Cru Jones Society

 

Welcome to another Friday here at the Cru Jones Society. It’s Republican National Convention week, but since we don’t live in St. Paul, Minnesota, no one on this writing staff gives a crap. God knows content from the Convention won’t carry us. Did you see Fred Thompson the other day? The man looked like he was a half glass of Ovaltine away from nodding off at the podium. And his jokes about Obama’s inexperience reminded me of every unfunny joke my grandfather told me when I was growing up, which, coincidentally, was every joke my grandfather ever told me growing up.

The only news I’ll comment on is John McCain choosing Sarah Palin as his running mate. Palin has done a good job of running the state of Alaska for the last two years based on what I’ve read, and she strikes me as a leader who doesn’t take grief from anyone. She also strikes me as looking a hell of a lot like that chick in every soft core porno who starts the movie uptight, bookish and awkward around men. When she finally takes off her glasses, lets her hair down and opens up her blouse to reveal gigantic, implanty knockers, the characters realize she was actually hot all along while the audience yawns because they’ve been done jerking off for 35 minutes but have nevertheless been waiting for her to get naked the entire movie because god knows she’s the hottest one and we’ll be damned if we’re watching Skinimax at 1:30 a.m. on a Wednesday without seeing the late bloomer get banged by the dorky, but muscular assistant. If you’re not going to at least see it through to the end, then why even be there in the first place? Sportscenter will still be on afterward. So yeah, there’s your Vice Presidential nominee.

Anyway, inside we have guys named Johnson, a guy named West, a recently deceased guy named LaFontaine, and a classic example of cheap, superficial feminism uncovered by comedy sleuths. And of course, your reason not to work this week. It’s all just a click away. If you click that link, I’ll be your best friend (Guarantees of friendship not validated by Cru Jones Society).

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Let’s start of with the item I enjoyed reading most this week. While checking Flickerbock’s blog, which he updates about as regularly as a stressed-out woman’s menstrual cycle, he linked to an open letter written by Roger Ebert directed at former Sun Times colleague Jay Mariotti.  The crux of the letter is Roger’s criticism of Jay’s manner of exit from the Chicago Sun Times and Jay’s subsequent assertion that newspaper are dying.

Whereas Roger Ebert is incisive, forthright, and well-spoken, Jay Mariotti is not. Whereas Roger Ebert matters to newspapers, Jay Mariotti does not. And whereas Roger Ebert is someone I respect and read, Jay Mariotti is not. Jay Mariotti is a loudmouth, blowhard jerk whose overblown rants are only overshadowed by his massive ego. Good riddance, Jay. Here’s hoping “Around the Horn” takes a hint and cans your ass too. To paraphrase the esteemed Lee S. Hart: See ya’ in the unemployment line.

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In a world where new movies arrive constantly, only one man had what it took to tell the nation about them. What happens when that man dies?

Unfortunately we have to find out considering Don LaFontaine, voice of every badass movie trailer voiceover in history died this week amazingly of an ongoing, lung-related illness. I haven’t read if he was a smoker, but if he was, his awesome career would probably be my Exhibit A of smoking = cool if I were a tobacco executive.

As a tribute to Mr. LaFontaine, here’s a video of Pablo Francisco doing a spot-on impression of him. Rest in peace, you glorious, throaty bastard.

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My ticket to the Rockies VS. Padres last week in San Diego had a picture of Adrian Gonzalez on it. He’s a strange looking dude. I don’t mean he’s ugly, or has a Gorbachev-style port wine stain on his head, or a lazy eye or anything, but he looks like he’s about 14 years old. He reminds me of the kid in middle school who still has a baby face, but can grow facial hair like he’s Tom Selleck. I mean, look at him below:

Tell me that isn’t Danny Archuleta (or whatever the goateed kid from your middle school was named). That weirdness aside, Petco Park is one of the finer places to watch a baseball game. Not a bad seat in the house, outstanding weather, awesome city views, clean, spacious park, effeminate ball park food…

Wait, what?

