Okay who forgot to lock the gate behind them?

Two of Confederate Yankee's most recent posts, This Treason Brought to You By...* and Not Quite War, have been swarmed by folks that ought be spending time in a nice padded room. For some reason they call themselves "progressives". I'll buy into that descriptor, as they're making progress toward alienating ninety percent of the population.

* Sooper seekrit note to C.Y. you may want to check, but I think Eric has ellipses copyrighted.

Phinlet Update

He still hasn't made his grand appearance yet. Apparently timelines and curfews mean little to him, he gets that trait from his mother.

The doc says if he hasn't hatched by Thursday we'll pick a day next week to induce labor, smart money would be on Monday the 6th, if not sooner.

I haven't said it before so I'll go on record now. I'm amazed at how well the missus is holding up. Nary a complaint, no whining and hell she isn't even throwing anything heavy at me, yet. You can damned well believe if our roles were reversed the doctors would have already induced labor, commiserated with the wife, and then euthanized me for the betterment of the planet.

Competition

Seems that our pals Steve & Robbo over at the Butcher shop may have a bit of competition on their hands if they want to claim the title of top LLamas in the blogidohexiweb this year.

For the record, the previous song doesn't even come close to the grooviness of the Original LLama Song.

Gratuitous Melissa Theuriau Posting Week Six

Seems our pal Steve-O's a bit under the weather.

Seems Mistress Melissa isn't buying in. To quote the Madam

"Gecher fuzzy arse back posting the funny.
Dance for me LLama Boy, Dance.
*Insert Audible Orgling Sounds*
You may now lick my boots."

When bitter shrews attack

Vinnie points to an article where bitter shrew Debbie Schlussel whines about Medicare funding Stomach Stapling operations.

It really is nice to see she does her research, you know rather than going off on a baseless, half baked theory.

With little research and by talking to a couple of doctors she’d have found out that a majority of the people who qualify for the "barbaric" surgery she's referring to have exhausted all other options. Maybe if she'd pull her head out of her ass long enough to talk to a couple of people involved in medicine she'd have learned this.

Most often its people with metabolisms that have slowed to the point that they're gaining weight on a diet that won't sustain most people or people with gland / hormone problems. ***

In these types cases, I'm all for Medicare covering the surgery. In the long run, it's cheaper than the diabetic supplies, increased medications, hover-rounds, heart surgery and other obesity related illnesses. Not to mention the increased quality of life. Basically it boils down to simple economics, though the idea of a Cost Benefit Analysis appears to be out of her realm of comprehension.

Hell, I'd be all for Medicare buying her the Ultravibe Pleasure 4000 if it'd knock the crazy down a bit and if Medicare won't cover it, I WILL.

*** Sorry forgot to include a link to the American Obesity Association's web site with information on the Causes of Obesity, which include: Genetic, Environmental and Behavioral variables.

Phinlet Watch Day (Sorry I ran out of appendages to count) + 3

Nope.

I'm really starting to think he's got his mother's stubborn streak, in which case we'll be here next week, waiting. Maybe if I sneak up behind her and startle her throughout the next day or so it'll get things going.

My buddy WB says this is what I get for having "the sex". Is that what caused it. Damn, and here I had bought all kinds of filters to make sure it wasn't something in the water. I guess I can take the hazmat suit off and ditch the breathing mask too, can't be too safe, wasn't sure if it was contagious. Damn I guess there wasn't an interweb wide "out-break" after all, guess that goes to show that bloggers have a bit more than just time on their hands.

Contagion had a pretty good suggestion about keeping chocolate around and when she slips into berserker mode to toss a few at her. This sounds like the perfect idea, I'm actually quiet ashamed I hadn't thought of it.

Of course this suggestion leads to another question.
What type of candy? I've got the mini-reeses cups and hershey kisses on hand, but I don't think they'll slow her down. I'm leaning towards the King Sized Milky Way or Three Musketeers. If they're frozen to the proper temperature a well places shot to the temple should slow her enough for me to escape.

Oh yeah, before I forgot. We've got a vet doctor's appointment tomorrow morning, so I'll let y'all know what I find out.

MuNu goes kerchew

Some DNS settings were switched around on the MuNuvian Servers a day or two back, which could be why some folks were having troubles accessing the MuNuvian Sites.

As with Interwebly matters this should trickle through within the next day or so.

Random pregnancy question #1

If an expectant father speaks.

