Monthly Archives: April 2011
I honestly don’t give a crap about the royal wedding even though it is currently occupying the entire top half of the P-G’s website.
I give even less of a crap, negative crap if you will, about the NFL draft.
I’m more of a pick your players, put them to work, and THEN we’ll talk about them kind of gal.
However, the big news today is that the Steelers drafted Craig Heyward’s son (no, I don’t know who Craig Heyward is. Smite me if you must. I’m going to go Google him.) in the first round.
Meet former Buckeye Cam Heyward.
“I had always loved the team,” Heyward said. “I’m from there, my grandparents are from there, my mom’s from there. My gut feeling was I wanted to be in Pittsburgh. To be somewhere you want to be is an unbelievable feeling.”
Heyward took to twitter to express his joy:
First, Cameron, this face you’re seeing is my “You best learn Pittsburgh has an H, REAL FAST” glare. [GLARE]
Second, I wanted to yell at you for that, but then I watched the video.
And I can’t yell at you because I’m too busy loving you.
Call me and I’ll explain self-uniting to you.
1.The Cirque tickets giveaway is completed with comment #65 chosen by Random.org (have emailed the winner but haven’t heard back yet). It seems that the most common answer was that you wanted to be able to dance without looking stupid.
I can relate.
When I start dancing in my kitchen, my daughter usually gets upset and screams, “MOMMY. YOU GOTTA STOP THAT.”
And if I don’t, she cries.
My dancing MAKES HER CRY.
2. The other day I was watching a tied Buccos game (hold your pearls, we lost) in the 10th inning and in the span of like three minutes I watched Ronny Cedeno hit a ball down the third base line, assume it was going foul, stop running part way to first base, and then stand there stunned because the ball was not foul and his out ended the inning, and then a minute later he bobbled a throw to him at second, which was thrown after it was overrun by the outfielder whose name is escaping me right now probably because it knows if it enters my brain space, I will bitchslap it back to oblivion, and this was all followed by a wild throw to first allowing a runner to advance to third and then a wild throw by some other name I can’t remember to home allowing a runner to score the winning run.
I blame Ronny for all of that because he started it.
Someone should inform Cyril Wecht that he’s eighty-years-old.
Was that ageist? [shrug]
County Executive Dan Onorato (ahn-oh-RAH’-toh) must name a medical examiner because Dr. Karl Williams’ five-year term expired in December.
Crap. We’re back to this again. I thought it was ON-oh-RAH’-toe?
I know he’s joking, but seriously how fantastic would that have been?
Someone mock that up. Put some sluts on there. Big ones.
5. RiverLife asked some Burghers about living in a river city and then they made an amazing animated video of one of the stories.
Emily’s animated story is a work of art, particularly the part where she puts her toes in the river and then fireworks explode overhead. The animated Fort Pitt Tunnel exit is awesome too.
I’d like to see them animate that time I was on the PNC corporate rowing team and I did what’s called an “over-the-head crab.” It basically looked like this.
That was awesome in a painfully embarrassing kind of way.
6. If you love birds (hold your pearls, I don’t), then you’ll love this new contest the Aviary is holding called Best Birdhouse in the Burgh, in which various age groups are charged with building sturdy birdhouses for one of four categories.
Here’s the cool thing. In addition to other prizes like lifetime Aviary memberships, the adult winners get TO SWIM WITH THE PENGUINS!
If only they wanted birdhouses for falcons.
I’d paint the walls with pigeon blood and carpet it with their carcasses.
“Drinking and foul language?! That goes against everything pirates stand for!”
“We have bred a super race of taser-resistant drunks.”
Stephen Colbert’s take on the PNC Park tasing incident will have you — and I’m going to spell it out: Rolling On The Floor Laughing Your Ass Off.
Maybe the ninja uprising we’re seeing in Pittsburgh is due to their upcoming war with the taser-resistant drunks.
Get ‘yer popcorn; this is going to be AWESOME.
First, let me start by saying that Fleury’s falling glove save to keep the game 1-0 was the most beautiful thing I have seen a goalie do since Brent Johnson punched Rick DiPietro’s lights out (hockey makes me violent).
The last period of yesterday’s Pens loss to Tampa [ptooie ptooie] was quite possibly the most frustrating period of hockey I’ve ever watched.
