Point-Counterpoint: Washington Redskins

Point: Hail to the Redskins!

By Chris Rosenthall, October 27, 2008

The Redskins season got off in a deserving fashion, with the induction of two of our all-time greats into the hall of fame. The next day, we stomped the Indianapolis Colts 30-16, and we’ve used that momentum to create one of the best teams in the entire league. Despite bleak preseason predictions from so-called “sports experts” across the nation, we’re 6-2, and well on our way to making a deep run into the playoffs or, dare I say, the Super Bowl.

How did we get here? Let’s take a look.

It all starts at the top, and after years of questionable moves, Dan Snyder has emerged as the savvy owner we always hoped he’d be. Instead of wasting money on some high-priced hotshot coach, he secured a little-known coach from Seattle (Jim Zorn) as his offensive coordinator. With Zorn off the market and in the Redskins stable, Snyder was able to carefully study his work ethic first-hand before determining that he would make an effective head coach.

And how right he was. The first year of Zorn’s coaching career has been nothing short of fantastic. His west coast offensive scheme and unorthodox practice drills have turned us into a high-scoring powerhouse, ready to hold our own against any team in the league. The fans love him, the players love him, and we need to keep him here as long as possible.

The man with the plan

In conclusion, our offense is clicking, our defense is impenetrable, and we’re the best fans in the NFL. Sure, we slipped against the lowly Rams, but that’ll surely just be a tiny aberration on our otherwise fantastic season. Realistically speaking, I predict a 12-4 finish, with an NFL championship by 2011. Hail to the Redskins!

Counterpoint:

The Redskins are the worst football team in the whole wide world. Ever.

By Chris Rosenthall, December 16, 2008

Man oh man, the Redskins suck. Sure, the bandwagon filled up early in the season, but let’s be serious: These guys are horrible. They’ve lost 5 of their last 6 games, and three of those losses were at home. They’re 7-7, and could easily lose their final two games. Horrible, just horrible.

How did they get here? Let’s take a look.

It all starts at the top, and Dan Snyder is clearly an idiot. Always has been, always will be. If you’re looking for proof, look no further than the hiring of Jim Zorn. Nobody wanted Zorn to be the head coach, not even the people who gave him the job. They hired him as the offensive coordinator, and then came back two weeks later and named him the head coach when they couldn’t find anybody else. That’s a pretty big red flag there, isn’t it?

Duh, I don't know nothin bout nothin!

It took Dan Snyder 32 days to hire a new coach. 32 days. For the record, it took 17 for the Catholic Church to pick their new pope. And I bet the pope knew what color his uniform was going to be. Allow me to explain: at Jim Zorn’s first press conference, he referred to the Redskins (aka “The Burgundy & Gold, of course) as “The Maroon and Black”. The Maroon and Black. Really. How do you not know the Redskins colors when you’re:

1) A former NFL quarterback

2) A former NFL quarterback’s coach

3) THE HEAD COACH OF THE EFFING REDSKINS!

If Snyder had a brain in his head, he would have walked up right then and fired him on the spot. My first job was at PetSmart, and I knew what color my outfit would be WAY before I started. And let’s think about that for a second, shall we? Zorn was working as the offensive coordinator for two weeks, and still didn’t know what his team colors were? What was he doing all that time? Certainly nothing football related, I can tell you that. If you gave me seven business days and $2,500 cash, I could get you a monkey that plays Tecmo Bowl, and subsequently, a better football coach than Jim Zorn.

Artist's rendering - not actual monkey

He calls the same three plays, mismanages his roster, and is publicly teased by his players. We need to fire this jerk immediately.

In conclusion, their offense has stalled, their defense has fallen apart, and a lot of you Redskins fans are the crappiest bunch of fans around.

Man, the Redskins are the worst football team in the whole wide world. Ever.

Just 33 shopping days!

I was walking through my local CVS yesterday when I realized that the holiday season, for better or worse, has officially begun. The aisles were adorned with all sorts of Christmas products, from stockings to nutcrackers to those Chocolate oranges they only seem to sell two months out of the year. I was looking at Charlie Brown Christmas figurines when I ran across this little item:



His name is "Chrismouse", he's part of a holiday line called "Rappin Rodentz", and when you squeeze his hand, he raps "Crank Dat". Happy Birthday, Jesus.