And his wife isn't around to hear him.

Is he still and insensitive bastard, that doesn't have any idea what she's "going though"?

Insomnia, Indigestion and Oreos

Three things I've had the past week.

For some reason the guys at the office think I'm a tad bit "testy".
They think I'm testy now, wait 'til phinlet gets here and I haven't slept in a week.

Anybody know where I can get a coffee IV setup?

Phinlet Watch Day (Sorry I ran out of appendages to count) + 2

Nope.

Zero.

Zilch.

Nadda.

I'm thinking he gets the stubborn streak from his mother.

The sense of humor, which involves playing kickball with her bladder, may come from my side of the family.

Phinlet Watch Day (Sorry I ran out of appendages to count) + 1

He still ain't here yet.

But for my physical and mental well being I'm hoping that he'll make an appearance soon.

Have I ever mentioned that a glancing shot to the man berries is no way at all to wake up in the middle of the night? The missus is claiming innocence, I'm leaning towards believing her since her aim can't be that good, plus she wasn't giggling like a school girl as I jumped out of bed wondering why the boys had been assaulted.

She did however remember slapping me in the chest around 3:30am, her excuse "I though you'd already gotten up", that's her story and she's sticking to it. Who knew that sleeping was a full contact activity?

I'm wearing a cup and helmet to bed tonight.

I'm nominating

The Crack Young Staff of The Hatemonger's Quarterly for Humanitarians of The Year.

Now where do we purchase one of said "Mosquito Units" and can we change the level to something only the missus would pick up on, preferably one that doesn't interfere with Tee Vee reception?

Phinlet Watch Day (Sorry I ran out of appendages to count)

Nope, he ain't here yet.

Can't really say that I blame him.
It is kinda chilly outside, warm and cozy inside.

Seekrit Agent LLamas...

The title of this post should be sung to the tune of Johnny River's: Seekrit Agent Man.

Via The World Tribune:

TEL AVIV - Israel's military has found the perfect vehicle for special operations forces: the llama.

Steve, Robert, I, ummm, hate to be the bearer of bad news, really I do, but, I don't really think this is what LMC meant when he said y'all should go commando.

After extensive tests, the uncomplaining work-horse animals were found to easily out-perform donkeys. What's more, they need refuelling only every other day.

Is anyone really surprised by this? What animal wouldn't out-perform a jackass? As I've been saying all along, we should put the LLamas in charge of political reform and French Nooz correspondence.

Military sources said the Israel Army plans to use llamas for reconnaissance and combat missions in enemy territory, Middle East Newsline reported. They described the llama as ideal for special operations missions in Lebanon against the Iranian-sponsored Hizbullah.

This is all well and good, until Steve-O gets his hooves on the Testor's model airplane glue and starts thinking he's the Queen of Sheba, again.

"The llama is a quiet and disciplined animal that can carry huge loads," a military source said. "Vehicles make noise and need roads and fuel. We've tried donkeys and they are not suitable for such missions."

Quiet? Are we talking F-15 taking off quiet or Jenna Jameson mid-orgasm quiet? Good news is either way their constant bouts of flatulance should go virtually undetected. Disciplined? Sure if you don't mind chatting away about Naval history (how long has belly button lint been an issue anyhow?) and Muzac.

The sources said the army has been training special forces to conduct low-signature ground missions in enemy territory. In January, llamas were employed in a special forces exercise in the Golan Heights.

The exercise employed a scenario in which a special operations unit entered Lebanon or Syria for reconnaissance and sabotage. During the exercise, the llamas carried more than 50 kilograms of equipment over mountainous terrain.

Evidently the Isralies haven't seen how testy good Ole Robbo gets when he encounters Maryland drivers, heaven help 'em when he's performing cover operations in a nation full of taxi drivers. If you think Robbo pitched a bitch about knocking item's of his wife's "honey-do" list wait 'til you strap 50 Kilos of anything other than pure Florida snow to his back.

The army plans to train a force of llamas to carry up to 100 kilograms of equipment and supplies, the sources said. They said this would ease the burden on troops and enable special operations forces to focus on combat or reconnaissance.

Yeah, good luck with that, as the saying goes, you can't teach and Old LLama new tricks and Steve-O did turn Forty a couple of weeks back. What's the average life-expectancy of a LLama anyway?

