Thanks to alert Balloon Juice commenter WereBear, I learned that Rush Limbaugh was possibly caught on film picking his snoot in Patriot owner Robert Kraft’s booth during last night’s Super Bowl. There is much speculation about it on the Google: Did he or didn’t he shove his finger knuckle-deep into his nostril in full view of all the swells in the skybox, including Steven Tyler?
Deadspin has a pretty definitive photo here. However, some wingnut site called the “Daily Rushbo” gives the clip the Zapruder treatment and concludes that no nose-picking occurred. Not content to rely on the analysis of someone daft enough to run a Limbaugh fan site, I used advanced digital still analysis techniques and found that the truth is far worse than the original rumor.
First, here’s the Deadspin still:
And here’s a detailed view of Limbaugh in mid-pick—the enhanced image clearly shows a viscous, green glob of mucus dangling from his index finger:
And a couple of frames later, the horrible truth is revealed: Not only did Limbaugh extract a slimy, revolting booger from his snout, he disposed of it by wiping it on the back of his host, Mr. Kraft.
Jesus, that’s disgusting. But it kind of puts the NFL ownership’s rejection of Limbaugh’s bid to join their little club in a new light, doesn’t it? It’s not that the owners were put off by Limbaugh’s constant race-baiting and misogyny; it’s just that he’s one crass motherfucker.
If you’re anything like me, you’re a big sissy whose lack of interest in sports has led to enormous gaps in your cultural literacy, so hopefully you’re nothing like me, but if you’re exactly like me, you made the 5th-grade class bully cry. What happened was, he got stuck with you on his touch-football team in gym class, and apparently you were “off sides,” and he got very upset about this. To this day you don’t know what “off sides” means, but you did make a bully cry, so maybe you’re not that big a sissy after all.
Anyway, here’s a real giant. Not so much the other thing!
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So, it’s Super Bowl Sunday. What are y’all cooking for the occasion, if anything? Does anyone have a good recipe for onion dip that does not include Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix? I intend to try this Alton Brown recipe unless someone has a better suggestion.
Also, Giants or Patriots? I’m not particularly fond of either team (my team is the sucky Bucs), but I’m leaning toward the Giants for no particular reason.
Here is that open football thread we have been clamoring for! The Pollys are ensconced before their 19” Panasonic, enthralled before yet another angelic-wife-drowned-by-husband story on “Dateline,” as Mr. Polly informs me that the Giants are losing, and a proper fan never watches his team lose. (Mr. P is a Yankee fan, so his behavior may be recognizeable.)
I tried to learn to enjoy football once, by reading “Football For Dummies,” and after ten pages of picayune rules about measurements, I realized I hated football more than when I started, but I can appreciate a good catch replayed in slo-mo. Meanwhile, Stone Phillip’s jaw is jutting so far forward it just may break the screen.
So are any great plays being made or anything? It’s not like I’m going to know.
I haven’t followed college football as closely this year as I have in the past. Not just because my team (the not-so-mighty Gators) sucked this year either.
My loss of interest may be because the long-time revulsion I’ve felt at how the NCAA exploits athletes and the ways schools exalt their football programs to the detriment of academics was amplified a hundred million times by the horrifying activities that were allegedly covered up at Penn State. Yeah, it wasn’t MY team, but those who think the mindset that compelled outwardly normal, decent people to turn a blind eye to a serial child predator is confined to Happy Valley are kidding themselves. It’s enough to put a fan off her Jello shots.
But I’m still going to watch the BCS Championship game tonight, and furthermore, I’m going to make a prediction: LSU will beat Alabama. Again. Geaux Tigers!
we don’t need to hold on for another hero ‘til the end of the night
I’m often asked “gil, why do you read the Daily Caller if you don’t agree with its editorial stance, gain insight from its reporting, or find its human-interest stories compelling?” To which I can only respond “You’re not really here! You’re something my subconscious whipped up in response to the battery of booze and pills I’ve ingested, then sent forth to taunt me! GO ‘WAY!” Then I whip a bottle at them and they evaporate. But they raise an interesting question!
