not only did I miss her big moment, but so did my wife, who was waiting to pick me up at the station. I'm told that the Shooter Kid did well, and we'll see the videotape later, but she was in tears afterward, because her parents weren't there for her.

So I'd like to really thank New Jersey Transit for their performance today. With a pair of pliers, and some imagination.

Since my daughter led off the show, there was still an hour-plus of elementary school acts to sit through (yes, I did check my Blackberry for the mobile Web game updates, because I'm just that kind of jerk during your kid's act) until I could track her down and tell her she was great and help her get her over the disappointment. Ice cream and flowers helped. I think. I did the usual bedtime reading in front of the television with half an eye watching the end of the Sixers season. All in all, not a good night, really.

So here we are again with my team, a first round loser in 6 games despite the absence in Game Six of 2/5ths of the starting lineup for the visiting Orlando Magic. The end came tonight in a game where they trailed for most of the way by double digits, were gashed by one of the very worst players in the NBA (JJ Redick), got next to nothing from starting center Samuel Dalembert (when the team is much better off with Theo Ratliff on the floor, you shouldn't have a job, really), and more or less insulted anyone who paid money to see them not force Game Seven...

(A few brief and bitter words about the Magic. They should win the next round against the staggering survivor of the Bulls-Celtics Jihad, considering that they are going to have a huge advantage in rest, and if the Bulls pull off the upset, home court advantage. They got healthier and better as this series went on, with Rashard Lewis and Hedo Turkoglu both getting up to full speed. But I'm not seeing it, because the bench is pretty bad (the reason why they kept blowing big leads), they miss too many free throws, Rafer Alston is going to get eaten alive by either Rajon Rondo or Derrick Rose, and Stan van Gundy is a loathsome piece of crap who has, over the course of this series, managed to bump off Geoge Karl and Phil Jackson from my list of coaches I'd like to throw a brick at. Moving on.)

Well, next year they presumably get Elton Brand back, and have the promise of more development from Marresse Speights, Thaddeus Young and Louis Williams. Maybe that's enough to make them go further. I don't think it's going to help to blow the squad up, and since head coach Tony DiLeo didn't even get a full year, I can't seem them committing radical surgery. But when you lose like this, at home, in the same pattern as last year... well, I'd like to see Dalembert gone by now, of nothing else. You can call him a fall guy; I call him a cancer. Let's see what life is like without him, please. Or see how he does fixing wire problems in Metuchen. That'd help, too.

The KG Asterick, Or Reason #8,234 Why The World Loves Boston Injuries

Oh, the things I do for you, dear reader. It's taking years off my life, this exposure to such unabashed and unblinking douche- baggery. It's also speaks to the workday's length and my interest in cultivating a low level of rage to help me get through it.

Which is all a roundabout way of getting to the point of yet another Bill "Bad Tooth" Simmons podcast on the World Wide Lemur page, in which we learn that if Kevin Garnett can't play in this playoff, as head coach Doc Rivers has indicated, it means that the eventual non-Celtic champion will own a tainted title.

You know, with an asterisk.

First, let's go into the nature of the Asterisk in the first place. There is, really, no defense for it on the Jerk Meter. If you go here, you're a jerk, plain and simple; you have to ruin someone else's happiness to have your own. Not to put to fine a point on it, but you make decent people spit. (And yes, that goes for the father of the Asterisk Title, the wildly overrated Phil Jackson. But that's a whole other kettle of hate.)

Let's move beyond the odiousness of the tactic and talk about the actual merits of how wildly sad, unfortunate and unexpected it was to lose a big man with over 1,000 NBA games on his odometer. The simple fact of the matter is that the devil's bargain that the Celtics made for last year's title has already paid off, and isn't likely to be paid again. When you build a team around three ticking time bombs of high mileage second banana superstars, this is what you get. Comfort yourself in your championship, knowing that most teams that make this dice roll come up craps on every pass.

In your best possible year, the injuries are timed to stagger out in the regular season and allow you to make a deep run, a la the Spurs going every-other year (prior to this year's Manu-ectomy, of course). When the stars don't align, you lose. Please, at the very least, have the self-respect that the Allmighty gave to a leech and accept this about yourselves, OK?

But wait, there's more. And I won't even get into the massive turd that Simmy Boy dropped in another sock-ruining podcast as to why the A's are the worst team to ever win 2 out of 3 at home against his Red Sox, or how awful A's Fan is to not come out to support their team in an old stadium in bad weather, with the knowledge that the person in the seat next to them is very likely to be Red Sox Fan. Anyhoo...

You see, we also get to learn from the master that Good Cleveland Fan *hates* that Garnett won't be able to go this time around. Only Bad Cleveland Fan is happy to have ducked the bigger baby. (What, I'm just giving props to Glen "Big Baby" Davis. Shame on you for seeing more into that, Celtics Fan.)