The sources said donkeys also participated in the Golan Heights exercise. They said the donkeys did not perform as well and required much more food than llamas.

And this was a shock because Michael Moore, Cindy Sheehan and Hillary Clinton are prime examples of Jackasses in peek physical condition.

More as this heart-wrenching non-story about two LLamas desires to find love and acceptance in the Middle Eastern Outback develops.

Holy Hell Steve-O put some damned drawers on.

Hat-tip: To My Pseudo-Yankee Brother.

Gratuitous Melissa Theuriau Posting Week Five

Funny, the Missus had the exact same expression on her face when she realized the phin jr's projected arrival date is only seven days away. The in-laws outlaws are predicting this weekend.

Damn it's coming down to the wire, guess I may as well polish off the straggling bottles; I won't be drinking for three much longer.

Snippets from a random e-mail conversation

phin: So how do you like your coffee? I like my coffee like I like my women.

Theresa: I am so afraid to answer that question. HOW do you like your women and your coffee?

phin: You know it kind of depends on my mood.
        Some days it's black and strong.
        Other days it's hot and wet.
        But most days it's ground up and in the freezer.

Unhealthy Addictions

I realized yesterday, while trying to keep the Missus from killing me in a hormonal nesting instinct driven rage, that I have an unhealthy addiction. I also realize that a great many of my regular readers, okay both of them, hold me in high regard and view me as a "man among men". To ensure that image isn't destroyed I'm recommending that y'all skip reading this entry and giving you the chance to do so now, just click away.

And on with the show. As I was hanging my clothes up, yeah I know, that's woman's work, but the little lady is 'bout to bust any day now and I figured I could help out. The least I can do is hang my clothes up after she's washed and put them on the hangers, anyhow, I'm getting off topic. I'm hanging my clothes up I see that I have quite a few pairs of shoes in my closet, sixteen to be exact, and that's not counting the five pairs of boots and four sets flip-flops that get worn more often than the shoes do.

Some may consider this an affliction, that I need to turn in my man card and forever join the ranks of the metrosexuals, me not so much. Is it my fault that I've got good taste in shoes? That I can't help but pickup a pair, or two, here and there? It's an addiction folks, at times, I just can't help myself. There's this voice, a familiar soft sweet sirens voice, saying: phin get the shoes. phin, it's just one more pair, and they're perfect. See how they fit and they're the last ones in your size, it's supposed to happen this way. Of course the voice is that of the Missus, and she finishes the statement with and how about paying for these as you're checking out.

You can see I'm not taking the one hundred percent of the blame, really would you expect any less of me? The Missus has an even greater addiction to footwear, and clothing in general, than I do. When we moved from her apartment, where we'd lived the first couple of months we were married, I found out just what I'd gotten myself into. As my father, brother and I were moving the contents of her closet we found that she had enough shoes to go several months without wearing the same pair twice. Her shoes, loose pairs stuffed into two fifty gallon containers, the boxed pairs remained in the boxes, filled the back of a full sized Chevy truck. That's a whole damn lot of shoes and her collection has done nothing but grow the past several years.

She's like a lioness on the prowl when enters a store with shoes or any other accessories for that matter. I feel sorry, at times, for the poor bastards that step into her path. She'll think nothing of dropping her shoulder into or giving some eighty-year-old woman the heisman if she's standing between her and deal. A damned scary site it is to witness folks and I've mistakenly been in her path, once and only once, after all I ain't that stupid.

What is needed here is an intervention of sorts. Perhaps there's a local SAA, Shoe Addicts Anonymous, Chapter that we could sign up for. I realize it's probably way too late for her, and perhaps past my time me, my main concern is for the boy. He hasn't even escaped from the womb yet and there are several boxes of "pre-walkers" laying around.

I realize that admitting my addiction is the first step in doing battle with it, and battle with it I will, right after I pick these bad boys up, and replace my trusty Wolverine Wellington's that're worn out.

Man Boobages

It appears a certain Seekrit Agent hath set a plan into motion. A plan so dastardly and devious only someone as brilliant as the Mind Fuhrer herself could think it up and put it into motion.

The plan: To direct unsuspecting interweb searchers over to my humble home on the bloggeridoheigon when they search for Man Boobies.

Now I'm not real fond of man boobies myself. Some folks may like them, personally I prefer my athletic build with just the pert nipples projecting when it's a tad bit on the chilly side, but I digress before I cross the TMI line.

