FRIDAY MOMENT OF ZEN: BUT HE’S GAY
Some fail softly. Others gatecrash disaster with sparklers in their hair. This woman opts for greatness, meaning the “gatecrashing disaster on fire with horn blaring” choice. Enjoy.
May 19, 2025
OKAY, SURRENDER NOW. THIS TIME WE MEAN IT: NCAA ‘07
Part two of Gamespot’s interview with Larry Richart and Anthony White is up, and it’s more jaw-droppingly tempting than Part one. Sirloin quote:
With that in mind, we have created some new shotgun QB slot option plays out of multiple formations where the slot receiver can be motioned into the backfield opposite the halfback, and then will become the pitch man for the QB on the option. We have also created some option passes out of these same formations to keep the defense on their toes. We have also created several new pass routes for the receivers that are spread throughout several formations. These routes include post stops, corner stops, sluggos (slant and go’s), shallow crosses, and some new double-move routes like shake routes.
Build your golden calf now, before supplies run out. Richart also cops to being a Spurrierphile of the highest degree, which should surprise exactly no one. Around halfway through it turns to a pretty decent and knowledgeable discussion of college football in general, which seems to be the secret behind EA’s success in creating sports games: they let fans make them.
Now if we could just get that double reverse pass to the QB to work against Michigan…
We’ll spend much of the offseason trying to make the 2003 Outback Bowl right.
BLOODFEUD: BEANO VERSUS ORSON, PART ONE
Warning: the offseason produces some strange, strange timekillers. The piece below may be the strangest. Just a warning-ed.
It’s a little-known fact that, when his responsibilities allow him time, Beano Cook spends every spare moment of his day attempting to assassinate us. It’s a long story from a long time ago, but we’ll take the wraps off our secret identity and give you a little peek into the Swindle archives by letting you in on a little secret: in the days before the wall came down and this pretty boy lost his innocence in a Helsinki alley, we used to do a little work for the government before an allergy to ricin and a freak pancreas injury forced us into the blogging business. And Beano, though he might deny every word of it, was tangled up in the same sordid web we were: running guns to Nicaragua, intercepting llamas stuffed full of coca in Miami, and shivering through dead drops in Budapest in January while cranked off of cheap vodka. It was harrowing, soul-destroying stuff-in our case, we’ve never recovered the ability to write in the first person, so destroyed was our soul from the work we did in the name of Reagan and liberty.
Chuck’s got nothing on Beano Cook.
We’ll let an excerpt from our upcoming memoir Swindle, the Early Years: Tears of the Condor do the talking for us. But we’ll leave you with this: everything you’re about to read is 100% truth, right down to the bit where Beano tries to choke us with a phone cord to get the microfilm out of our mouth. Freedom isn’t free, kids-and your boy here’s the one who cashed the checks.
Tears of the Condor, Vol. 1: Bangkok Baby.
April 3, 1982. Bangkok. Fuck. I’m still in Bangkok. The streets stink like the stink of old sin here. It’s hot as balls in the room thanks to a wheezing old Russian air conditioner that just takes the hot air and makes it a. even hotter, and b. smell like moldy tea bags. The three prostitutes on the bed made things a little easier on me last night, but in the way you’re thinking about. I hired them to keep me from actually touching the filthy sheets, and slept stretched atop them, like a man surfing a wave of gently undulating hookers all night. That and they’re the cheapest alarm you can buy in the City of Angels, since they scream like hell when someone busts down the door with a gun, and silencer, and your name on a bullet.
It’s happened before.
No time for sex when you’re tracking El Diablo in Bangkok, my friend. I’m here working with Blue Diamond. You don’t know the name, and never will. Unless I just told you. Which I did.
Anyway…I’m working with someone for someone and looking for a someone. And that someone, El Diablo, happens to be a man the United States government would like to see erased from the geopolitical game of Parcheesi we’re all playing right now. He’s a myth, a legend, and enigma wrapped in a riddle and topped with a fine frappe of mystery. Children dream about him before they know him, and old man drop dead to the floor at his name. Once I thought about him while looking at a parrot on the street in Jakarta. The parrot’s name was Mandabang. The parrot died that instant. It’s not coincidence.
The air conditioner’s name is suckass. The walls are sweating. So am I. I kick the hookers off the bed and pack my bag. El Diablo’s out there somewhere in the soupy stewy toxic chowder of this town, and I’m just the rusty spoon to find him.
Soupy toxic chowder. Just my beat.
The noodles are barely in my belly when I step into the back of a tuk-tuk and head to Silom Road. Bangkok: the only town where sin wears sin-scented cologne with baggy pleated linen pants and a silk shirt. Besides Manila. And sometimes Biloxi.
The crowds move along the roads. (more…)
TRESSEL GETS NEW CONTRACT. HOVERCRAFT PARTY TIME.
(the) Ohio State University gives Jim Tressel a new seven-year contract, boosting his pay to around 2.4 million dollars a year for 2006 and easing it up to 2.9 million for the final year of the deal.
That’s a lot of hovercrafts, Jim. Go easy.
Tressel’s World just got a little more bling in it.
