The Rogg Remembers

I am the head man of the most powerful sports league in the world. Millionaires seek me out in a crowd to shake my hand. Lavish gifts come pouring into my office just for the consideration of being spit on by me. I've met presidents, monarchs, and emporers, and rest assured that The Rogg has been king in every court.

And don't forget that the Rogg is one perceptive son of a gun. I know what you came hear to discover. I can almost hear the question rolling around in your head. Have I ever banged a black chick?

The answer is yes. Yes, I have.

She was an education major during my last year at Wash and Jeff. I like to call it "Wash and Jeff," because people always ask, "Who's Jeff?" I don't think it's very funny, but I enjoy making others look stupid. It's a gift, really. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Her name was Chrissy, and she was amazing. Big boobs, big ass, and yet somehow still skinny as a rail. She defied proportion just as she defied society's expectations of a black woman in 1980. She always wore these button-down shirts, pleated skirt, and argyle socks. I always hoped that one day I might see one of those massive jugs bust out of that shirt. Jesus, if I had a dime for every time I had jerked off to that thought. Big titties know no season.

She had this cute little afro, usually with a headband, and if you saw her walking your way you'd swear your cock was going to detonate in your pants. She had that "it" thing, and every time I saw her I had to run off and put "it" out of "its" misery.

We had an economics class together in the spring, and I remember one day she came into class crying. I remember going up to her and gently, just gently putting my hand on her back. She turned around and, with tears still streaming down her face, she smiled at me. I thought I was going to fall over. Somehow, I managed to ask her out to dinner that night. She smiled again.

Dinner was a blur. I remember inviting her up to listen to some Earth, Wind & Fire. She came up, and before I could close the door, she was already naked. Then she jammed her hand down my pants, and I started to play with her, too. I think she could tell I was a little nervous. "You doin' alright, baby?" I nodded; I was nervous. We laid down on the floor.

I didn't last more than a couple of minutes, but it was great. So great. We kissed, and then I went into the bathroom to wash up. When I came out, she was gone. We had class a couple days later. I couldn't wait to see her, but she never showed up. I found out that she had dropped the class.

You doin' alright, baby?

A couple weeks later I found out that she'd had a big fight with her boyfriend the day she was crying. That's why she was crying when I saw her. I fight the urge to second-guess everything that happened on that night. Our night. What was real, and what was revenge, I just don't want to tear that apart.

You know, I could close a billion-dollar deal every day for the rest of my life, and I'd still never get the feeling I did when Chrissy came up to my apartment that night. "You doin' alright, baby?" Sometimes I can still hear those words. Some things just stay with you, I guess. My dick still has a scar from our endeavor that evening. You wanna see it?

The Vision of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Equality.

It was Dr. King's vision. Color and creed and all that shit. Equality was a big winner this weekend, and we all stand to bask in the glory of the progress of Dr. King's vision, as this year's Super Bowl, for the first time in two years, will feature two head coaches of the Caucasian persuasion.

I think this magnanimous step shows how far we've come as a society, when two men of an athletically inferior race can rise to prominence as directors of their respective teams, and take said clubs to the precipice of pro football's summit. Both Giants coach Tom Coughlin and Patriots head man Bill Belichick have guaranteed victory for their people, as no fewer than one of them can prevail.

What a departure this is from the dark times of yesteryear (2007), where both coaches of a superior race usurped the landscape of our great game to promote their own brand of Afro-centric apartheid, one which the Anglo-Saxon director of team operations found himself least welcome.

We should behold the glory of this monumental occasion, for this is a victory for our poorly pigmented populus, and should be recorded in history's ledger as such, at least until Norm Chow takes away yet another head coaching job away from another hardworking jive-assed cracker honky.

I'm Sorry, Serena Williams

I was sorry, Serena Williams, to learn this morning that you were dumped by your boyfriend. Brad Maynard was reading Deadspin to me this morning, and I couldn't feel worse for you. I know what it's like to be with someone that you open up your pants heart to, only to have it crushed and mangled, as if it was being dragged over a cobblestone road through a town square. I feel bad.

And I'm sorry to say, Serena Williams, that you kinda brought some of this shit on yourself, dating a guy named "Jackie" that wasn't actually Jackie Chan. Goodness Gracious, that dude is bad-ass. But this dude you were dating was an actor after all, and I'm sure that the Stanislavsky Method training of his helped him embellish some of the things that you already were willing to hear. It's like Rexy always tells us: A girl can fake an orgasm, but only a guy can fake an entire relationship. Word, sistah.