By the way, I'm still pretty much expecting Garnett to arise from Paul Pierce's Wheelchair of Miracles and throw down double-doubles while the Bad Tooth pleasures himself for a few thousand words. Meanwhile, my Sixers will lose in five against a Magic team that will get swept in the second round, with three of those games being tossed away in the last minute. In other news, I've just learned that in a past life I was one of those camp guards that enjoyed their work in eastern Europe in the low '40s. I'd feel bad about that, but I'm holding out hope that in Simmy Boy's past life, he was in my care, which would make all of this even. Moving on.

You see, Good Cleveland Fan doesn't want to have their possible championship cheapened by the Asterisk That Only Boston Fan Can See. Good Cleveland Fan wants to earn their first professional championship since the pre-Super Bowl Browns the *right* way, which is to say, while giving Boston Fan and his half dozen or so parades in this decade every possible chance. Good Cleveland Fan has simply shrugged off the close calls that the Jose Mesa Indians, Bernie Kosar Browns, LeBron's own Finals sweep moment, and the 40-plus years of being one of America's most tortured sports cities to think about how bad Boston Fan must be feeling about KG. Only Bad Cleveland Fan sees this news and thinks, happily, that the Lord may be finally setting up the breaks their way.

No, I'm not making this up. I don't even think the Bad Tooth was doing this as one of his periodic tired wrestling heel bits, either. It's just the way they are -- utterly freaking clueless as to how anyone on the other side of a sports argument might see things, or how his Boston Uber Alles apologies and hopes makes him an all-day tool.

Here's a small clue from the rest of the nation, on the off chance that any Boston Fan has gotten this far into the post... when Tom Brady got hurt last year, it was the best day of the NFL season for a large percentage of the NFL fan base, because it made you that sad. And the rest of us only enjoys your presence when you are that sad.

When Brett Favre cemented his legacy as the worst Last Season In The Wrong Laundry Guy Ever by keeping your Pats out of the dance, that was also just what we wanted for Christmas, preferably with one of those stocking-stuffer online petitions from you people to try to get the rules changed after the fact. Celtic Elimination Day, assuming that it arrives, will be one of the happiest days in the NBA calendar for everyone who doesn't root for your team. And there are more of us than there are of you.

So, to sum up:

You are hated.

Not envied.

Hated.

Not special.

Hated.

Not unique.

Hated.

I'm saying this in really short sentences so that you understand it.

Even if all of your teams go into the tank at once for the rest of my lifetime, with the Celtics being the best candidate to circle the drain given how likely it is that Ray Allen will soon succumb to the brittleness that kills off every aging jump shooter, no one will ever feel sorry for you again.

In any matchup with even the most odious of opponents (i.e., the Yankees), the rest of the world will see you as equally distasteful. Especially for people who have, you know, paid attention to baseball in the last decade or so. (This, by the way, is my explanation for why Oriole Fan and site contributor Dirty Davey still has his reflexive Anyone But The Yankees thing going on.)

Which, of course, you will completely ignore, given that your heads are so far up your Asterisks, it's a wonder that you can watch the games at all.

Oh, and if you want to go down the path of how Simmy Boy doesn't speak for you? Um, no.

Own him, like all of the other mewling celebrities in your fan base.

Own him, like your Nixonian football coach and your riverdancing closer, your roll out the ball commuting basketball coach and your increasingly lily-white baseball team and fan base.

Own him, along with the simple and persistent fact that PEOPLE HATE YOU BECAUSE THEY SHOULD.

And in other Site News, this is Post #2,000.

Apropos, don't you think?

205 Drop: Top 10 sports I will never care about

Today's list is chock full of hate and derision, and with luck, I'll get seething comments of outrage from Lacrosse Guy, because that's just my kind of fun. Seriously, is there any sports fan or player more irritating than Lacrosse Guy? You can just smell the entitlement and self-righteousness coming, can't you? I'm like a kid at Christmas over this, and that doesn't even count the hope that Rugby Fan or Women's Basketball Creature will get into the fun. (Not much hope for arousing the ire of Nascar Fan, though -- they are all too busy making sure the bunker is stocked now that Obama's in charge.)

Something that needs to be said to UNC Fan

I'm a Syracuse graduate, so I have no love lost for Villanova, despite also having grown up in Philadelphia. So when I watched tonight's UNC-Villanova Final Four game, the only thing I was rooting for was a little drama, and learning whether or not Ty Lawson will be a good pro in the Association. (The answer to that is, well, no -- he's quick but not that quick.)

UNC was clearly the better team in a downright dull game -- seriously, it was obvious for just about every second of action in this one that 'Nova just couldn't compete -- and given that they beat Michigan State by what Spartan coach Tom Izzo referred to as 100 points in the halftime chat, it looks like they're going to win another championship next week.

