Friday, July 20, 2007

Air Golf: A Brilliant Idea

A company called Air Force Golf has come up with a novel way for people who can no longer swing a golf club, or just don't want to swing a club, to still be able to play the game of shooting a golf ball out of a high pressure air cannon. Seriously. Yet another new sport has been created and the Deuce is naming it Cannon Golf, but it calls itself The Air Golf Association.

Apparently the concept came when the creator's dad lost the use of his right arm and leg due to a stroke and he wanted to figure out a way for his father to keep playing the game. Apparently he felt that the only way this could be done was to create a golf ball bazooka for his father to shoot. Now, I'm no medical expert, but it seems to me like you might want to have use of both arms and legs to steady yourself, aim, fire, and withstand whatever the recoil is from shooting a golf ball 300 yards with several pounds of pressurized air.

The company's home page extols the virtues of the cannon as follows:

The Air Force Golf Ball Launcher is an air pressured device that will allow people to fly a golf ball from up to 300 yards to as little as just a few feet. The advantages to this revolutionary sport are that no clubs are needed (except for a putter), no physical skills are required, and any and everyone can enjoy the newest way to play the game of golf. The only two decisions left are: 1. How much air pressure is needed for this shot and 2. what angle is needed to achieve the maximum distance from the launcher. (which is upwards of 300 yards).

This is just scary. Can you imagine what you could do on a golf course with this? The abuse potential alone from shooting balls at that guy behind your group who is always yelling "Hurry UP!" is off the charts. College students and fellow drunkards will have a FIELD day with this thing! This is not to mention the fact that I cannot for the life of me hit a golf club with any sort of accuracy whatsoever, but I sure as hell can shoot a damn gun!

The Air Golf Association even has an idea for its first tournament:
We will have a 'Texas Shootout' where 144 players will all donate $1,000.00. The top amount of players who finish the 18th hole will now go to the 19th hole for a "shootout!" A hole that can be reached by the Golf Ball Launcher but far enough to make it a challenge will be the "shootout" hole. Everyone will get one shot at the pin. Whomever gets the closest to the pin will win the grand prize of $100,000.00. Second and Third place finishers will split the rest of the pot minus donations made to the AGA and subsequently disabled veterans. Once we get enough of these events throughout the country we will have our own 'super bowl-like' event, in which the top three players from each event will play for a million dollar winner take all challenge.

Right now they are offering the first 525 for sale to the public at a price tag of $995...not including the 2-stage hand pump or 12 volt mini air compressor you'll need to generate the PSI needed to launch that little white ball into oblivion. Just contact them and let them know. I dunno how I'm going to be able to pony up over a grand for the gun and equipment and then another grand for the tournament. I'd better win that junk if I did enter. I just want them to know that if they give me one...I will market the HELL out of them for free. See, here's their logo!

From Inventions Showcase

At A Store Near You MLB Crocs...ugh

MLB is proving that they'll throw a logo on anything just to get more money in their pockets. Crocs shoes has just signed a branded footwear deal with MLB to get their logos on a bunch of these crappy rubber shoes. I thought the Croc trend died before it started, but apparently Bud thinks differently. Here's what the evil Croc-maker said about the deal

Ron Snyder, CEO of Crocs, Inc., stated, “We are proud to partner with Major League Baseball Properties and we look forward to providing baseball fans with Crocs footwear and Jibbitz charms featuring their favorite team colours and logo. This agreement represents an important step in the evolution of our sports licensing business.”
You know what this means, we all now must look forward to seeing these day glow eyesores all over the ballpark by trendy logo wearing fans nationwide. Thank God, they didn't sign one with Uggs too. Be a hero...don't buy these shoes. (Yes, that is Mario Batali wearing Crocs...take it as a sign).

The Constitutional Vol. 12

Mustafa's on assignment in LA tracking down Chelsea (the team) and Beckham (The David), hopefully he'll grab some good pictures. I'm battling through writers block so...Welcome to the Constitutional.

  • An Extremely In Depth and Informative Article on Rock Paper Scissors. Seriously, it goes so in depth into history and strategy its scary. Utne Reader

  • The evening news is now catching on to Myspace & Facebook and found some dirt on other Minnesota Gophers.