Her latest victim, some poor sap searching for Why do I have Man Boobs.

Now I can't speak with one-hundred percent certainty, but I'd be willing to be dear interweb searcher. That if you'll set down that bag of Cheetos you'll notice an orangish shading of your penile area as well. We'll just chalk that up as one of life's little mysteries.

As to why you've got man boobage, best guess would be you've spent one too many days mashing the buttons on your Nofriendo instead of out playing a healthy game of laser tag. Or perhaps you've snacked on one too many twinkies after a late night bong hit. Either way you're in trouble. The perky boobage can only be tamed. 'tis best you purchase a training bra to keep the girls under wraps, so to speak, lest your buddies try to go all "Brokeback Dungeon Master" on your pudgy ass.

Because I'm a hopeless romantic

I've been debating the past couple of hours as to whether or not I wanted to publish this post. The more I think about it the more I realize that not all the men out their romanticize their women like I do and let's face it folks some of the men are gonna get jealous and some of the women are gonna wonder why their husbands aren't as thoughtful as I am.

See back when the Missus and I first started dating, when she wasn't the Missus and was the girlfriend, I never really had to worry too much about Valentine's Day. Her room-mate and best friend was born on the 14th of February and thus we celebrated her birthday instead, only exchanging cards and perhaps a small, albeit thoughtful, gift. All was well and good while the missus was the girlfriend and for the first three years she was the Missus because we'd inevitably end up celebrating her best friends birthday.

Of course all good things must come to an end and our forth Valentine's Day as a married couple rolled around and the missus' best friend was out of state working. As luck would have it Valentine's Day also fell on a Saturday that year. After we drug out of bed and scrounged around the kitchen to find something to eat we proceeded to exchange cards and gifts. Me being the hopeless romantic I'm pretty sure her card came from the "humorous" section in the local Eckerd's or CVS Drug Store, because, you know, that's the kind of thoughful loving guy I am.

We had decided in advance that we'd head out for an early dinner around 3 or 4 O’clock in the afternoon to beat the crowds that would surely be forming. As we rolled down restaurant row we noticed several restaurants were already packed, with lines forming outside. No problem we headed to a couple of restaurants out of the way, damn lines their too. Of course as we were riding I'd noticed the local Hooter's, delightfully tacky yet unrefined, only had two or three cars in the parking lot.

After checking a couple other alternatives and finding anywhere between a two and three hour wait I jokingly remarked that we could always head to Hooter's. Much to my surprise the Missus said okay; at this point she didn't give a damn and just wanted something to eat. As we head we notice several other couples, the guys all pounding beer and catching hell for not making reservations. Notably the Missus didn't say anything about my lack of planning, I was of course waiting for the shoe to drop, it never did, it didn't get the chance.

Over the next twenty minutes or so several more couples made their way in. I'd downed a beer, figuring my verbal lashing would be much more tolerable with a buzz, ordering another round and appetizers I noticed the waitresses, aka Hooters Girls, pulling bar-stools to the edges of the booths occupied by couples as they took the drink orders. By the time the Hooters Girls had finished arranging the chairs I'd downed another beer and was waiting for another round to arrive when the tables were swarmed, a better plan of attack couldn't have been laid out by old Rummy himself. The Hooters Girls swarmed the occupied booths from all sides ensuring none of the unsuspecting men victims could escape. We were trapped like rats and mesmerized like a Opossum in headlights just waiting to be killed dead, or worse.

It seems our local Hooters Girls who'd been drafted to work on Valentine's Day had hatched an evil plan to get even with those of us dumb enough to bring in a date. Their plan was brilliant, pure genius, and yet so simple like the jitterbug it plum evaded me. The head hooterette stepped forward and explained their plan: We, the men, were to serenade our dates, not only serenade them, but to stand upon the barstools they'd arranged beside our barstools, not just any old serenade either, no sir. We was gonna sing, You Are My Sunshine, to the lovely ladies, who, evidently, are the light of our lives.

Now not everybody was familiar with the lyrics, okay I was scrambling for any excuse possible, so the Hooters Girls lead us through the song and motions the first time. The next go round it was men only, if we even deserved to be called men anymore, singing. So there I was, all 6'3" of me standing on a barstool belting out You Are My Sunshine complete with the gestures learned in kindergarten, 'twas a sight to behold no doubt about it.