But, um, there is one small point that UNC Fan needs to be told...

Um, that Tyler Hansbrough kid you've got? I've watched enough of Duke basketball to recognize the type, and he's a Dookie. I've never watched him play basketball before, and I found myself hoping he'd get his nose broken. Any team in the Association that takes him is going to find themselves on a lot of posters. Just saying.

(Oh, and kudos to CBS for recognizing that Horror in 2009 means dragging a woman off screen by her ankles, as they did in their promos for "Harper's Island." First director to do this with a man is going to be a freaking trend setter.)

Blogrolling: I Am Veto Vomiting. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

I am Veto Vomiting, and the Five Tool Ninja is Balls Horror. Who are you?

Back to back Blogrollings with Punch Out stories? You bet your body blow.

Some small, mean part of me is very, very happy to know that NASCAR Fan has to suffer with even more regrettable Fox animation than we do in the NFL. East Coast Bias with the story.



I'm just including this here to make Dirty Davey's head explode over how a Dookie will never, ever be called for traveling. On the plus side, Scheyer must be amazing on the dance floor with all of his teammates, and that's even before the poe dancer presses charges. (Oh, I'm so unfair to Dookies! Please, for the love of Coach K, throw me into the brier patch of links from Duke sites!)

Jim Bowden, the mostly incompetent GM of your Washington Nationals (well, they certainly aren't mine), decides to resign rather than be a distraction for an investigation of how he's been skimming money from the club on Dominican signings. What a selfless resignation! What a great guy! What an utter load of horse manure! Biz of Baseball has the sword fall, but, um, Jim? Innocent people don't quit over allegations.

Blogrolling at the end of human dignity

Pub crawls in Snuggies, because nothing says Ironic and Hip like looking like a plush druid. I'm convinced these things are responsible for the fall in the stock market; how can you have confidence in our prospects as a nation when people walk around in public like this?

Maybe I'm being too hard on them. They are, after all, consuming less fossil fuels in a cold winter. And maybe it's better for these people to cover up their lardassity... because I'm really not thinking that anyone with any kind of body would wear this.

No Child Left Behind needs a new name. It's a contest!


Joe Sports Fan with the flat-out fantastic video. And if you don't know this guy, you might *be* this guy...

Lemur Blues

The Wall Street Journal

Renewing sports broad- casting deals with Major League Baseball, NASCAR and other entities is getting more expensive for ESPN. With ad revenue down, that could put the cable network in a bind and have repercussions for parent company Disney.

ESPN spends about $2.2 billion annually for broadcast rights to major sports in U.S., including $300 million for 80 Major League Baseball games, $270 million for the final 17 NASCAR races and $1.1 billion for the National Football League's Monday Night Football.

ESPN's NFL payments nearly doubled during the last round of negotiations, and each of its other major rights fees rose by at least 20%. "You have increasing competition for a finite set of sports properties, and that is going to squeeze margins," says Lee Berke, sports media consultant.

Competition is likely to increase. For example, Comcast's 24-hour sports network Versus, saw its audience grow 22% in 2008, and it tried to acquire the rights to the NFL in 2005. Versus executives have vowed to bid against ESPN for additional rights in the future.

So how will all this play out? Well, the Lemur's not just going to stand still and lose money. I'm thinking that they will have to play hardball with cable providers, in the same kind of winning move that made NFLN such a welcome addition to nearly no cable packages.

When push comes to shove, I suspect all will go along with it, because the Lemur demographic is just too important to lose for advertisers, even in a down economy, and there's too big of a chance that guys who are Lemur-less will tell their cable provider to go pound sand.

So then the cable company will have higher costs... which they'll pass along to everyone. Some subscribers will slide over to the dish, or with increasing frequency, to the Web for a la carte programming.

And eventually, by which I mean within ten years, the broadband pipe will be big enough to put that cable provider in the same place as the music industry. (Which, considering just how many people really, really, really hate their cable provider, can't come fast enough.)

We Will Now Return To Our Regularly Scheduled Wanking

Did you have NBA Trade Deadline Fever? I know I did, having spent most of the last 72 hours in a cocaine-fueled tizzy while digging into the contract details of every player in the Association, then moving them all around in ways that only my fantastic mind could comprehend. After that work was done, I then went on to a lot of NBA blogs and posted my latest research, just to see how much groundswell I could get. How else could you explain rumors like:

> Shaquille O'Neal to the Cavs, because he worked so well for the Suns in their stretch drive last year, and the Cavs are completely convinced that they need to blow up the team, considering how gosh-darn awful they've looked as the best team in the East this year

> Vince Carter to Toronto, just to teach him a valuable lesson about being a piece of crap