Running with the Eagles

So a few weeks ago I decided to enter the Edison High School “Run with the Eagles” 5k run/walk. I say “a few weeks ago”, but I decided many years ago to someday run a 5k. As you may recall, I put it on my 2007 list of things to do, along with the caveat that I do the running man across the finish line. Anyway, in true DIOSU¹ spirit, I finally decided to sign up and participate.

To prepare for the race, I developed my patented three-part recipe for 5k success.

1. Go on the internet and look up how far a 5k is
2. Run on a treadmill a few times the week before the race.
3. Don’t oversleep the day of the race.

Once I completed the first two steps, I decided it would be good to have a target time in mind. My goal was complete the race in less than 33 minutes, with anything under that achieving “pleasant surprise” status. That’s pretty good, right? About ten minutes every mile? That’s what I thought for about two days, when my father sent me an email. He’d done a 5k the year before, and finished in just over 31 minutes. Well dang. I had to drop my target goal to 30 minutes flat, or risk being laughed out of the family.

Since this was my first 5k, I could hardly sleep the night before. I mistook my ringing cell phone for my alarm at 1:30am, and started getting dressed before I realized I was a bit too early. Also disturbing my pre-race sleep was a pair of two of the more unusual dreams I’ve had in a good long while. The first (Vladmir Putin announced his hatred for the USA before pouring ricin on my law firm’s head coordinator) woke me up at around 3:30. The second (I ran the 5k for about a mile before deciding to just run home, drive back up to the school, get out of my car, and run across the finish line ahead of everybody) woke me up around 6:00.

At 7:00, I woke up for real, got dressed and ready to go. The race started at 8am, and my never-early-for-anything ass showed up at about 7:48. As I parked my car and walked to the registration table, guess who rolled up in his police car? That’s right, people who went to Edison when I did, Officer Smith! If you don’t know who Officer Smith is, he’s a friendly cop/school security guy who looks a lot like Antonio Fargas. If you don’t know who Antonio Fargas is, he was Huggybear in the original “Starsky & Hutch”, as well as Flyguy in “I’m gonna git you, Sucka!”. If you don’t know either of those guys, then I can’t help you. Anyway, he rolls up and asks me what’s going on. I tell him about the race, he asks if you can sign up right then, and then we bid each other adieu. Nice guy, that Officer Smith.

(Basically him in a cop uniform)

Since I was so late, I stretched a little while I signed up, and was still fastening my race number to my shirt when the gun went off. About thirty seconds in, I had to stop to tie my shoes, adding two new parts to my recipe for 5k success:

4. Tie your shoes before the race.
5. Don’t stop running.

Running is not inherently interesting to describe, so I’ll summarize it quickly: I ran, checked my pace with my brand new fancy watch ($9.99 at CVS), and ran some more. I passed my street and thought about trying that car scheme I hatched up a few hours ago. I passed McDonalds, thought about stopping for a McGriddle, and then realized the only times I’d ever had one where when I’d literally been up all night and went to McDonalds with my drunk friends as soon as it opened that next morning. I thought about songs I should write. I thought about people I hadn’t spoken to lately. I thought about the lacrosse game I had later that day, and how sometime during the game, my hamstring was going to fall off my leg like a baby back rib. After I reached the library by Rose Hill Apartments (sorry to our out-of-town readers), I turned around to begin the trip back to Edison. And who did I see running about 30 seconds behind me? Officer Smith, clad in head-to-toe spandex. Two things immediately came to mind:

1. He just travels with head-to-toe spandex?
2. Didn’t he just abandon his post?

At around the two mile mark, a little girl shot right by me, which struck me as bullshit. First of all because she was running like little kids dance: hopping around all flat-footed and flailing her elbows as if imitating a chicken. Second, how does a little kid pay attention for the duration of a three mile race? When I was that age (I’m guessing 8), I would’ve run for about half a mile before chasing a squirrel and/or ending up in a tree somewhere. And as that annoying girl vanished into the horizon, guess who passed me? That’s right, my old pal Officer Smith. That man was making excellent time, especially for someone who woke up that day with no knowledge of the race. Good for him.