  • The Tome is using math & picking NFL winners, degenerate gamblers get your pen & paper ready...damn this guy is smart. The Daily Sports Tome

  • If steroids are so great, why can't it help BOHChris win at 2kSports Football & Sons of Sam Malone are Live Blogging the British Open, check it out tomorrow for more. Epic Carnival

  • Snoop is coming for you Les Miles! 100% Injury Rate

  • Why Car Racing Is Not A Sport. We Suck At Sports

  • Jayson Stark at ESPN is wrong...again. Between The Lines

  • Sooze is wondering whats derailed the D-train? Funny thing is, my fantasy team is wondering the same thing...DAMMIT! Babes Love Baseball

  • Its been awhile since we've graced our hometown Comcast SportsNet for us and the Borat video guys, maybe we should buy Mottram & Steinberg a beer. Mr. Irrelevant. (Damn that SML guy is one angry bloke, WTF crawled up his ass?)

  • I dont know if anyone saw this, but the guys at Blame The Ref just ate 100 hot dogs with no breaks in between. Intro, Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV

Who needs Beckham?

The LA Galaxy needs to run over to Europe and sign this guy, he'll dribble circles around that punk Beckham. - Watch more free videos

Via Blizzmax

Thursday, July 19, 2007

The Steakhouse Incident

Ok, so this is not sports, but it is shit related and the funniest thing I've read in a long long time. Since we are a sportblog based off one giant shit joke, its only fair that we give some time to a hilarious, yet disgusting story. Here is the link but since I don't trust you guys to click on it (hello, google ads here?!?) i've block quoted the entire thing from The story is by Steve Crisp.

Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.

A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.

In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.

At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.

Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, like what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.

In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no fucking toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

The Coup De Grâce

When Lando speaks, you listen.

Punks Jump Up To Get Beat Down

Greetings from the left coast. I finally made it out to LA after steam pipe explosions, cab drivers who wanted to perform the Hajj in their taxi, delayed flights, staying on hold for 25 minutes and screaming babies. Delta can shove a 737 up its ass sideways. Anyway, I'll be bringing updates and pictures from today's Chelsea closed practice as well as the Chelsea vs. Beckham-less Galaxy match on Saturday. In the meantime here's your fix, Pookie.

Poor Goldenballs. All this pressure to save American soccer (as though there's something to save) and his ankle won't cooperate. There's a good chance David Beckham will be held out of tonight's MLS All-Star game vs. Celtic and the Galaxy's match against Chelsea on Saturday due to an ankle injury. Of course, this would be a disaster for the MLS and ESPN who have hyped his debut to unsustainable levels. What would they say if it turned out his ankle wasn't the real problem?

The Sun reports that Chelsea players have been texting Beckham to tell him they're going to beat him like a rented mule on Saturday.

“It’s just a bit of banter between the lads. David can take a joke and he knows they don’t really mean it. At least he doesn’t think they do.”
Frank Lampard, Joe Cole and John Terry are the suspected culprits but if anything happens, our money is on John Mikel Obi.

They're probably joking but he's probably decided to take himself out of the game anyway. If he can get punked by a mouth breather like Rio Ferdinand, he'll fall for anything.

It also doesn't help that the Galaxy were bent over by a bunch of ankle-kicking Mexicants last night.
The coach Frank Yallop said it was "flat and uninspired," and added: "We were slightly nervous with David here. We were scared to get on the ball, scared to
make mistakes. We let ourselves down."
This is going to go as well as the Magic Hour and Chevy Chase Show combined.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Phil Hartman For Activision

Check out this clip that Mustafa found out there on teh interwebs. Its classic Phil Hartman shilling the "classic" Ice Hockey game for the Atari 2600...they just dont make commercials like this anymore and really who doesn't miss Phil Hartman...besides Andy Dick.

From Fjetsam

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

American Gladiators + Little People = Midget Wars!!

I mean, honestly, I don't think I can explain it any better than the title did. Here's an American Gladiators spoof with midgets instead of hulked up gladiators like Nitro and Gemini as opponents for the competitors. Prepare to watch some midgets get pummeled all in the name of sport...and comedy.

The Constitutional Vol. 11

Before we get to our dump, just like to say that we're also a part of the hopefully soon to be infamous Epic Carnival here in the blogosphere. Of course everyone and their mother is a part of it, so there will be no shortage of good reading constantly on it. Luckily, this won't affect the Deuce at all posting-wise, we'll keep doing our thing, contributing to the Carnival as we can, like we did here with Urban Mushing. We'll also be contributing elsewhere as well, look around for us popping up on other sites in the future. That being said...Welcome to the Constitutional.

Borat Appears At Tour de France

This happy guy in a Borat inspired get-up made his appearance running in front of the riders before the live cameras on Stage 8 of the Tour De France. Pop culture colliding with sport at its finest. Thanks to NutmegNine for getting this hilariously grotesque screen-grab. As it turns out...there's a YouTube of it set to what I assume is Kazakhstanian music as well.