> Kirk Hinrich to a team that's convinced that oft-injured and unathletic point guards always age well (surprisingly, Hinrich is still a Bull)

> Stephon Marbury to the Celtics, because the Celtics always get a guy for pennies on the dollar, and the Knicks want nothing more than to put him in the same division and on a playoff team, for all that he's done for them

> Raptors sending Chris Bosh to the Bulls, because you want to move a guy to a franchise that, if they offered their entire team for him, still doesn't have enough

> My left nut for my right one, just to give both a fresh start

What actually happened? Squadouche, as Norm Chad might say, and I'm probably impugning the good name of nothing by associating it with Larry Hughes and Rafer Alston (but probably not Brad Miller). By the end of the afternoon, the Lemur had already pivoted to the Tiger Comeback, having sensed that the biggest annual non-story, behind only Dog Show Coverage and the ESPYs for sheer Public Naked Pud Pulling, had faded.

Why do the Association's fans and writers fall for this every year? Maybe it's just that it's February and we're all out of other things to write about. Maybe it's because the writers are all hopeless nerds who would rather play Fake GM than Real Fan.

Or maybe -- and this is the stunning thing, the unthinkable thing, the dare not speak its name thing -- the Association's front offices are actually, you know, a little bit smart about their jobs.

Trades in the NBA, unless they are absolute theft (see Gasol to the Lakers and Garnett to the Celtics), are rarely a great way to improve your lineup. That's because trades are almost always about the salary cap, rather than the on-court product, and because it takes a long time -- years, really -- for players to truly adapt their games to each other and be successful, especially on the defensive end. Most mid-season trades are just shuffling chairs on the Titanic; by the time you've played 50 games, barring injury, you are what you are. Unlike baseball, a bubble team does not go to the Finals with the right move; unlike football, trades actually exist.

Anyway, now that that's over, it's time to... watch the games? Hell no. Let's write some more about the 2010 free agent class!

The FTT Guide To Televised Poker

I'll level with you, Dear Reader... I've been watching *way* too much televised poker recently. It's all part of, oddly, trying to get in better physical shape and reduce down to my college weight (I'm less than 10 pounds away, but those are, of course, the hardest). I also play enough poker, for enough money, to want to Not Suck So Much At It. So, well, there you have it.

My method is to set up my weights and exercise bike in front of the Man Space Television and use the coursing, low-level hatred that my brain generates for much of this drivel to power through my workout. It might be taking years off my life from the bile and blood pressure, but hey, at least I'll leave a tough old man corpse. That's all that any of us can hope for, right?

Anyway, the new poker viewer might not know which of the literally half-dozen active poker series on television to watch. So consider this scouting report a kind of public service. Only, as you will see, without the service.

Each showed is ranked from 1 to 10 blood vessels in your head, one being a mild amount of stress, 10 being a full "Scanners" style meltdown. Please note that while these shows may make you slightly more versed in poker vernacular, the resulting brain cell loss will more than make up for any gain you might get to your game.

Poker After Dark (NBC)

PAD is a single table set where top money players play in a controlled set, with small piles of chips and obscene bricks of cash. The vibe is like a home game, provided your home game has crazed millionaires in it, and armed guards at the door to watch over the cash that, in all likelihood, is coated with enough cocaine to kill a horse.

Level of play: Expert to the point of meta. The people who play PAD have made the decision to spend their lives at poker tables, as if this was in any way healthy or sane. (Note: I didn't say it wasn't lucrative.) So the play is fast, players are frequently calling each other's hole cards out loud, and if you want to play these people after watching PAD, you are out of your freaking mind.

Watch for: Poker train wrecks like Phil Hellmuth and Mike Matusow freaking out after, horror of horrors, they don't win. Greek tragedy ain't got nothing on Hellmuth getting re-raised, and I think they like to keep Matusow around to see if he'll eventually become homeless and/or violent. Someone, for the love of God, has to stop Hellmuth.

Wacky Fact: People track PAD "championships" as if it were not, well, a fairly small achievement to be the last person standing in a small table, no matter how good the competition is. The championship trick is just getting invited.

Obnoxiousness: Potent. NBC has spent its money on the at-table talent, and since there's nothing but lifers at this table, there isn't more than two or three unused oxygen atoms in the room. So your commentary, if you can call it that, is usually left to basic points that anyone with eyes and a mild amount of poker experience can see. ("Ferguson's trying to accumulate chips." Wow, thanks.)

PAD gets its Smack It In The Face Moments from the players trying to "make good TV", which generally involves watching Hellmuth barter for insurance like a complete pussy on pots in situations where the math is out there and obvious. Someone, for the love of God, Stop Hellmuth.

