Limey McPhee

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Zacchaeus Was A Wee Little Man

I came across something on the old DirecTV a few weeks ago, the day of the Super Bowl to be exact, called the Celebrity Beach Bowl. And it was stupid. Obviously. Retired NFL stars like Warren Moon, Joe Montana, Eddie George, and Prime Time played flag football with C and D list celebrities (Doogie Howser & girls from a vampire show I've never heard of as a few examples). Anyway, the key to the Celebrity Beach Bowl was not the players in the pathetic game. The key to the Celebrity Beach Bowl was the coaches. Or one coach in particular, Cam Newton of the Carolina Panthers. We learned something very important about Newton as he coached his team. We learned that Newton can't count. Newton repeatedly had either one extra player on the field or one too few. Over and over and over Newton demonstrated that he can't count. At least 15 times throughout the game someone had to tell Newton to either throw someone else out there or get someone the hell off the field. It was enlightening. If I were a Carolina fan, I'd be a little worried that my franchise QB can't count to 6.

I dropped into RumbleForeskins Saturday afternoon for a bit to visit with my man Tommy, history teacher extraordinaire and part-time bartender. We got to talking about the typical stuff we do each Saturday during college football season: Siler City, gambling, Slobodan Milosevic, toilet lids, & the 100 Years War (which wasn't a hundred years by the way). Anyway, Tommy is a native of Mobile, Alabama. And I started to really press Tommy on the number of mobile homes there are in Mobile. I actually believe I read somewhere that every home in Mobile is a mobile home. It's a city ordinance or something. Now, Tommy didn't disagree with me. In fact, Tommy noted that every home in the entire state of Alabama must, by law, be a mobile home. It's certainly something to keep in mind. I bet Nick Saban has one of the nicer mobile homes in the state. Hell, it may even be a double-wide.

I was sitting in Sloppys last Friday night for some dumb reason, right next to Moose & Tim. They were running their mouths about the typical fake macho silliness they always do. Then to my right, down at the end of the bar, I notice the despicable Michigan Molly. I was worried to death she'd recognize me (remember, I did steal her car about 16 months ago). And sure enough, after a few minutes Michigan Molly says, "Hey, Jack. How have you been?" Now, the reason she calls me Jack is because I told her my name was Jack at some point a few years ago. I get a big kick out of it when someone goes to the trouble to remember a fake name I've given them in a drunken stupor. Anyway, I asked her the same silly questions I do when I run across her every 8 months or so. You know, "Do the wheelchair kids you teach struggle with Sex Ed?" Or "Do you teach Sex Ed topless?" Or "How many fingers do you recommend for the crippled girls to cram into their holes the first time they get the urge to masturbate?" Those kinds of harmless queries. She did her best not to get upset with me. Blah, blah, blah. At one point, Michigan Molly asked why I hadn't run across her in so long. And I told her I had been fighting the old Hepatitis for much of last fall. She asked which type of Hepatitis I'd been batting last fall. I said, "Type C, woman." She replied, "Don't most people die from Hepatitis C?" I said, "Hell if I know, but it was touch and go there for a few months. I was real worried." Now at this point, Tim & Moose, overhearing this whole exchange, were barely able to sit up in their bar stools from laughing so hard. I got bored of telling puerile lies to Michigan Molly after like 10 minutes and informed Tim & Moose to start calling me Zack repeatedly in conversation. Why, you may wonder? Well, I wanted them to call me Zack repeatedly so that when Michigan Molly inevitably eavesdropped on our bizarre & alcohol-fueled conversation, she'd get the idea that I'd given her a fake name way back when I told her my name was Jack. And I gotta hand it Moose. The man did not disappoint. Moose must have called me Zack 50 times in 5 minutes. At one juncture I even threw this gem out there, "Did I ever tell you guys that Zack is short for Zacchaeus?" Pure bar inanity. Another 15 minutes goes by and I desperately wanted to get the hell out of Sloppys and far away from Michigan Molly. Moose suggests we drop in Scam's Lakeside for a few. I said, "Okay." Little did I know at the time that Moose was looking for a little oral action from Michigan Molly. So, I'll be damned, but when I get to Scam's Lakeside, after about 20 minutes, guess who drags her ragged ass into the joint but Michigan Molly. I said to Moose, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Moose explained that he was looking for a blowjob and Michigan Molly was his safest bet for the night and I couldn't really get too upset with him over that. And I guess he had a point. But remember, Michigan Molly is disgusting and horrific. Lucky for me, Tim suggested shots. I had 2 Jagers in like 7 minutes. And that did the trick. I was feeling it. So, I went up to the short black kid that runs the Karaoke in Scam's Lakeside (he's a Raider fan, I've seen the kid around the bars for years) & told him to fire up the Naughty By Nature for me. And sure enough, the Raider fan obliged me. When the song started and the brother says, "Arm me with harmony. Dave, drop a load on 'em," I went up to Michigan Molly, told her that she better be ready to receive Moose's load later on, threw a $20 bill on the bar, and staggered out of that damn bar.