So, you're not gonna believe this, Serena Williams, but we didn't make the playoffs this year, and I've got some free time coming up next month. Would you be interested in going to Honolulu with me in February? Yeah, I know I didn't make the Pro Bowl, but Roy Williams said that he wasn't voted in either, and now he's going. I'm hoping that happens to me. Jeez, those cornerbacks get so lucky sometimes. But, we'd be there for the week. We can go to a luau and help Coach Jones clean out his office. Or we can help you come up with a better name for that apparel line that you don't do any work on. ANERES? Shit, girl. I knew that was Serena spelled backwards as soon as I saw it.

You're on your own getting back to the mainland, though. That's just how I roll.

The Quarterbacks DEBATE!

GWEN IFILL (EYE-fuhl) of PBS "fame:" Hello everyone, and welcome to our inaugural edition of The Quarterbacks Debate, an improvisational panel show where we bring in two NFL quarterbacks to discuss current events issues from around the world. I'm your host, Gwen Ifill. And my panel includes two great young quarterbacks from the National Football League. On my left, the Jaguars' David Garrard.

DAVID: Hello, Gwen, thank you for having me.

GWEN: And on my right, the Vikings' Tar-var-is Jackson.

TARVARIS: Sup.

GWEN: Now, David, let me start with you. There have been numerous studies pointing to the climb in obesity among adolescents. Do you feel this is on the verge of an epidemic, or merely a disturbing trend?

DAVID: Well, Gwen, certainly factors such as food choices and exercise are contributing factors here, but I believe that since awareness of the issue has grown, parents and younger people both are taking steps toward preventing obesity.

GWEN: Tavaris? A response?

TARVARIS: Shit, man. What the fuck they be trying to drop on ol' T-Jac, muthafucka? Gott-DAMN! Dem bitches a'int go be sleepin' on dis shit, check this shit out. Dis da troof right here! Muthafuckas ain't comin in hee-uh wit no Gott-damn Brook Ballinjuh! Ain't try to b'lee dat shit. I go slap the white right off yo Gott-damn mouth, you crazy ass uppity sucka bringin dat Uncle Tomboy shit up in this mug. I didn't wanna be on the show.

GWEN: I see. Next topic. Tavar . . . David. Estimates show that over 24 million so-called illegal immigrants are currently in the United States. In your opinion, what's the best policy for dealing with undocumented residents? Is it amnesty?

DAVID: Well, I certainly don't see how we can get--

TARVARIS: Shit, man, I ain't comin up in this ten thousand lakes to be just handin' that shit off, know whut I'm sayin? I came to toss da PAIN! That muthafucker in da coat, he be sayin all this shit like I need ta'be reedin deefenses, man. Now what da fuck is that shit? He don't lemme call no audibles any damn way. Now all deez bitches be talkin bout Adrian Peetuhson. Adrian Peetuhson. Sucka, lemme stick Bobby Wade on yo squad 'n lessee if you can git yo ass a muthafuckin first down, and I ain't foolin', neither.

GWEN: ...Okay. (puts head down while shuffling index cards)

DAVID: So, Tar-var-is, do you think there's life on other planets?

TARVARIS: Shit, man. Gott-damn PO-leese be ridin' my shit DAY AND NIGHT, muthafucka. Man, I just tryin' do mah thang, man, know whut I'm sayin? Dis muthafucka bee poolin' me ova' and he struttin' his turkey cracka ass all up hee-uh, and he be all, "Let me see your identification and insurance." Muthafucka, you KNOW who my ass is! 'Specially when I be ridin' down the Bulla-vard in my game shit, fool. Shit, I'll hand you da PRO-gram on da dash and yew can look my ass up.

GWEN: I'm afraid we're out of time. Please be sure to join us next time...on The Quarterbacks Debate. Good night.

TARVARIS: Nighty night, y'all.

Dolphins Struggle With Injuries, Geography

So Channing Crowder is probably gonna get a start in that game over in England this weekend, as Zach Thomas is hurt, so he'll have a limited amount of time to pick up some of the nuances of that defense. You know, stuff like zone blitz packages, hook coverage, and, well, learning that people in London speak English.

"I couldn't find London on a map if they didn't have the names of the countries," he said. "I swear to God. I don't know what nothing is. I know Italy looks like a boot. I know London Fletcher. We did a football camp together. So I know him. That's the closest thing I know to London. He's black, so I'm sure he's not from London. I'm sure that's a coincidental name."

I'm sure it is.