Titty Factor: High class. PAD features post-wipeout interviews with losing players, as done by the "If you have to ask, you can't afford" stylings of Leeann Tweeden; she's classy, and knows just enough about what's going on at the table that the players look her in the eye. Besides, these are lifer poker players. They'd much rather talk about cards and how crappy the guy is who just beat them than to make a move on the help.

Overall rating: 5 Blood Vessels. Oh, and if you're watching this thing at 2am on a weeknight without the use of a DVR, You May Have A Gambling Problem.

Heartland Poker Tour (SNY and syndication, one presumes)

The HPT takes you to all of those places that you wouldn't go to on a bet to show you that, by gosh and by golly, poker is played in the hinterlands, too! The vibe is two steps up from public access, and final tables are usually mixes of Web players who can barely shave against old bluffers who can barely stand. Luckily, thanks to the healthy lifestyle of a pro gambler, the kids can see what they'll look like in ten years. Yeah, you're right. Four.

Level of play: Highly variable, but tighter than you might imagine. You watch HPT to hear the hosts sing the praises of some rank amateur as he catches cards early, then turn on him like a cheap suit when he runs cold and makes a badly timed bluff. The fact that they are seeing the hole cards makes them very, very smart.

Watch for: Perhaps the most craptastic theme song ever sets the tone. Then you get nonstop pimping for the crappy casino du jour, all the way down to specific callouts for the restaurant, spa and, I'm sure at some point, individual Native American hookers that re-enacted the Trail of Tears in the luxurious executive suite 30 minutes before airtime. You normally have to go to the downmarket rooms in Atlantic City or Reno to get this kind of pure flopsweat.

Wacky Fact: Like all of these shows, the hosts make a big deal out of the money being made by the top finishers. However, given the expense of entering these things, this payday is going to have to cover a lot of blank shots to be the kind of Manna From Heaven that the announcers are making it out to be. But hey, getting five figures is well and truly Life Changing, especially if your life isn't worth that much. We're getting that double wide, honey!

Obnoxiousness: Fairly high, as the color commentators are clearly studying at the altar of Norm Chad, only without any kind of actual talent. (And Norman's not exactly waking the ghosts of Edward R. Murrow, kids.) HPT is also big on calling out goofy pre-flop card combination and repeating them. "He's got 9-5 off-suit, the Dolly Parton hand!" Ha Ha Ha Ha! And he's folding it, because that's a crap hand that really doesn't need to be named! Let's all chuckle some more at your lame and often repeated joke!

Oh, and the fact that the color commentator (Fred Bevill) talks with a lisp and, in moments of "humor", talks about playing poker while wearing a diaper? That's just special. Short bus special.

Titty Factor: Oh dear. All I can think is that the producers must not know about HD, or have some deep-seated fascination with make up, because HPT's women look like they put it on with the Homer Simpson Cosmetics Shotgun. HPT's gets a small nod for the help's willingness to appear on camera in bathing attire (dammit, these hotel rooms aren't selling themselves!), but in terms of eye candy, it's more Big League Chew than sweet dark chocolate. If you catch my drift.

Overall rating: 6 blood vessels. You know how people who live near the oceans in the US have this sneering condescension towards flyover country? It's not all unjustified.

World Poker Tour (Fox Sports, presumed syndication)

The WPT occupies the same space to ESPN's "World Series of Poker" that, say, the old CNN "Sports Night" occupied to "SportsCenter" -- a clear second place finisher that tries to do different things, but is so dreadfully un-hip as to just seem more than a little sad. Which is a shame, really, as it's got some things going for it. Basically, you're watching the last two hours of edited highlights from a large scale tournament, starting with a final table of six players. Eventually, There Can Be Only One. Original, no?

Level of play: Some of the best on television, and it's not hurt by the fact that the WPT isn't afraid to show what the game is really like at this level -- which is to say, a ton of hands that never get to a flop, let alone the river. The winning players also bring home enough money that you'll see some of the upper crust players at these final tables.

Watch for: The wild, manic depressive swings of false drama when someone takes a pot. It's like the WPT hosts are being paid by the exclamation point. They also *live* for the quirky occupation amateur player. I saw an episode the other night with a 59-year-old funeral director, and I'm pretty sure they had to declare the broadcast booth a hazmat area from the amount of jizz joy this seemed to provoke.

Wacky Fact: When they get to the final heads up, they trot out the best skanks that the local casino has to offer (costuming helps here, but not enough) to shower the table in not really enough bundles of cash to be all that impressive. They also give the winner a set of World Poker Tour chips because, for heaven's sake, you wouldn't want to win hundreds of thousands of dollars without getting a version of the home game. Finally, they make the winners toast with long neck bottles of Budweiser, which is high comedy when you see some Internet pre-pube or Euro high roller have to fake his way into drinking that. You may have just won hundreds of thousands of dollars, champ, but you're still surrounded by morons. Congrats!