When I returned to Edison High, I was exhausted. Three-quarters of the track was all that remained. That little girl was probably eating orange slices and spinning around in circles somewhere, and that son of a bitch Officer Smith was rapidly widening the gap between us. My competitive nature had forced me to forget all about my running man plans for the end of the race, and my new goal was just beating Officer Smith. I broke into a full sprint. Smith, unaware we were in any direct competition, continued his regular pace. We finished the final straightaway, and I waited for the results. My time? 24:54. His? 24:53. That’s right, he beat me by one second. Sure it was tough to lose to a guy who’s just a little over twice my age, but the spandex thing makes me think (hope) he does a lot of distance running.

I originally planned to never run a 5k again, but now that some time has passed, I’ll probably run a few more. In fact, let’s already put it out there. Officer Smith, if you’re reading this (and I assume you are), I want a rematch. Edison High School: 2009. Give me more than a week to prepare this time, and I guarantee I’ll beat you. That’s right, Flyguy: next year, I’m gonna get you, sucka. Oh mama, that was terrible.

¹ My personal slogan: Do it or Shut Up.

2:30 am on a monday

2:30 am on a Monday has some fascinating television. I’m flipping between Jerry Springer’s security guy’s talk show, a VH1 dating show, a cop movie starring Ja Rule, and Ghostbusters 2, the latter of the four inspiring me to throw some more creative resources behind writing a screenplay I’m 97% sure I will abandon in the near future. Anyway, I just saw a commercial for Afrin nasal spray. Somebody with a giant teddy bear head and a woman’s body is walking down the street. The narrator goes on about “Is this how you feel? All stuffed up?” and what not. When the bear-lady stops at the intersection, she shoots up some nasal spray and her head returns to normal. When this happens, a little something catches my eye: the fine print in the corner says “dramatization”. Hmm. Really? So, Afrin doesn’t turn my teddy bear head back to a human head? Or it just doesn’t do it that quickly? Exactly what liability are they freeing themselves from with that disclaimer?

Regardless, all this Ghostbusters 2 watching and what not has stopped me from actually finishing what I planned on posting here tonight. So here’s the deal: I’ll put something up here by/before Friday.

Now it’s 2:40. You ever watch television, change channels during a commercial, and then forget what you were originally watching? That just happened to me. Then I found out I’d been watching “Real Chance of Love”. Then I got really depressed. I’m going to bed.

Dear Anonymous: Holliday vs. Rollins

Dear Anonymous,

Just so you know where I’m coming from, I am by no means anti-Philadelphia. How can I possibly dislike a city responsible for Hall & Oates, cheering Michael Irvin’s temporary paralysis, and the magnificently bizarre syncopation at the end of The Roots’ “You Got Me”? I couldn’t hate Philly if I tried.

And I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need a tissue. Dodgers fans, maybe. Mets fans, most certainly. But in my nineteen years of being a Cubs fan, I have spent approximately six days thinking we could win the World Series. The first six. Like many Cubs fans, I operate under the assumption that we will never go to, let alone win, the World Series during my lifetime. Rooting for the Cubs is like rooting for Charlie Brown to kick that football. Even if Lucy held the ball and Charlie Brown split the uprights, I’m sure it would have been brought back on a holding penalty, or Mike Shanahan would have called a time out right before the kick. I understand that. Chicago Cubs just don’t go to the World Series, and for some reason, that is the life that chose us.

With that out of the way, allow me to explain the reasoning behind my Matt Holliday comment: I threw that out there out of a jokingly antagonistic curiosity, and nothing more. It’s like how I said “Phillies” was a stupid name, except I absolutely think that’s true (I get the alliteration and what not, but if you want to be a horse, why not just be a Colt or a Stallion? Why go out of your way to specify that you are a female horse? It’s like the Orioles changing their name to the Baltimore Bitches. Kinda.). Being new to the blog game, I wondered if anybody read it, and furthermore, if anybody reading it even cared about the Phillies and Rays, or baseball in general. With that in mind, however, it doesn’t mean Jimmy Rollins deserved the MVP award. I don’t know either way, maybe he did. Let’s take a look, in a few of my MVP categories.