Thanks: Rotoworld, via Brandon M. (no link sent, so fuck you)

Trent Green's Signature Rollout

Our thoughts and prayers go out to quarterback Trent Green today as he recovers from a hit where his head collided with the knee of Travis Jackson, whom Green was attempting to impede. Hopefully this won't be...wait, what's that? He's alright? Well, fuck him then.

No, seriously. FUCK. HIM. That guy is ALWAYS pulling this shit. What the fuck? If he's alright, why was he laying down there for so damn long? Was he trying to get the Texans a red card? Is that why they brought the stretcher out, like they do in the World Cup? Did he push his Life Alert while waiting for his wheels to roll in? Or was he just worn out from playing with his grandkids all weekend.

I only have one living set of grandparents. Of course, the ones I actually liked, my mom's parents, had to go and get cancer on me. The other two, on my dad's side, are titanium-coated and virtually indestructible. They could fall out a helicopter into a burning elementary school in Compton and not get so much as a collapsed vein. Fuck, life really isn't fair sometimes.

With that, it seemed a bit ironic when, after the smoke cleared, it was Green who was left in a heap. Poetic justice, I'd say. And, I suspect, Mr. Johnson said as much to his would-be assailant as he strolled over Trent's motionless body, en route to some well-earned sideline refreshment.

And don't even talk to me about that block that Green was allegedly executing on Johnson. That "block" was bullshit. You don't put your hat under a guy's knee like that without realizing that you could put him on the shelf for good. You're gonna take away a man's livelihood for a 4-yard gain? Easy for you. You already made your millions while you were warming the bench for Kurt Warner.

I would love to give Travistar full credit for totally ruining dude's shit without even using the upper half of his body, but it's Trent Fucking Green, man. The guy is so careless with his own safety, taking him out is like knocking over the 7-pin. A very old 7-pin that throws an open-field block like a manhole cover.

So, yeah, it looks like Trent is trying to take a shit on Johnson's foot, but you can see the knee hyper-extend before Travistar goes ass-over-tincup. Seriously Trav, how did that hit not end your career?

"My knee ain't never hurt like it hurt today. If you want to hit me, hit me in my head, hit me in my chest, don't hit me in my knee. I'm trying to eat just like everybody else. So, to hit me like that, that showed me what type of man he was."

That is to say, no man at all. Indeed. Preach on, my brother.

"The bottom line is, it was a malicious hit. It was uncalled for. He's like the scarecrow. He wants to get courage while I wasn't looking, and hit me in my knee instead of trying to hit me in my head. "God don't like ugly, you know what I mean?"

I couldn't put it any better. Trent Green, truly, be ugly.

Unfortunately, 88.726% of all football fans are of the dipshit, quarterback-centric set, which will only further spread the interpretation of the play as Johnson being unsportsmanlike. You thought that was unsportsmanlike? FUCK YOU. You think I'm shelling out a hundred bucks every month on four days of programming to see 300-pound black people shake hands?!?! What kind of sportsman doesn't celebrate a clean kill, especially when his own livelyhood hung in the balance? Fuck, it's not like he used any props or anything.

Trent, you are such a little bitch. You pulled this same fucking stunt in Week One last year, when Geathers laid your loafer-loving ass out on the lawn, when you thought you were gonna get cute and slide for another first down, despite being only a elephant's pube away from the sideline. How did your little attempt at dodging contact work out there?

Ha ha! Can't touch me--CRACK!

Get up Trent! One more round! Learn the rules, asshole. You CAN step out of bounds! Try it sometime, while you're still alive!

And then we had to listen all week about what a dirty player Robert Geathers was (fucking shit, even this video was labeled "Cheap Shot..."). AND even when the League decided the actions leading up to the hit didn't warrant a fine, I still had to listen to all you assholes who ONLY SAW THE CLIP OUT OF CONTEXT act like you knew something and mutter, "It still looked dirty to me," as if you could tell Dannon from dog shit. Fuckhead.

And this very same fuckhead faction is going to follow Olbermann's lead and crucify Travis Johnson, despite the fact that, had his role been reversed with Green's, he would have taken a 15-yard contact-below-the-knee penalty, and probably objected an ejection. Yeah, maybe I'm crazy for wanting to paint Travistar as the victim here over the poor white quarterback that ALWAYS finds a way to get hurt, but that asshole has every rule in the game designed to ensure his success (and safety), so I'm less than inclined to cut him any more slack.

Johnson's only crime was being excited that Green's pisspoor blocking skill didn't end his career. Fuck forbid he have the audacity to be upset at anyone that had shown such disregard, or that he be demonstrative when such a maneuver backfires on the agressor. Trav's knee won that matchup fair and square. And besides, If Trent's head was any stronger than a fucking chandelier, it almost certainly would have been Travistar getting carted off the field.