Obnoxiousness: Quite high, as the commentators really are that far over the top. And while their production might be more true to life, the breathlessness over a pre-flop fold really does make you want to hurt someone. Finally, since the money is good enough, you actually have big crowds at the rail at these events, which might be the worst thing to ever happen to poker. If you're spending your life cheering on people who you are not related to at poker championships, you might have a bigger life problem than even the people spending their lives at poker tables.

Titty Factor: If you've seen HPT, you've seen WPT, only with a slightly more international tilt, which is to say that the hostess will not be wearing leopard trailer park prints. It won't make you regret your HD coverage as much, but you also won't get superfluous bikini shots.

Overall rating: 8 blood vessels, if only for the hosts. Seriously, they are that bad.

High Stakes Poker (Game Show Network)

Like Poker After Dark, but want to see it with more of a cheesy casual setting, cash all over the place and preening announcers? You're in luck!

Level of play: Meta fast playing with strong undercurrents of personal abuse. Something to keep in mind with these cozy little pro shows is that you're much more likely to see a female face or two, and they're also much more likely to do well. One suspects that this is because the top female players just don't have the time to spend working their way through the hyper-patient big tournament shows, but let's face it, folks... if you're playing poker for a living, you've got the time to spend, regardless of the presence of ovaries.

Watch for: Nasty in-fighting towards black sheep players, more cash than you see outside of a drug runner's car trunk, and wildly tired announcer in-fighting. It's also, perhaps, the clearest window into the world of a high stakes cash game. It also gets some major props to the fact that the players are actually buying in, so when you see someone take a bad beat, that's their own money leaving them -- rather than some arbitrary and inflated amount of chips.

Wacky Fact: Since it's just a cash game, there are no trophies, no bracelets, no hostesses and spectator theaters; you know this is, at least, a different show. It's also just plain freaky to see that much cash being tossed around without anyone seeming to, you know, sweat freaking bullets over it, or to watch players re-buy for a mere $100,000 more. It's very easy, in watching poker on television, to divorce yourself from the reality that people lose money while gambling; HSP makes that very, very clear. Good times!

Obnoxiousness: Almost off the charts, especially in a bad economy. I keep expecting to see bank presidents show up with bailout cash. At least when they play with chips, it seems like a game that I could play, rather than the poker equivalent of Marie Antoinette and her court. But at least it's different from the rest of this motley mess.

Titty Factor: Almost non-existent, unless your idea of action is a fat guy in need of support, or a woman who might have been solid twenty years in real time, or three years in poker time, ago. Besides, she knows you're lying.

Overall rating: 9 blood vessels. That view into How The Other Side plays comes at a terrible, terrible price.

Best Damn Poker Show (Fox Sports)

Want to watch bad poker and a worse reality television show, all at once? Then put your dignity in a blind trust and come on down to the abuse of Hellmuth and Annie Duke!

Yes, it's "Survivor" Poker, as The Poker Brat (psst, Phil! That's not a compliment!) and the only female player who will be seen on HD willingly watch a bunch of neophytes try to get on the "teams" of either player. I'd tell you more about it, but I'm still having blackouts.

Level of play: A weak home game, especially at the early levels as the true non-players gets weeded out. If you want to see truly erratic and inexplicable play that *doesn't* work, this is your show.

Watch for: The extraordinary amounts of pain that being near Bad Poker seems to cause Hellmuth and Duke, followed by their less sincere but still eviscerating "You're Out" monologues to the worst players. Watching someone nod and smile while being told they suck is just shadenfraudey fun. Also, if you are a very bad player, this might be the speed you need to learn something. Your first lesson might be to try breathing through your nose.

Wacky fact: Everything but the poker here is excruciating, and the poker is also, well, excruciating. It's like a netherworld of dumb. Watch this long enough, and I think you forget how to use the remote.

Obnoxiousness: You have a show that gives Phil Hellmuth the complete mouth job to his ego. Remarkably, he's less over-the-top than Duke, who really seems to be trying to be a bigger bitch than Phil. It's kind of fascinating, on a scientific level; think of it as the "Metal Machine Music" of televised poker.

Titty factor: Your choices are Duke or nothing, at least in the single episode I was able to watch before smashing my head into a wall. Go with nothing.

Overall rating: 10. All-in. Quads on the flop. I can't give you much more, Captain! My head's breaking up!

World Series of Poker (ESPN)

Probably the only poker show that 90% of the general public has ever seen, and just like everything else the Lemur does, incredibly destructive to the event that it covers. Play that funky slide riff, white boy!

Level of play: Wildly variable, and actively awful for routine players. The biggest problem with WSOP is that it's edited purely for theatric purposes. So if you see someone make an awful misread and go into a pot as a 4-to-1 underdog, you are more or less even money to see them suck out on the river, then dance around like Jonathan Papelbon on meth, like they did a good thing... because the Lemur is in no way interested in televising poker. They are interested in televising spectacle.