Bat

Holliday led the league in batting (.340), RBIs (137), hits (216), doubles (50), total bases (386) and extra-base hits (92). His 36 home runs were fourth in the league.

Rollins batted .296, had 212 hits, 38 doubles, 20 triples, 30 home runs, and 94 RBIs. His total bases (380) and extra-base hits (88) are records for shortstops.

Granted: Holliday plays in Coors Field, with a reputation that prompts his numbers to be automatically discounted a bit (he only received one of his first-place votes from an NL East writer, compared to seven for Rollins). With that in mind, it certainly doesn’t help that there was a huge disparity between his home (.376 BA, 25HRs, 82 RBIs) and away (.301 BA, 11HR, 55 RBIs) statistics.

However: Having allowed 241 home runs during the season, the most hitter-friendly park in 2007 was Philadelphia’s Citizens Bank Park, not Coors field (Coors was ranked 5^th according to ESPN). Also, Holliday’s away batting average and on base percentages were still better than Rollins’ numbers at home, away, or combined.

Feet

Jimmy Rollins stole 41 bases. Matt Holliday only stole 11. Rollins had 139 runs (a record for shortstops) compared to Holliday’s 120.

Granted: Rollins is a 160-pound leadoff hitter. He should steal a lot of bases and score a lot of runs. Holliday is 6’4”, 235lbs and probably doesn’t see a lot of pitchouts when he’s on first.

However: That’s still a ton of runs, and 41 steals is pretty impressive in the post-Rickey Henderson era. You have to give credit where credit is due.

Defense

In 2007, Rollins had the second-highest fielding percentage of NL shortstops, committing only eleven errors on his way to his first gold glove.

Holliday had the second-highest fielding percentage of MLB left-fielders, committing three errors on his league-high 306 chances.

Granted: Rollins plays shortstop, perhaps the most difficult position in the field, and plays it remarkably well. Conversely, Holliday plays left field, the dumping ground for crappy outfielders like Manny Ramirez and Barry Bonds.

However: Sometimes MVP voters just don’t care that much about defense. Greg Maddux won 20 games and a gold glove in 1992, and finished 11^th in voting. Ozzie Smith won 13 gold gloves and never pulled down the MVP, coming close only one time. On the other hand, Alex Rodriguez has three MVP awards, and Bonds, who couldn’t throw out 62-year old Sid Bream, has seven.

Intangibles

Once you graduate from middle school, nobody should give you an award for being “a vocal leader” or “the heart and soul of the team”. Grown-ass men making millions of dollars shouldn’t need someone to “rally the troops”, or “pep up the locker room”, or any of that other garbage that sportswriters love to say about their favorite players. Intangibles are stupid. I award no points to either competitor.

Hat

Jimmy Rollins wears a hat that says “P”. Matt Holliday’s hat says “CR”. In my opinion, this is clearly no contest. How is it that I don’t walk around in a Rockies hat all day? I really need to start doing this. A bit off-topic, I admit, but still.

So who wins? Well, obviously Rollins won, but did he deserve to? I don’t know. It’s like getting in an argument about which game-show host was better, Alex Trebek or Marc Summers. They’re clearly asked to do different things, yet their job titles are the same. The stupid (and equally fantastic) thing about MVP voting is it’s ridiculously subjective. People can spend their entire lives arguing over the award, and all sides can have perfectly valid points. Upon statistical review, I think the award should have gone to Matt Holliday. However, I will concede that he was not “robbed”, as I jokingly said before. Jimmy Rollins had a fantastic season, and makes for a non-terrible choice for 2007 National League MVP.

Anyway, if you happen to read this and would like to comment back, I’d certainly like to hear your opinion. Thank you for writing, and congratulations on your inevitable 2008 World Series championship.

Sincerely,

Chris Rosenthall

Let's go Rays!

So I’m watching the Phillies – Dodgers game the other night over a big-ass bowl of pasta. Manny hit .533 in the series (pretty good, but certainly no Mark Grace and his .647 in the 1989 NLCS), but other than that, the Dodgers pretty much stunk up the place. Anyway, this isn’t about the Dodgers. No friends, I got no quarrel with the L.A. Dodgers. My real problem lies with my new least favorite collection of humans, the Philadelphia Phillies.