And would Green have taunted him? No, because Green's a pussy.

Please Explain To Me The Spasm That I Noticed Some Of My Darker-Complected Friends Endure When They lollerskates

49 Bernard Pollard

Position: DB
Height: 6-1
Weight: 224
Born: 12/23/1984
College: Purdue
NFL Experience: 2
Moves: Plentiful

děkuji: Adam at Arrowhead Addict

This Week's Commenter Draft: Who Would Play You In A Movie Of Your Life's Story

Face it, your life sucks. You weekdays are boring, you sleep through your weekends, and even your most eventful evenings are scattered among nights of cheap, fatty dinners and sessions of underhanded self-loathing. You are hardly redeemable as a human being. And we would know.

Fortunately for you (and for us), Hollywood never lets facts get in the way of bad cinema. The screenplay documenting your shitty existance, after a few focus meetings and a near-infinite number of re-writes, will be perfect for the silver screen. Remember the time you fucked that hot blonde in the back room at Piggly Wiggly? Neither do we! But there it is, on page 70, written out in all its artistic glory.

Today, good people, you are casting the person that would play you in this movie.

The Rules:

--You are picking this person as they existed IN THEIR PRIME.

Think Steve McQueen circa The Cincinnati Kid or Adam Sandler circa Happy Gilmore. They do not have to be alive today.

--They do not necessarily have to be actors.

Most of you are going to fuck this up anyway, so go ahead and embarrass yourselves creatively.

--No one can be chosen twice, regardless of which era that person is taken.

For example, you could take Drew Barrymore from ET, or Drew Barrymore from Charlie's Angels. Not both. Again, some of you are stupid and will fuck this up. I apologize to both of our literate readers that naturally would have understood this.

--People back out of shit in Hollywood all the time, so take an understudy. Or six.

Don't let your movie go to shit because your main guy bailed two weeks before shooting to be the next General Zod. Get a backup, but wait 10 picks before doing so. Same as always.

With the first pick, I'll keep it contemporary and select the incomparable Don Cheadle. Black people are always cooler than white people. Plus, this guy could read a fucking Human Resources policy book and leave me transfixed. Fortunately, making my life interesting will be only slightly more difficult than that.

Get to it.

He's So Far From Charles BarkleyThat He Might As Well Be White

There's a really crucial point that you fucking media people need to pick up on, and that point is this: Dipshittery does not an analyst make. HEY LOOK I AM RAISING MY VOICE AND WAVING MY HANDS AROUND TO PUNCH THIS GREAT...eh, you get the idea.

You probably already know that ESPN, who is determined to make you hate sports before you die, has hired Keyshawn Johnson as an analyst for its once-heralded NFL pregame show. What might surprise you is that Key is ALREADY being heralded as pro football's answer to Charles Barkley. Quoting the SI piece.

I'm not saying that Johnson will be as good as Barkley -- who is? But like Barkley, Johnson will be the same kind of magnetic personality that can give genuine life to those roundtables where the energy and hilarity often feel forced.

I'd like to comment on Keyshawn's analyst debut at the Draft, but I was too busy not drinking (don't ask) and making ill-advised wagers on where Brady Quinn would finally come off the board. But it's tough to hire someone for that panel that's less likable than noted white people/gym-teachers-in-waiting. Merrill Hoge and Mark Schlereth, both dipshits.

Vince Young may have been a proficient college quarterback, but this is the NFL, and to succeed here, you've gotta HEY G0DAMMIT DON'T KICK THE VOLLEYBALL!

But what is this magnetic personality of which you speak? Magnetic...as in getting deactivated while perfectly healthy because he was such a little bitch? Magnetic...as in changing into a Steelers jersey after his Bucaneers won the NFC title?

He'll probably step in and do well, and good for him. He'll have plenty of insight, seeing as he's played for half the teams in the league at one point or another.

But Keyshawn won't measure up to Barkley...at all. Chuck is so good, so LIKEABLE, that one becomes upset after realizing that one must tune into the NBA to enjoy his insight. Keyshawn will never have that problem, as his role will simply be to open his mouth and fill minutes of a show that's already too long, to say just enough, and then pass the ball back to the Combover in time for a circle-the-wagons comment, or some other shit.

And, frankly, the comparison pisses me off. Barkley is a genuine guy that says what's on his mind. Keyshawn is a whore. And while the hire originally had many of us nodding our heads in agreement, Keyshawn will turn out to be little more than Michael Irvin with a more caucasian wardrobe, which is probably all they wanted anyway.