I was sitting at Wing Joint Sunday night watching the Heat/Hawks game, chatting with my buddy Dave, who was back behind the bar toiling away the same as ever. There were 3 servers working at the time. Dave asks me, "How many of the 3 do you think are pregnant?" I answered, "I assume all of them."

I got the chance recently to watch Lost In Translation for the 1st time in a few years. It made me tear up like always. Bill Fucking Murray.

Gisele Knows Football

I haven't had a chance to write anything stupid on this stupid blog since the big, silly game last Sunday night. As far as the bet goes, I mainly feel bad for Geilfuss. The kid didn't have the luxury of hitting any prop bets. I'd take the Pats again if the game were tomorrow. They simply didn't make enough plays. That's it.

As far as the aforementioned prop bets, I hit 5 of them and made back almost all of what I lost on NE as a result. I was considering putting them up on this asinine blog. But I figured most readers could give a shit if Brandon Jacobs rushed for more than 30&1/2 yards, Mario Manningham had more than 44&1/2 receiving yards, etc. Remember, it's all harmless horseplay. No rape whatsoever. Nil.

Speaking of horseplay, I saw where the old coach at Horseplay U managed to pass on to that giant shower room in the sky recently. I feel kind of bad about it because I predicted this wig wearing fraud would more than likely kick the bucket pretty quickly after getting canned at Horseplay U. I'm gonna quit predicting people will die on this blog. I've been right too often. It's a little freaky. Or freakish. Or something approximating freakdom...

Speaking of Super Bowl Sunday, Brandon & I crowded once more into the infamous Kickin Chicken for the game. And let me tell you this about the Kickin Chicken last Sunday - there were more brothers in there than there were at the Guilford County Detention Center.

My man Legend was out for the game as well. And he was on fire with his typical behavior. That's right, Legend was taking shots and pulling women. As we all know, that's what Legend does. He was hanging out in the main bar area under some Bud Light themed tent deal with his running buddy Closer and various slightly chubby babes. I saw Legend pull one of his patented moves on one girl. He does this thing where he talks a girl into giving him a peck on the cheek. Only just as the girl is about to plant said peck on said cheek, Legend turns his head in the girl's direction and throws his tongue down the poor girl's throat. The victim of this sad move last Sunday was so distraught afterward that she wiped her mouth for 20 seconds with a napkin. Seriously.

I did speak to Legend a couple times during the game. And the kid slays me. He really does. The first time we spoke, Legend approached me and gave me one of those half hugs guys will give from time to time and says, "What's up, Killa?" Like he's all gangster. And the kid is no gangster. He's a balding overweight 30ish white kid wearing a button down pink shirt and a Brooks Brothers overcoat.

Our friend Gisele was in the news after the game criticizing Wes Welker or something. I could care less. The funny thing about all that is that for years I've joked about Gisele and how she probably has no idea what Brady does for a living. You know, she'd say things like, "Have fun playing with your friends today, Tommy." Or, "Why do you and your friends insist on going to Miami this weekend to play this game you seem so enamored with?" Things like that. I figured she liked Brady because of his winning smile and because he acceptably serviced her in the sack. And that she was totally clueless that he's one of the most well known athletes in America. But it turns out I may have been wrong about Gisele. She knew enough to rip the Patriot receivers. And that's more than most Pats' fans know.