I realize most people don’t really care either way about the Phillies. I never did, and I was a huge baseball fan growing up. But here’s the thing: As soon as they got to around the 7^th inning of that Dodgers game, the announcers on Fox started going crazy about how, with a win, the Phillies would return to the World Series for the first time since 1993. How they’d ended years of futility and frustration. How the fans have had their hearts broken so much since 1993. Oh man! 1993, huh? Boy, that’s tough. All those years of struggling. Well here’s the thing, Philadelphia Phillies: I’m a Cubs fan, and you can all go screw yourselves.

If you don’t follow baseball, a brief summary: The Cubs never win. Ever. They haven’t won a World Series since 1908. They haven’t even been to one since 1945. And for some reason, I’m supposed to be happy for those poor Phillies and their devastating World Series drought.

Anyway, after the announcers took turns pissing me off, they had the nerve to interview shortstop Jimmy Rollins and ask him about his struggle to finally make it to the big game. He got to the majors in 2000, won the 2007 MVP (Matt Holliday got robbed, by the way) and look at him now, in the World Series. Hell of a struggle. Let’s look at some Cubs legends: Ron Santo played for 14 years. Ryne Sandberg played for 16 years(and if you dare mention that he played his first 13 games with the Phillies, I’ll kick your teeth in, swear to God). Ernie Banks (11-time All-Star, 2-time MVP) played for 18 years and never even got to the playoffs! So I’m sorry if I don’t have much pity for poor Jimmy and his struggle.

And how does this team even dare complain about futility? The Phillies have won four NL pennants since they won the World Series in 1980! They’re complaining about that? Four pennants in 28 years? That’s not bad at all. It’s not super-common, but it’s not rare. It’s cicada common. Cubs fans like myself would kill for cicada common. I’m not joking. Tell me who I’d have to kill. I won’t think twice.

And let’s get back to this for a second: they won the World Series in 1980! Many of us were alive then. I’m pretty sure you weren’t around when the Cubs last won one. You know how many people alive today were alive back in 1908? Like six. And they probably didn’t care about the Cubs winning the World Series. They were probably busy worrying about things like Indian attacks and dysentery.

Like baseball itself, I’m sure this is very boring to most of you, so I’ll wrap it up: Philadelphia Phillies (by the way, that’s a really dumb name), I hope you lose to the Tampa Bay Rays, and I hope you lose badly. I hope you get swept by a combined score of 148-3.

Hmm… it turns out the Phillies just won the first game of the Series. Well that’s even better; getting swept wouldn’t be heartbreaking enough. I hope it goes seven games. And with two outs and a three run lead in the bottom of the 14^th, a recently signed Joe Carter strolls up to the plate and sends a hanging curveball into the upper decks for a grand slam. And I hope you spend the next 60 years waiting to go back to the World Series. Then (when I’m 88 and the Cubs have won 23 more championships) you may come crying to me. But not a moment sooner, and certainly not this year.

Once again, go screw yourselves.

Sincerely,

Chris Rosenthall, Surly Cubs Fan.

My Brand-New Blog

So I finally sat down and created this blog I’ve been talking about. I would’ve done this weeks ago, but I just couldn’t think of a good name, which has been very difficult due to my crippling fear of permanent accountability. It’s the very reason I don’t have a tattoo. Or a senior quote in my high school yearbook. Eventually I forced myself to get past that fear, and I dedicated all of my brainpower to thinking of a great blog name.

Funny thing about naming a blog – everything is already taken. Here are some websites that have already been created on blogspot.com:

Okletssee
blogname
letstry
Chris
Rosie
22
Toocommon
howabout
Heavydandtheboys
Charliebrown
Charlieblue
Charliegreen
Iambald
Iamhairy
Iamharry
Partyandbullshit
Partynobullshit

and lastly,

Icantthinkofablogname

As you can see, quite a few have already been taken. I thought about it for weeks, throwing all sorts of suggestions on a piece of paper I kept at work. I got a few suggestions from you guys, all which were appreciated and considered. The best suggestion came from my brother, who wrote:

“You should name your blog Chinese Democracy Detox. Blog seems like a great idea, that people will really look forward to. But instead of doing it and making people happy, you will just talk about it forever and never do it.