An interesting question I’m not going to answer, because this isn’t about me, it’s about me getting my jollies setting you, the readers, against each other in a horrifying bout of bloodsport. That’s right, it’s time for…
THAT THING I SAID IN THE TITLE ALREADY.(trumpet fanfare)
Former Penn State defensive coordinator and accused child rapist Jerry Sandusky wrote an autobiography 10 years ago that was entitled “Touched.” Really.
As more details emerge about the scandal engulfing the Penn State football program, it’s becoming pretty clear that the sorry bastards who were in charge of the university and the program allowed a pedophile to roam the campus. Every damn one of them should be fired. Including Joe Paterno.
I’m a big college football fan, but not without misgivings. It bothers me that university programs make so much money while exploiting student athletes, most of whom will never have a shot at the next level or even a decent education. It bothers me that so much focus and money are directed at athletics rather than academics.
But all of that is small potatoes compared to the horror that was happening at Penn State for god knows how many years now. It would be nice to think it couldn’t happen elsewhere. But that would be another lie.
Nothing good ever comes out of a situation like this. But is it too late to back up and put college athletics and the flawed men who govern it back into their rightful place, which is surely a notch or two below God himself? Is it too late to reverse the mindset that could enable several grown men—men employed by a program that is widely lauded for its uncommonly honorable approach to athletics—to ignore a hideous crime because reporting it might give the program a black eye? Yeah, I guess it is too late.
In other news, Sarah Palin is STILL not running for president! The shell-shocked Palin Cult is trying to come to grips with this unthinkable development. I haven’t heard such wailing and gnashing of teeth since Hillary Clinton conceded the Democratic primary in 2008, in many cases from the very same people. What can one say besides this? And this?
ESPN — which holds the World Record for hiring and firing offensive on-air talent — predictably responded by pulling Bocephus’ theme music from its Monday Night Football open.
“There comes a time when all the cosmic tumblers have clicked into place and the universe opens itself up for a few seconds to show you what is possible.” (Field of Dreams)
This morning, athletic former elected official Sarah Palin showed participants in a “1/2 marathon” at Storm Lake, Iowa how to “run an unconventional race” by wearing a disguise and cutting across residential lawns.
What could be more vermiform than the repulsive former News Of The World editor Paul McMullen, or more wonderful than watching him shrivel under avenging investigator Hugh Grant’s withering attack?
If McMullen doesn’t take Grant’s gem of a parting shot to heart, Central Casting could always find a place for him exemplifying stock poltroons and swindlers. Perhaps Grant could put in a call for him.
Serial lecher Newt Gingrich announced his candidacy for president today. It’s hard to believe a gigantic, leaky douchebag like Newt Gingrich could be a serious contender for a major party nomination, but this is America. We can buy and sell anything. All it takes is some marketing finesse.
So far, the Newt campaign hasn’t shown much. Do they really think they can pass off the Queen of the Cream Cheese People (Trophy Wife #3, who snatched her highly dubious prize from the matrimonial clutches of Trophy Wife #2) as a “character witness”?
Come the fuck on. To counter the Marianas Trench of loathsomeness that is Newt Gingrich, a Mount Everest of cuteness is required. Newt needs some weapons-grade cute—now. Below the fold are some creatures who are so adorable they almost balance Newt’s physical and moral hideousness. They should therefore be considered possible running mates.
Nothing says “The Sport of Kings” like a shitfaced man-horse who runs one and three-sixteenths miles, then throws up at the finish line while trying to light the wrong end of a box of Newports. But that seems to be the image the Preakness promoters are going for this year, in an attempt to win back hard-partying groundlings who bailed on the race after BYOB was banned from the infield in 2009.
Behold “Kegasus,” the Preakness’ 2011 mascot, who toots his mighty stag-flask to alert the thirsty world of 18-25-year-olds that just because you have to leave your home-brew in the car doesn’t mean you can’t mud-wrestle a dwarf while sucking down a $20 bottomless beer purchased on the premises. Oh, and there will also be a horse-race afterward.
For the sake of mythological accuracy, of course, Kegasus should be a drunken winged stallion who plummets into the grandstand after strafing the infield crowd with enchanted road-apples. But my guess is that concept didn’t make it past the first focus group.
[UPDATE:] Totally righteous Kegasus TV spot below the fold.
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