I think Hernandez died in your arms tonight. It must’ve been something you said.
August 2017 M T W T F S S « Jun 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31
I think Hernandez died in your arms tonight. It must’ve been something you said.
Well hey, Casanovaginas!
You may need to read that twice. It’s really better to say out loud–now that I think about it, it looks a lot like Casino Vaginas, which was not what I was trying to get across at all, and I duly apologize to any casino vaginas currently residing out there. Try this — Casanova(gina)s. Any better?
I was hoping to skip over here during the week and talk about something, anything really. Like the fact that Champions League soccer started again this week and defending champions Barcelona wore pink uniforms against top Italian squad Inter Milan. (I’ll tell you right now, that takes some serious balls. You’ll never see NFL players do that, and you know why? Because they’re huge pussies, afraid of their manhood. That’s why they wear so many pads.)
But work was a bitch this week and kept me far from the stocked cooler that is IKH. So bad, in fact, that my company bought some beers and pissed away the end of the week in our kitchen/lounge.
As is usually the case in these Friday afternoon sessions, the guys are congregated, and the women cower in the corners, or hide in their cubicles so as to avoid sexual assault. One of their rank bravely approached the kitchen at 5:00 to announce she was heading to Vegas for an extended vacation with her husband. A very bold move, considering the audience and the alcohol intake.
One of the guys coolly suggested she visit the Spearmint Rhino while she was there, and that her husband would really enjoy it. Now I’m not a big Vegas guy, nor were the majority of the other guys in the room, but it’s so obvious just from the name that the Spearmint Rhino is a strip club. (And frankly, a pretty gay sounding one.)
But as we sat there, I realized that there is a winning formula for naming a strip club. It’s very similar to coming up with your Porn Name–your first name is your first pet and your last name is the street you grew up on. Mine is Rusty Hazelwood, which is a fucking awesome porn name. I have a friend from Germany whose porn name is about 10 syllables long, and is the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
But like I said, the formula for the strip club is this: Flavor + Animal. You can’t go wrong. For the next two hours, my coworkers and I came up with 75-100 skin joint names that would do great business in a cesspool like Vegas, or our kitchen. So I thought I’d roll them out with my Week 2 picks, in case there are any horny entrepreneurs out there. Or, as I like to call them…Casino Vaginas.
Apparently Sarah Palin ain’t the only bitch in Alaska. Dozens of the canine kind just wrapped up the annual pointless exercise in how far a pea-brained animal can run when it’s whipped and starved, otherwise known as the Iditarod. This is the kind of crazy shit Alaskans have to think up to keep themselves (relatively) sane. My guess is they need to come up with something better than a ridiculously long dog sled race, seeing as how they have abnormally high rates of suicide, domestic abuse and fetal alcohol syndrome. But hey, at least the weather’s nice, right?
One guy who loves Alaska is Lance Mackey, who just won his third consecutive Iditarod. He mushed his dogs over more than 1,000 miles of frozen, barren trail in an amazing 9 days, 21 hours. What an incredible athletic achievement.
Did you stop laughing yet? Don’t, because wait till you hear what the Los Angeles Times had to say in its coverage of the race:
“[Mackey’s] dogs, especially lead dog Larry, deserve as much credit as the 38-year-old Fairbanks musher.”
How generous of the reporter! I mean, sure, Mackey had the herculean task of standing – and sometimes sitting – on a sled for almost 10 straight days, but those mutts deserve at least some of the credit for all that, you know, running.
And hey, it’s not like it’s unsafe for the dogs, right? Right? Come correct L.A. Times:
“Lance and Larry, et al, crossed the finish line Wednesday at 11:38 a.m. in brilliant sunshine after almost 10 days on a bitter-cold trail, which, unfortunately claimed the lives of two huskies owned by a rookie musher.”
Ouch! Killing two of the participants in your race is a classic rookie mistake. But that musher will learn. Next year he’ll know exactly how hard to beat his dogs and for how long. And they will love him for it.
OR, if they have any brain power and self respect, they’ll snap in the middle of the night and eat him alive somewhere between Nulato and Kaltag, which for my money is the toughest stretch of the race. What, you think I don’t know shit about the Iditarod? Nigga pleeze!