This is because as every day passes you will try to work on it, but it will never be good enough because every day will also bring more pressure for it to be perfect.

Then you will show up on the VMAs a shell of your former self, with all new friends, blond cornrows for some reason, and a guy with a fried chicken bucket on his head.

I've seen it a million times.”

With that in mind, it finally hit me: why not call it chrisrosenthall @ blogspot? Not only is it easy to remember, but it’s a preemptive strike against domain name squatters who register celebrity’s names and charge them a ton of cash for their naming rights. Apparently those guys haven’t gotten to me yet, so I better act fast. And so I did. Ladies and gentlemen, I proudly present my blog. Old stuff, new stuff, poems I perform, random crap that will make you dumber having devoted a second of your life to reading, etc. Hope you enjoy.

The Life & Times of S. Boy

Prologue

I consider myself a student of popular culture. I read the magazines, I watch the shows, and I watch the clip shows that make fun of those shows. I've devoted an awe-inspiring (and equally depressing) amount of time to learning all there is to know in the world of entertainment. With that in mind, I'm going to go ahead and throw this out there: I can honestly say, without a shadow of a doubt, that Soulja Boy is the most important artist of the 21^st century. Or else he's the least. I'm not sure which one, but he's definitely one or the other. And so, in tribute, I proudly present a look back in the career of Soulja Boy¹.

Vol. 1: Dawn of an era

We're currently in the midst of a little something called the "YouTube generation", in which any a-hole with a video camera can become a celebrity. You don't need to spend money on agents anymore, you don't need to audition, you don't even need any discernable talent (which I'm not saying Soulja Boy doesn't have; however, he doesn't). Just record something and post it online for the world to enjoy. Here's an example of the power of YouTube: for no reason whatsoever, I just visited the site and typed the words "puppet rap". Over 500 videos. Here's one that's gotten over 200,000 views. You're welcome.

Where was I? Oh yeah: Soulja Boy is the personification of the YouTube generation. He came up with a song, gave it a dance, and 165 million views later, here we are. Thanks to our recent advances in technology, it's perfectly reasonable to say that Soulja Boy created the most popular song we've ever heard. And how did he do it? It's simple. When creating "Crank Dat", Mr. Boy followed the "Macarena" recipe precisely:

1. Take a chorus, and make approximately 92% of it fairly indecipherable.
2. Make the remaining 8% of your chorus something you yell with complete clarity.
3. Add a silly-ass dance.

Follow at least one of these steps and you've got yourself a hit. For a while, every song on the radio featured step 3 (don't forget "chicken noodle soup", or we're doomed to repeat it). But Soulja Boy, and only Soulja Boy, met and exceeded each step. He even took it further and followed the optional fourth step: mix catchy music with wildly inappropriate lyrical content. While "Macarena" is essentially about a girl who bangs her man's friends while he's out of town, "Crank Dat" is about, well, it's pretty much about ejaculating on people.

This is common knowledge by now, right? If not, let's have the people at urbandictionary.com clear this whole thing up:

"Superman: When you are mad at your girl for not having sex with you. So when she falls asleep you masturbate and cum on her back. After that, stick the bedsheet on to her back and when she wakes up it's stuck to the cum and she has a cape like Superman!!!"

"Robocop: ejaculate semen into a bucket and invert it on to your lady friend's head"

Yup. There you go. And yes, he also says "super-soak that ho". And no, I'm not looking that up.

Hey, here's a fun little trivia fact for you: In 2003, Lil John topped the charts with "Get Low", which means if you graduated from high school last year, there's a good chance that the most popular songs at your freshman and senior dances were both about ejaculating on people. Is this what the kids are into these days, running around with their bling bling, leaning with it, rocking with it, and ejaculating on people? Somewhere Luther Vandross is rolling over in his grave.

Now about these terms: I understand the superman, (comprehend, I should say, because I don't really understand it) but the Robocop is completely beyond me. Is this something everyone involved is supposed to enjoy? Is it some sort of summer camp-ish prank? If you know for sure, email me and tell me (actually, don't tell me the answer, just tell me that you know, so I can add your name to a list I'm starting).