Graceful and heart wrenching aren't descriptors that would be used to describe my performance; comical however would be a perfect fit. The missus of course asked me to repeat the last half of the song, seems she missed it due to the hysterical fit of laughter she erupted into. After the performance we ate, consumed a couple more adult beverages and went on our happy way. The missus of course called everybody we know, and a several people we don't, to let them know about my performance. I of course didn't care 'cause I got to call all my buddies, who were still waiting in line to eat and let them know I'd eaten at Hooters on Valentine's Day.

For the record, the food was decent, the beer was cold and the Hooters Girls looking nothing like any of the chicks in the preceding links.

Not quite sure how I'm gonna top it this year, heck I probably won't even attempt to do any better, of course I am drinking for three now so things could get interesting.

Gratuitous Melissa Theuriau Posting Week Four

Why yes Melissa it really is all about The O.

I quit

I'm done.

My work here is complete.

All played out.

Finished.

Fed Up.

Game Over.

Kaput.

Defunct.

Sincerely,

Your Stapler

Piece of crap, it's only ten years old and it's giving up the ghost.
WTF is wrong with Swingline when they can't make a stapler that'll last longer than ten years?

They took my stapler.

Sammich Bloggin'

Hey there mister, that's a mighty fine lookin' sammich you got there. Eric, the Straight White Guy, has done posted about Reuben sammiches. Man I love a Reuben, if there's a better sammich I don't know what it is. Now I miss them, damn it. Sure I've got the stuff in my fridge to fix them, but it ain't the same.

There was a sammich joint on the Outer Banks of NC, between Hatteras and Nags Head, that made one kick ass Reuben, served with Sweet Potato Fries. Just thinkin' about that sammich brings back a flood of memories, happy times folks, happy times.

Prior to getting married I used to make the two and a half hour drive just for the sammich, sleeping on the beach, surf fishing and body surfing was just an added bonus. The sammich shop closed down several years back. Some damned Yankees came in and bought it, then turned it into a "Caribbean Cafe", sonsabeyatches.

When the War of Northern Aggression gets fired up again, after halftime, I'm burnin' that joint to the ground. Another twenty years or so and we'll have sufficiently lulled them Yanks into a false sense of security, then it's GAME ON. Until then I'll just daydream about a simpler time and place where a tasty Reuben was just a short drive away.

Home wrecker

It seems those naughty LLamas are at it again and aren't opposed to hookin' up with married women and that Melania is attracted to men with way too much hair.

Good news though, a visual paternity test should suffice in determining the father, well that and the kid's spitting abilities.

I think I've got that too

It should come of no surprise to you, dear readers, that I get great joy from toying with people. Give me an easy target and I'll keep myself entertained for hours. The other day I had to head to the vet for a checkup and to get a 'script to do battle with a sinus infection I've had for a couple of days. Seeing as I had a sinus infestation I wasn't feeling so hot, I was pretty sure that my head was going to explode, but that didn't keep me from striking up a conversation with the Hypochondriac in the waiting room.

I'll admit that I shouldn't have done it, but Hypochondriacs have always amused me, 'specially somebody that comes well prepared, as in Physicians Desk Reference (PDR) in hand with color coded tags hanging out. The way she was coughing you'd have sworn she'd been shacked up with ebola and tuberculosis ridden love monkeys for the past six months, hell she didn't look so hot either.

I'm being my normal charming self and I strike up a conversation, we chat a bit while we're waiting, mainly about her ailments and the many infestations she's fighting with. If she's as infected as she thinks any minute now she'll be paying a visit to the Flying Spaghetti Monster. In situations such as these there are two types of people those that help, and those that don't. I happen to be one of the latter.

As we talked she rattled off her symptoms and I made mental notes of them, how could I not she was coughing, gagging and wheezing between each and every word, not to mention the vivid descriptions constipation, diarrhea, vomiting spells, feeling faint, light headed and dizzy. She rattled off three or four various infectious diseases, rubella and measles being two of the possible ailments, which she was certain, she was infected with. So I seized the moment, as I slowly repeated her symptoms back to her verbatim caused and let her know that a roommate of mine in college had the exact same symptoms she has and that he'd picked up an infection from the bacteria Treponema pallidum¹.

Now this go her attention and she dug through her PDR trying to find the bacteria and it wasn't listed. We discussed the treatment that my roommate had received and how it had only taken a month, two tops for him to get better. Then the nurse then walked into the waiting room and called my name so I had to run before I could tell her that Treponema pallidum is the bacteria that causes Syphilis.