Roll With Brady

The pick for the big silly game is coming later in this stupid blog post. Don't worry gamblers, I expect my spotless Super Bowl picks record on this not so spotless blog to continue (I am 5-0 the past 3 years on Super Bowl picks...). Before that, we need to break down the teams scientifically, as always. This year features New England and New York. Except that it doesn't feature New York. The G Men don't play in New York. They play in Jersey. Hence, I was all prepared to give a myriad of reasons why NYC is vastly superior to Boston. But it doesn't matter that Gotham kicks Beantown's ass - not in the least. Because when you start delving into the merits of northern Jersey, there's not much to like. Granted, my man Paulie Walnuts hails from Jersey. And they tape Jersey Shore in Jersey from time to time (JWoww...). But that's it. Let's delve into this as best we can considering that New York isn't really involved in this game at all.

I was sitting in the Newark airport back in 2001 with a colleague of mine named, ... well I can't remember the guy's name at the moment. I forget names. I'm bad with names. Anyway, we were knocking back a few pints of Sam Adams in this bar at the airport. We had just finished a pointless week of work at some conference center off the Jersey Turnpike somewhere. So, we were relaxing a bit. And by relaxing a bit, I mean we were getting hammered. I just remembered the guy's name. It's Ted Lyons (and I was always a fan of the guy, he was a professional drummer at one point in his life {he played with the dB's for a stretch}). So, Ted & I are getting loaded at the airport. Then suddenly we hear our names being called over the PA system. The airline was requesting that we get our asses to the gate. The flight was about to take off without us. I didn't particularly wanna spend the night at the Newark airport. So, we bolted for the gate. When we got there a few minutes later, some airline lackey informed us that we had just made it in time for takeoff. This airline worker asked me why we were cutting it so close in boarding the plane. I was feeling it a bit at the time to be honest. I was in the zone. I told this airline worker that the reason I was cutting it so close was that I was busy in a darkened recess of the bar nailing Adriana La Cerva. Alas, only Ted laughed at that...

The thing about New York that would be important to remember if the Giants actually played there is how expensive everything is. Did you know that a Big Mac is like $17 in Manhattan? Did you know that getting like 6 beers and 2 shots will set you back like $110 at a run of the mill watering hole? Did you know they don't even have grocery stores in New York? If you wanna stock up on the typical crap like 40's, prune juice, & rubbers you gotta drive all the way out to Connecticut? And those pesky Connecticutters don't like to see grimy New Yorkers strutting their shit in the suburban morass that passes for the good life. Believe me on that. I have it on good authority. I talked to someone once. It's true. I really did. Anyway, this whole deal with New York being super pricey is a real issue. One that Barry is working hard on alleviating, to no avail I might add. But all that doesn't amount to a hill of Lima beans in looking at the big game in Indy. Not one fucking bit.

When we turn our attention to the northeast of New York, we can see clearly that Boston is a terrible place - full of flaming liberals, Irish thugs, and ex-hippies. There's the People's Republic of Cambridge for one thing. The best that can be said for Boston is that Bill Spaceman Lee, Oil Can Boyd, Manny Ramirez, and my main man Pedro Martinez played for the Sox. Other than that, Boston is all Ben Affleck, Larry The Hick From French Lick Bird, and the endless menace that is the Kennedy Dynasty. It's probably best to leave it at that. If you don't have anything nice to say, blah, blah, blah...I was raised with some decorum. Some. A little. A teensy bit. Maybe...

Coincidentally, not speaking of Geilfuss, I got a text from him yesterday in which he informed me that Creech has been hanging out in gay bars recently. I immediately forwarded the info to both Luke of Jacoby fame and Andy. And the consensus of the 3 of us on this Creech going to gay bars deal was that we are not the least bit surprised. Luke said it best in his reply to me, noting this development was inevitable. Now, I'm all for Creech delving into the dark world of the anal arts with skinny, young men (Creech would be a bear in the gay world, I believe). I want Creech to be happy (actually, I could give a shit about it entirely, but...) & if shooting his load all over some dude's butt-crack accomplishes that, well good for him. Rock on, Creech.

I was sitting at my current fake job the other day, chatting amiably with an irate drunk woman on the phone, when she demanded to know my name. I replied in a very calm and steady voice, "Madam, I'm Harry Balsac."

Enough of the silliness, on to the Super Bowl pick. I am of the mind that Tom Brady has revenge on the brain. Take the Patsies -2&1/2. It's that simple. No further analysis is necessary.

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