And I'm not trying to disrespect anyone's hobby here; how you spend your free time is entirely up to you. But here's my real objection: is this, ladies and gentlemen, how we honor two of America's greatest crime fighters? That's just not right. These guys save lives, bring criminals to justice, and this is the thanks they get? Imagine how awkward it must've been when Robocop, bragging about his shout-out, was informed by his friends that his name had now been reduced to a filthy, filthy verb. Just not right.

Vol. 2: Something for the ladies

Potentially beginning with LL Cool J's "I need love", the following rule has applied: if you rap long enough, you're going to end up making your sensitive love song. Soulja Boy met that requirement early on, with his second single, "Soulja Girl". It wasn't particularly interesting. At all. Let's move on.

Vol. 3: Soulja Boy hates your guts

Hip-hop essentially revolves around a series of egocentric, materialistic clichés (if you write me and tell me how I'm wrong because Mos Def this, or Talib Kweli that, I'm going to kick your teeth in, swear to God). Rappers spend the majority of their time discussing money, clothing, or why they are hot (and, if applicable, why you aren't). There is, however, one more, much lesser known (yet equally prevalent) staple in hip-hop: personal space. For some reason, rappers absolutely detest having their comfort zones violated². Ed Lover sang "Back up off me". TI said "You don't know me". Onyx titled an album "Bacdafucup". Ludacris went so far as to release the singles "Get back" and "Move" (as in, "move bitch, get out the way") just so there was no confusion regarding his approachability. Sure, there's the occasional exception (most notably Chubb Rock), but don't be mistaken: there is nothing rappers (and the Dixie chicks) hate more than your broke ass interacting with them. Apparently it's already reached this point for Soulja Boy, who in his song "Yahh!" complains about being repeatedly approached by his ugly fans. In the chorus, he yells "Get out my face" 16 times in a row. I ponder the ironic dilemma a fan faces when telling Soulja Boy how much they enjoy that song. On the other hand, that may be a bridge that no one thought would be crossed.

Epilogue

In conclusion, let's take a look at Soulja Boy's stats: Three million song downloads. Five million ringtones sold. Over 30 million views on YouTube. A grammy nomination. One silly-ass dance song. One "I love you" song. One "Get the hell away from me" song. He accounted for practically all rap clichés (if he releases another album, even money says he'll be a crack dealer) and he did it all on just one album. He lived the entire rap lifespan in little over one year. Never before has an artist done so much, yet done nothing in particular. So what's next for Soulja Boy? Hopefully nothing. Honestly, it all depends on whatever somebody else decides to do first. And what do you call arguably the most parasitic artist in arguably the most self-parasitic art form in existence? A hack? A genius? Both? For this very reason, Soulja Boy, of all people, is the most important artist of the 21^st century. Or else he's not. But definitely one or the other.

¹Some may say that, after only one album, it's a bit premature to break out a retrospective of his entire career. Eh, that's a chance I'm willing to take.
²I suppose the same can be said of The Dixie Chicks, who sang "Wide Open Spaces" and "Ready to Run".

NFL Action: It's Fan-Tastic!

Two weeks (and a cowboys loss) later, I can finally write about the Redskins. I actually started writing this the day after their loss to Seattle, but since discussing it made me feel like someone kicked me in the chest, it had to wait a while. Oh, but that damn game. That heartbreaking damn game. The single-most depressing sporting event of my life.

The toughest part about this game has been forgiving myself for what may have been a horrible mistake: I didn't wear my jersey. The Santana Moss jersey my brother bought me hours before the Skins beat the Cowboys. I didn't wear it, and I may have cost them the game. Allow me to explain: I figured that since it was an away game, I should leave the White jersey at home and go with my gray Redskins t-shirt. A part of me swears that if I'd worn that Moss jersey, he wouldn't have given up on that pass that Seattle intercepted and ran back for a touchdown. The other part realizes that there's a significant chance Santana Moss has never based any of his life decisions on what shirt I was wearing at the time. About three days ago, the latter part finally overtook the former, and I'm proud to say I've forgiven myself, whether I deserve to or not.