Watch for: The worst bad beats this side of dominatrixes working a Republican convention. You've never seen so much runner-runner, single out suckouts. You also get to see the dregs of humanity that have someone scrapped their way into a massive, big money tournament; the first few days of their bigger events are more or less indistinguishable from people who dress up in costume to go watch games.

Wacky fact: Norman Chad has ex-wives! Waka waka!

Obnoxiousness: Other than when Chad's trying too hard and the Suck-Tastic Highlights, the Lemur actually keeps things in check. They also get a major plus from actually calling Hellmuth (yes, him again! He's very special! Just ask him!) on his crap. Sidebar features are kept to a tasteful and not too terrible minimum, and they did, after all, pioneer the art form, as it were.

Titty factor: Almost nonexistent, because the Lemur is serious. Also, they are, let's remember, owned by Big Mouse.

Overall rating: Five blood vessels, if only for the production values that make you cringe less than anyone else in the field. But folks, please, stop encouraging bad players to dance around like people with ADD. We're not asking for too much, are we?

Top 10 ways to pick at the festering scab that is the Eagles loss

No, kids, I'm still not over it 24 hours later, and probably won't be for another week or so. Won't you wallow with me?

10) Local sports radio. I don't have enough courage to wade into the dregs of humanity working through their stages of grief by listening live, but you might. Don't say I didn't warn you.

9) Play by play recreations. My favorite is when Tim Hightower runs 15 yards behind his line of scrimmage on a fourth and one, before turning it upfield for the conversion. Had someone stopped him -- and yes, there were possibilities -- a red-hot offense has the ball at midfield with a chance to put it on ice. Yes, it was something of a Turning Point.

8) Listening to the Bad Tooth's podcast. Shockingly, Little William doesn't want to go to the SB, because he's having too good of a time driving around SoCal, isn't ready to subject himself to the indignities of Tampa, and, let's face it, he's just not that into it unless the Patriots are there. He's also still crying over his second-round playoff losses in a way that can only be described as Hellmuthian. Someone, please, go take out Matt Cassel's knee on a borderline late hit. It's necessary.

A moment of honesty about his overwhelming obnoxiousness is all that I ask. That, and smashing his own head in with a hammer. DO IT, BILLY. DO IT...

7) Game by game breakdowns of the Eagles season to show how easily it would have been to get home-field for the championship game, because I'm really not feeling the Cardinals winning that game on the road, in cold weather.

Here, let me do it for you: beat the Bengals, get past the Redskins and/or edge those ferocious Kyle Orton Bears. Voila, you've knocked the Giants out of the top spot in the East, and you host the game. It's fun!

6) Obsess over how bad the offensive line will be in 2009 without Jon Runyan, Tra Thomas and (shh!) Shawn Andrews. Donovan McNabb might not want to be back.

5) Become convinced that the 2009 schedule will be deadly, since the AFC West has to come back big next year, right?

4) Read all of the various game accounts in the local papers. You think Philly Fan is bitter? Think about the plight of Philly Sportswriter, who gets another year of No Quote Andy and the I Have To Coach Better Players. They might be the only people in Philadelphia who long for more of That Cowboy Feel.

3) Listening to Andy Reid's defenders. Since this 9-win team made it to the Final Four, everything has to be the same as this year... despite the fact that he traded for the worthless Lorenzo Booker, continues to employ Greg Lewis for no good reason, can't run the ball even when it's working, made LJ Smith a franchise player, should not be given a challenge flag along the same lines as taking away an Alzheimer sufferer's car keys, and... well, I'd continue here, but lists should not be novels. Moving on.

2) Listening to Donovan McNabb's detractors. 375 yards and 3 touchdowns on the road. A 19-point comeback with no running plays of note. OK, he's not perfect, but for heaven's sake... he's not the guy who didn't cover Larry Fitzgerald. That's Asante Samuel. He's not the guy that didn't make the running play stop on Hightower that could have sealed it. That's Quentin Mikell and Brian Dawkins. He's not the numbnuts who late hits Warner to give the Cardinals a gift field goal before the half. That's Quentin Demps. He's not the guy that missed a field goal and a PAT. That's David Akers. He's not the guy who slips on the fourth down throw and can't catch a perfect ball. That's Kevin Curtis.

Seriously, people, get a grip. Number Five isn't perfect, but he's the best player on the team. And when he leaves -- not Reid, McNabb -- this team is below .500.

1) Comparing the pain of this loss to the NFC Championship losses to the Rams, Panthers or Buccaneers, or the SB loss to the Patriots. What agony is your favorite? For sheer bloodcurdling madness, I think I'd go with the Buccaneers, but each, really, has its charms.

