Here’s a guy on a home-shopping-type show trying to espouse the benefits of owning a Nintendo Wii. What benefits, you ask? Oh, like smashing the front of your flat-screen TV. No, it wasn’t supposed to do that! Whatever, ya big dumb cracker. And if this doesn’t give away where I found this vid, then I can’t help you. Why yes, it wasHot Clicks. Lucky guess.
Seahawks fullback Owen Schmitt might be short on talent, but he’s even shorter on brains. And pain threshold. Here’s Schmitt, he of the reportedly steel forehead, after being introduced before his first career start yesterday against the Jaguars. And Schmitt marked the occasion by beating himself in the head, with his helmet. And this is the same dude that was praised for being a “workout freak” after bulking up 15 pounds during his tour as an upperclassman at West Virginia. I’m sure he just worked really hard in the weight room and paid strict attention to his diet, just like all those other hard-working fellows.
Oh, by the way, Schmitt did catch one pass for three yards yesterday. And then he probably tried to eat the ball. Still better than the ribs at TGI Fridays. Their ribs are terrible. That video’s after the jump. Read the rest of this entry »
Various field reports have been filed, uploaded and vaguely remembered by those onhand through the haze of infield drinking and savage beatings. Whereas last year we were treated to footage of Port-O-Potty racing, the new white hot mess this year was flinging unopened beer cans and engaging in Socratic dialectics on the subject of flinging unopened beer cans. Somehow those actions resulted in people bleeding heavily from the face, as if that's some sort of logical extension of heavy projectiles. Naturally, respectable local media was hanging amidst the fracas to relay the shameful proceedings to an audience, like the revelers, totally uninterested in the horsey races.
A year later, the game had changed: now, the sprinting was banished to history's dustbin, as the flying debris itself took center stage.
Near as anyone could tell, today's game of beer-can volleyball broke out when someone flung a brew from on top of an outhouse. That, the surrounding masses realized, looked like jolly good fun. And soon the sky filled with silver-and-foam, the silver signifying surprisingly heavy vessels of lite beer, the foam showing that this lite beer anxiously wished to come out and join the party.
Six, seven, eight cans were volleyed back and forth simultaneously, some being consumed after their fleshy landings, others taking flight again. Some infielders shielded their heads with Styrofoam coolers. Others joined forces, hoisting a giant blue tarp to ward off the incoming fermentable attack.
One man proudly showed off what he claimed was a beer-can related broken finger. Another yanked a can out of mid-air, consumed its contents and chomped the defeated can between his jaws. A young woman face's snapped back after impact; she shook her head and managed a timid laugh.
The only thing that beats a beer-can related broken finger is a beer can filled with broken finger. It creates a really pleasing rattle, is all. It will be interesting to see what event will be showcased next year in the Pimlico Submoronic Olympics. Summer sports are covered with the sprinting and the Volley-Boh. We need some sort of slalom down heaps of insensate drunkards.