I will bring my Redskins season to an end by telling a little story of my always-rewarding fan experience. This particular story takes place on a lovely November afternoon. The skins were hosting the Eagles. We'd been playing a great game, but Brian Westbrook suddenly broke free for a long touchdown run. The woman sitting next to me, a Philly fan rather bovine in nature, jumped out of her seat and cheered. Suddenly I heard a splash, and noticed some food and liquid on my pants leg, next to my feet, and on the backs of those seated in front of me. At first I chuckled, thinking a fellow Skins fan threw something at her from a few rows back. Then I noticed this woman (no longer cheering, by the way) wiping off her chest and quietly sitting back down. I looked closer at the mess. Oh, it wasn't food. Well, it had been food at one point in time, just not when I saw it. That's right, friends, this woman threw up on me.

If you've never raised a child or gone to Mardi Gras, there's a decent chance you've lived your life without someone vomiting on you. I'd made it a good 26 years, 10 months. Maybe it was just my time. And before I go any further in this story, I feel it's important to mention a few things about this woman: first, she was stone cold sober. Hadn't had a single thing to drink. Second (equally concerning, yet twice as disgusting), she didn't do a single thing post-yak. Didn't go to the bathroom, rinse her mouth out, or anything. Didn't even apologize. And that's what made this all so very odd. She just sat back down and acted like, well, she acted like she hadn't just vomited on me.

Imagine you come home from work, walk in your house and catch your wife having sex with the Hamburglar. Not a look-alike, but literally the Hamburglar, dressed in full Hamburglar garb, going to town on your wife. You'd probably call her a whore, storm out of the room and take about three steps before stopping dead in your tracks and thinking: "wait, hold up: the fuck just happened? Was that the Hamburglar?" That equal blend of rage and confusion is pretty much exactly what I was going through. It felt like the Hamburglar nailed my wife. And it didn't go away, because as I said, the woman just sat down and went about her business. I sat there for about ten minutes before I finally confronted her. And even in my state of rage, I was a perfect gentleman: "Excuse me, ma'am?" I said, "Did you happen to spill something over here?" She calmly turned to me and said "No". Huh. Well then. So, I turned back around and resumed watching the game. What else was I supposed to do? Pretty much everything else hinged on that answer going just a bit differently.

For the next 30 minutes or so, it was all I could think about. Finally I couldn't take it anymore. I gave her one more chance. "Excuse me, ma'am? Are you sure you didn't spill anything earlier?" This time she got all indignant. "I said no!" she yelled, downright insulted that I dare accuse her of spilling something. Again, I turned back around, choosing to spend the remainder of the game in a blind rage. Somebody passed, somebody ran, touchdowns were scored, who cares. The point is, this bitch vomited on me, then repeatedly denied it.

At the end of the game, my brother stepped in and decided to say something. "Excuse me, but I've sat here the entire game, waiting for you to do the right thing, and you never did, so now I have to say something. Look, we saw you vomit, we saw you cleaning yourself off, and you didn't do a thing about it. And even when my brother asked you if you did it, you just denied it!"

"No," she said defiantly, "he asked me if I spilled something." I'm not making that up; that was her serious answer.

"You vomited on him!" he said, "You don't think that counts?!"

Her husband then stepped in, curious as to why two young men were yelling at his wife. He asked what the problem was, so I informed him that his wife vomited on me and never even apologized. Only when he confronted her did the wall crack a bit "Well, I did get sick," she admitted.

Faraji chimed back in with his last bit of editorial: "I'm just saying, act like a grown up, and take responsibility for your actions. The way you just sat there and acted like nothing happened was incredibly offensive!"

"Well!" she said (still a bit upset about the accusation), "sorry for offending you!"

"Hey, while we're handing out apologies," I said, "how about you apologize for vomiting on me?" And then she finally said it. After all of that, she said she was sorry.

And so my story comes to an end, officially bringing my fan season to a close. In only about seven months, we'll begin our run to the 2009 Super Bowl. And when we do, I'll be at every game wearing my Santana Moss jersey, screaming at the top of my lungs, and praying I make it through the day without some bitch vomiting on me.