Ok, it’s still after noon. I’m finishing this damn thing up.
First, let me get back to Liverpool. Our mighty captain, Steven Gerrard, has spoken:
“(Manchester) United seem to be playing well and getting the results but if teams believe they can take points off them then I am sure it will happen sooner or later. It’s important for us not to let the gap get any bigger and if they make mistakes we have to be ready to pounce. Of course, we all know how big our game at Old Trafford is going to be.
“Our season is still very much alive. We’re not giving up in the title race and we’re 1-0 up in the Champions League and one win away from a place in the last eight.”
This is what you want from a captain. And yes, I am a Liverpool fan, but in the English Premier League (screw you, Barclays) there is no better pair than Gerrard and Fernando Torres. Cristiano Ronaldo on Manchester United is admittedly a better player, but he’s a whiner, a diver and a herpes scab. When Gerrard and Torres aren’t in the lineup together, this team is much, much worse. And it’s probably too late to catch the ass-to-mouth Manchester United Gimpdicks in the League.
But next Saturday Liverpool is taking Manchester United on in Manchester at 8:45 a.m. This is without question the biggest Premier League game of the year. I got a rise out of the Man U fan I work with because he’s gonna be in San Diego that day, and was hoping to watch it there, but there are no soccer bars open in San Diego at 5:45 in the morning. He has to wait 24 hours to watch it when he gets back to New York, because apparently in outer boroughs you can pick up the network as a pay channel. But I assure you, if Liverpool pulls this one off, he’s getting an early morning text message, and he’ll have to carry it around like a turd halfway between his gloryhole and his boxers. Oooh! Nasty, I know, but that is the life of a Manchester United fan.
For anyone looking for an insane NYC Saturday morning experience, I urge you to wake up at the crack of dawn and accompany me to the Liverpool bar in the East Village. You won’t be disappointed.
Hockey! Hernandez has scored us and a couple friends some primo seats to the Sunday afternoon NY Rangers game. Coming along for the ride is fellow blogger Traveler’s Diagram, who was remiss on our sidebar links and is being added while you read this post. He’s bringing his camera, so you’re bound to see some hot-shit shots from some hot-shit MSG seats. I’m wondering if I can camp out there after the game until March 16th to see Motley Crue. I know they’ll suck, but who fuckin’ cares? Am I the only 16 year old to masturbate to the ‘Girls Girls Girls’ video in 1988? Or the only 32 year old to masturbate to the amazing blow job porn star Janine gives to Vince Neil in a beach cave ? Okay! Let’s move on!
Football! There are a bunch of new New York Giants. I’m gonna leave a proper dissection to Hernandez, who knows a shitload about these things, but it looks like we have a couple winners on our hands.
And as Hernandez and I had figured, the Giants do not plan on dropping premature ejacu-shooter Plaxico Burress as their #1 receiver. Which is fine with me, because Eli loves throwing to him, and let’s face it: you need an incredibly talented shithead on your team to win titles. (See Kobe Bryant, Michael Jordan, Manny Ramirez, Curt Schilling, etc.)
Look, I’m not saying that I have moral opposition to Plax being a Giant next year just because he shoved a loaded gun into his sweatpants and went clubbing. Maybe he was hunting down his baby’s pimp, which is completely rational. It’s like Dwight Gooden used to say–“if the Hos want the free nose, they gotta expose. Pimps beware.” All I’m saying is buy the motherfucker some pants with steel-plated pockets, and Plax will be wearing another Super Bowl ring on his finger-fucking finger come next February.
Where would Knicks basketball be without the silky smooth Walt “Clyde” Frazier? Both as a player and as an announcer, he has the skills and the trills to charm the pants off his listeners. His penchant for 25-cent words and rhyming cadences is unprecedented. He’s the original ladies’ man.
At IKH, we wonder how Clyde conducts himself in everyday life, and have enlisted our interns (we call them “herndies”) to follow the man, witness his Clydeness and capture his essence:
THIS WEEK: Clyde goes to the grocery store