And with that, I'm going back to the liquor cabinet. Play me out, Bob...

Paul Newman is dead, and I don't feel so good myself

The Hanson Brothers are back, and who better to whip a ragtag youth team into shape for the upcoming championships than the most unpredictable trio ever to strap on skates? Time is running short before the big game, but perhaps if the Hanson Brothers can teach their young protégés the true value of a solid check, these inexperienced underdogs can use brutality to their advantage and finally score a winning goal. Hockey legends Mark Messier and Doug Gilmour} take the ice for a rowdy sports comedy featuring Leslie Nielsen. ~ Jason Buchanan, All Movie Guide

I say. Jeeves, these primates are bibulous

On the off chance that you are feeling too kindly towards the New York Times on this fine Sunday, peruse (yes, peruse) this lovely riposte from an editorial observer of the goings-on in football stadia. For those of you who have not the ardor nor the temerity to brave its registration firewall, the writer lauds the technological advancement of being able to silently text about rowdy or rude fans in the stands. You see, the swells in the stands (including, of course, those who bring their children) now finally have some small way to counteract the "bibulous loudmouths celebrate (ing) their primacy." By, well, summoning the Hessians to purge the ruffians.

Um, OK. Let's take this in stages.

1) NFL tickets cost, depending on your media market, hundreds of dollars a game. If you are taking your kids to this, let's just say that I don't have an incredible amount of sympathy for your economic plight.

2) I'm not one to fight for the right of Drunk Rude Guy in Public, but when you start to litigate against him, it's a short step towards impinging on Just Plain Angry Guy. And from there, we are right in the wheelhouse of No Actual Passion People, which is to say, all of the folks reading this NY Times article and nodding their assent over the Sabbath brie.

Anyway, I'd share more of my opinion on this, but I'm pretty sure you can guess what it is, and far be it for me to get bibulous.

A quick word on the New Year

Probably the lamest holiday of the year, kids. It's Amateur Night for drunks, which makes the bars packed and the roads scary. It's utterly arbitrary, given the nature of time, and about as emotionally meaningful as Arbor Day. If you miss it, you feel bad until you get over it, which shouldn't take long, really. In all likelihood, you've already blown most of your money on earlier and better holidays, and unless you're into college football or parades, there really isn't much to say for it.

So, um, happy Thursday, folks. And if you must get into the nature of time, I'm hoping that it's more like the time mentioned above...

A Small Note to Red Sox Fan

Just because the Yankees are spending like drunken sailors in a time when everyone else in baseball is thinking about cutting the Big League Chew back to Bush League Gristle, does not mean anyone outside of your perverted fan base likes you.

At all.

Or feels sorry for you, since you have to compete with those Big Bad Meanies with Money.

You see, your team... isn't poor. By any measure of the imagination.

Nor are your players Lovable Downmarket Guys Who Just Try Real, Real Hard. In that, well, damn near every team in baseball has those guys. It goes along with the ever-increasing whiteness. (Shh. Baseball's talent is getting better and better and better and so long as we keep saying this and ignore the fact that the truly explosive guys are getting few and far between, along with stolen bases, triples, and defensive highlights that are really all that breathtaking, WE'LL ALL BE JUST FINE.)

Nor is it, you know, possible to see your team play at home for the sake of those of us who enjoy going to different parks for less than a mortgage payment. Though that experience, to be fair, is less than appealing, given that you're surrounded by Red Sox Fans. Just like at damn near every other stadium in the country, really. It's so much fun to be in your world! Really it is!

So, um, the Yankees making you feel all inadequate about your $150 million-plus payroll? I can see some upside to it. Maybe you'll jack up your seat prices again so I can hear your fans cry even more about it. Perhaps you'll go make some panicky free agent signing of your own -- I bet Manny would come back if you only paid him so much that he'd never, ever quit on you like a dog. Again. He can play first since David Ortiz is aging very fast, with nagging and persistent injuries. (Gosh, it'd be a shame if people, you know, drew conclusions from that sort of thing.)

And in the best-case scenario, the Rays win the division again, and your little Coke and Pepsi border war ends up in two 85-win clubs that miss the wild card to Central Division Team Runner-Up. (Yes, I know, the World Series ratings would suck, because it's your world. But only, shh, when you're winning...)

Epic Drop: Top 11 sports grievances

A good fun-time link of hate and grievance, just in time for your favorite December holiday. I'VE GOT A PROBLEM WITH YOU PEOPLE!

Epic Drop: Top 12 most hated U.S. sports franchises

Good clean hate here, folks. Burns clean and will keep you warm on a cold winter's night.

Epic Drop: Top 10 entertainment alternatives for Eagles Fan

Today's link was not, believe it or not, written before the game was viewed. But if you don't believe me, I'll understand.