It wasn’t like we were losing 8-2 and therefore I could have resigned myself early to the fact that we were going to lose and that our season was over, so that by the time the final second ticked away, I would be all, “Oh, well. Can’t win ’em all.”
An entire game 7 third period spent watching the Pens trailing by one goal — JUST ONE GOAL — is frustrating enough; ending that period on a power play with a two-man advantage, watching the sands fall through the hourglass faster than you can say “these are the days of our lives,” and the Pens not being able to do anything with it was beyond frustrating.
It was like trying to thread a needle, but instead of thread you’re using yarn, and also, the needle is a pin.
See if that doesn’t frustrate you to the point of wanting to throw a fish bowl against the wall. (Don’t worry. I didn’t. Because I don’t have fish. But if I DID have fish, God rest their souls. Hockey makes me violent.)
See if that doesn’t make you turn the channel to Repo Games a few times to calm your nerves. (That show makes me worry for America.)
See if that doesn’t make you want to projectile-spew bile of both the literal and proverbial kind at your TV and at that punk ass bitch Ryan Malone (HOCKEY MAKES ME VIOLENT).
But all that said, all anger and ranting aside, you cannot escape the fact that the Pens fought long and hard and they did it without their stars, and that lack of scoring power finally drove the final nail in the coffin that is this hockey season.
You know how you go to a Pirates game and you’re like, “I don’t know any of you people out there?” Remember how a portion of this Pens season was like that? “Who are you and why are you wearing a Penguins sweater? Somebody call security.”
THAT team made it to the first round of playoffs before their wounds were finally too much to bear, and clearly, the biggest most bleedingest wound that would get them through triage in critical condition and straight into the OR is the one they suffered to the power play.
Holy. Poop. of. Oozing. Suck.
Next year will be better. We’ll stop the hemorrhaging wounds by plugging them with Crosby and Malkin. They’ll get healthy. Crosby’s brain will start behaving.
We’ll get the band back together and they’ll make beautiful goal-siren music.
I wonder if they’ll let me sing backup. Here’s my audition: [Ahem] WOOWEE WOOWEE WOOWEE WOOWEE!
Did I get the job?
P.S. I’d like a cookie for working a soap opera reference into a Penguins post. Make it a dozen. And make them donuts.
Today I will be sacrificing my body, my mind, my nerves, my patience, my all to chaperone my son’s school field trip to the zoo. That means I’ll be riding a bus with more second graders than you can shoot a Nerf gun at. I will need alcohol by the time the puck drops tonight to not only help me recover from the trip, but to also help me stay calm for Game 7.
Until I post more later today, which will probably just be a string of incoherent mumbling brought on by exposure to excessive armpit farting and Silly Bandz shooting, here’s a repost of The Trouble with Game Sevens, which I posted almost a year ago.
The trouble with games sevens is that they’re equally critical to both teams, meaning both teams come out playing like Chewbacca on meth.
The trouble with game sevens is that they can be immovable objects (Chewbacca on meth) meeting irresistible forces (Chewbacca on meth).
The trouble with game sevens is that Cinderella might realize the clock is striking midnight on her time at the ball and instead of turning back into a defeated housemaid, she turns into a raging bitch on skates, hell bent on destroying our chances at a Stanley Cup.
The trouble with game sevens is every second counts. Every penalty might mean the series. Every bar hit might mean an early start to golf season. Every missed save, every missed gimme, every bad call, every little thing … might mean everything.
The trouble with game sevens is that they age you.
The trouble with game sevens is that your heart spends it in a constant state of “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD,” regardless of if you’re in the lead or not.
The trouble with game sevens is they don’t leave you much time to recover for Game One.
The trouble with game sevens is there might not BE a Game One.
The trouble with game sevens is you can’t escape the feeling you never should have seen this Game Seven.
The trouble with game sevens is WHO CAN WORK WHEN GAME SEVEN STARTS IN ____ HOURS?!
The trouble with game sevens is they make you want to puke or slit your wrists or listen to emo music or rock in place like the crazy people at the crazy home.
Here’s hoping and praying and aggressively stabbing the Marian Hossa Voodoo Doll of Hockey JuJu that the puking and the aging and the OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD feeling will be worth it at the end of the third period.
Let’s go, Pens!