One of my personal tenets about sports is that if a guy ever gets worked up about how a guy looks, he needs to step away from the TV and start looking for online courses in interior design, hair design, or…you get the idea. Discussing an athlete’s looks, for guys, is pointless discourse (notice that I said nothing about women, who will spend the entire 3rd quarter of a game deconstructing Tom Brady’s ass and then scold anyone that watched beach volleyball during the Olympics). That said, Matt Taibbi put together a fun piece over at Men’s Journal about the value of ugly, and its history in American sport. Here’s Taibbi discussing Red Sox slugger Kevin Youkilis:

Then there’s Kevin Youkilis. Youk has only three body parts, all hideously oversized: an enormous set of gnomish, bushy forearms; a massive, casaba melon–size white head; and a cauldronlike belly. He has a truly awesome bristle of thick red chin hair that makes his face look like a cross between a vagina and something out of The Hobbit. At the plate he disgustingly gushes sweat by some means previously unknown to science in which the moisture travels upward along his body, racing in a cascade from his balls and armpits up his neck, over his head, and back down over the bill of his helmet to shower the plate.

That’s an odd bit of journo-porn, but it’s a solid read. Sam Cassell, Alex Ovechkin, and Robert Parrish all get their due. When asked for comment, Sam Cassell simply mumbled into the sky and ordered an intergalactic strike on the planet Earth.

I enjoy some filthy innuendo (in-your-end-o) way more than the next guy, but I don’t expect sports journalists to be leaders in the industry.  That’s the responsibility of profane sports blogs.

And yet, in the last few days, two women’s golf stories have produced headlines nothing short of brilliant.  Lion in Oil found this one on the high school state tournment in Kentucky:

Freshman Talley makes best of her 2 soggy holes

Meanwhile, the San Francisco Chronicle wrote about Paula Creamer’s LPGA win this past weekend:

Creamer in the pink after 1-stroke victory

The lede for that story:  “To understand the depth of Paula Creamer’s satisfaction Sunday…”  I am being completely serious.  Honestly, I don’t know how a one-stroke “victory” can be deeply satisfying for a woman.  She must have really low expectations.  Just my kinda gal.

The new GQ magazine, when not lauding Kissing Suzy Kolber for being one of the reasons that "football is better than ever," includes a feature on Vikings running back Adrian Peterson written by Lisa DePaulo.  It covers the tragic deaths of two of Peterson's brothers and the grace and humility he shows at a country club fundraiser.  All in all, it's not a bad profile — save for some hormones that DePaulo couldn't quite contain.

And this scar over here? (I am running my fingers across Adrian Peterson’s perfectly taut and butter-smooth neck and shoulders, and I will spare you the rest of the gory details, except to say: It’s awesome!)

“I dislocated my shoulder.”

How many scars are there?

“Let’s see. You mean the scars from my shoulder surgery, or just all over?”

A girl can dream.

He obligingly takes his shirt off next, because the tour of Adrian’s body would not be complete without a word about the tattoos… [On his back is] daddy’s little angel, in honor of his 4-year-old daughter, Adeja, whom he had “with my high school sweetheart” (a.k.a. “my baby mama”) whom he still loves, but it just didn’t work out.

Got a girlfriend now?

Whoa, someone put a bridle on that filly.  Sure, I understand a writer's tendency to be honest about his or her subject, but let's keep in mind her audience.  What, is GQ supposed to be targeted to gay men or something?  It is?  Oh.

journo-porn has struck again, this time in the Red Sox clubhouse.

"So much for wearing these clothes home," [manager Terry] Francona cracked, the beer-and-champagne mix dripping down his bald head, into his eyes, past his chin, and onto the red underclothes that he still wore.

But that was nothing compared to the double dose of champagne Theo Epstein took from Schilling and Papelbon, an explosion of the sticky liquid sending him shooting across the clubhouse floor…

I commend the author, Amalie Benjamin, on her impressive ability to make deadline while typing with only one hand.  God knows I could never do that.  If I ever got the chance to report from the showers of the women's beach volleyball tour, the only deadline I'd make is the next morning's police blotter — as a victim of sexual assault!  Because the women, they cannot resist!

(Thanks to Dan and Mike for the tips!)