Really I was gonna tell her.

Honest I was.

Oh well, maybe the doc found it humorous too.

¹Before anyone starts thinking I'm intelligent; the only way I knew the name of the bacteria is because I was reading an article explaining how syphilis is one the rise. I really need to talk to my doc about getting better reading materials, perhaps FHM or Maxim.

Evil Plans

I love it when a plan comes together.
'specially when it involves tweaking the LLamas.

Steve-O turned Four-Oh this weekend and discussions were launched trying to figure out how to best celebrate Steve's entry into a mid life crisis entry into adulthood coming of age.

I'd like to claim responsibility for the birthday celebration skin (LLama's Vice) over at the butcher shop, 'cept it wasn't my idea.
Kathy recommended pink flamingo's the LLama's front lawn.
Sadie recommended the Miami Vice Theme.

From there it was cake.

Happy Birthday Steve-O, many happy returns and, umm don't forget your walker when you head outside to tell those pesky kids to keep off your damned grass.

Gratuitous Melissa Theuriau Posting Week Three

She's havin' day dreams, about night things, in the middle of the afternoon.

She thinks I'm angelic, and I gots da proof!!!

Poor Yankess

I'm not the most sympatetic person in the world, hell some folks might even consider me to be a tad bit callous. Not today though dear readers, 'cause today I truly feel sorry for all those folks trapped in Yankeeland and the other folks out there that don't have access true southern cooking.

A while back basil discussed soul food, well what Yankees call soul food and what those of us who've groweded up in the south call food. Well today I realized just how bad off my Yankee brethren are. See yesterday about halfway through a three hour conference call I started to loose my voice and this didn't go unnoticed by our office manager.

Yesterday she fixed a batch of hot tea, when you say tea 'round here that means Sweet Ice Tea, thus the descriptor of hot; just to make sure I had something soothing to drink. Sure it wasn't as soothing as scotch or a gin and tonic, but soothing none the less.

Today she rolled in with Crockpot in hand. On her way home yesterday she stopped by the grocery and picked up the fixin's to make a batch of Chicken and Dumplings. Now she didn't buy the premade crap they try to pass off as dumplings either, she made them from scratch and they're second only to the dumplings prepared by my sainted mother.

So I've been sitting here, for a better part of the day, munching on HOMEMADE Chicken and Dumplings, thinking about all you poor peoples that don't have access to good old fashon down-home southern cooking.

Kinda makes me sad.

Damn, my bowl hath run empty, time for round three. I'm not completely cold hearted, at least I'm thinking about y'all.

How to alienate your constituents 101

I'm not real sure who they have calling the shots at Pajamas Media and haven't blogged about it much. Sure I started up Pajamas Mediocrity and since I haven't said it publicly, I really do hope the Pajamahadines make a go of it and become a profitable well run organization that doesn't have to repeatedly learn by making mistakes. So far though its been about like watching four monkeys trying to gangbang a greased football.

To date I've been perfectly happy watching them shoot themselves in the foot, laughing, quietly most of the time, as they've made blunder after blunder. The latest bit of proof that they don't have the slightest bit of business acumen, much less an understanding of human nature and most definitely bloggers is by setting up the twenty-two links they've dubbed as PJ Bloggers. The rest of the seventy some odd "PJ Network Blogs" are pushed into obscurity since their links aren't available from the main page.

Maybe one of the PJ Coders could change the Network Blog link to a drop down menu, that'd help; at least the PJ Readers wouldn't have to wait for a second page to load to access the blogroll. Maybe one of the PJ Highups could authorize a twenty dollar subscription to Blogrolling so they could display the twenty-two most recently updated sites, that'd be a whole lot more beneficial.

I'll also extend the offer for them to use the Penguin from Pajamas Mediocrity, for a small fee of course, 'cause the Pajamas Media logo sucks, at least their latest version doesn't look like a bathrobe.

Update: The Pajama Gnomes have dropped the "Network Blogs" label, now everybody's a PJ Blogger. I guess if all four monkeys paw at the football long enough the grease'll wear off and one of them is bound to get a decent grip.

Update #2: The logo is still damned ugly.

Dick Vital is an idiot

I can't think of another sports announcer I'd like to see receive a beat down from a pack of rabid hamsters, except maybe Billy Packer.