Take a look at the menu from the Club Level. Would you care for some sushi rolls or perhaps a Caesar salad? Or perhaps a nice cup of that New England clam chowder Southern California is famous for? I know when I think baseball, I think green tea. And like the Thoroughbred Club, it is in fact still $9 beer night. I would never order any of this stuff (save for a few $9 beers), but somehow it adds to the charm of experiencing baseball in San Diego. Unique ballpark food always does.

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When a legend leaves us, it’s always interesting to hear what they’ve learned. We lost Killer Kowalski this week - not only a legendary pro wrestler, but a legendary wrestling trainer - and thankfully Esquire asked him what he’s learned.  They could have titled this article: “How to get famous by ripping some dude’s ear off” but I don’t think that would’ve flown.

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Now that Clay Bennett is done sticking his dick in the collective ass of the city of Seattle, it’s time to rename the team he stole from them. The Supersonics are now known as the Oklahoma City… Thunder?

Sweet Pappy Johnson with an erection, what a dull choice. Thunder? Thunder doesn’t even do anything, it just serves as the audible warning of lightning. And even then, thunder occurs after lightning, so it’s a shitty warning at that.

Phil, over at Phil Knows Best, thinks the logo is even worse than the name, and I’m inclined to agree. I’m inclined to disagree, however, with his poor spelling and miserable punctuation. But then, who am I to argue? After all, he knows best. Although I’d like to see his sources on that assertion.

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And now, a word from our 1930s’ sponsor.

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A few weeks ago we covered race theory that ultimately led to this link. Hee hee, still hilarious. Anyway, this week it’s on to feminism. It’s well-known that Hollywood doesn’t respect women which is why many of the most currently popular websites feature upskirt photos of starlets climbing out of cars and walking around on the beach. How long until we’re simply publishing Borat’s book Polaroids of “women in the city when they make-a toilet”?

But they try sometimes. At least once a year Hollywood makes a movie they think has progressive feminist ideals, but really just undermines the entire concept and reinforces the notion that all women need is “some serious deep dicking.” And since God knows we can’t go a week around here anymore without linking to Cracked, here is their list of “Hollywood’s 5 Saddest Attempts at Feminism.”

Maybe this ain’t sound like your thing. And maybe it ain’t. But then you also probably like catching your own food, inventing the wheel, and drinking Bud Light. For you there’s a link at the end of the article entitled the “The 6 Most Gratuitously Cleavaged Women on Television.” So read up, caveman.

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When you have a crush on a woman, I’m willing to bet you like to woo her subtly, don’t you male CJS reader? You like to be coy in letting you know you like her. Isn’t that right? Take some time to get to know her and wait for that opportune moment. Be a gentleman. Fly under the radar. Ask her friends about her. And when the timing’s right, you learn everything you possibly can about her acting, modeling, and plastic surgery history, write about it on your blog, and then post nearly 4 dozen pictures of her in skimpy bathing suits so your slobbering fanboys can make crass remarks about her in your comments section. 

 

Wait, what?

That’s what Kanye West does about Australian model Krystal Forscutt. Seriously, easy, Kanye. Next you’ll be trying to shoot the president trying to impress her like this idiot. 

Hey, speaking of idiots, here’s one of the highest order. Ocho Cinco? Go fuck yourself.

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And since we’re in the realm of dudes named Johnson, or at least used to be named Johnson, Ocho Cinco’s (fucking kill me every time I type that) former teammate Rudi Johnson showed up to Lions camp and had his bags stolen by Tatum Bell. 

First of all, this is such a juvenile response to Rudi taking his job, I can’t help but giggle with delight.

Secondly, and more importantly, this is a story that features a man named Rudi (spelled with an ‘i’ like he’s a 12 year-old 6^th grader and president of the Jonas Bros. Fan Club or something) and a man named Tatum. Ocho Cinco? Rudi? Tatum? What is the NFL coming to with all these stupid names? Was there no way to work Ashley Lelie or Tiki Barber into the story? Geez.

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This is more like it! We need more of this. I also see Peyton Manning as Mekaneck due to his wacky way of calling audibles at the line of scrimmage, Alex Smith as Evil Lyn for his small, girlish hands, and LaDainian Tomlinson as Roboto for his futuristic helmet.

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And finally in manly news, “The Natural” Randy Couture is returning to the Octagon to face Brock Lesnar in a fight that’s expected to the biggest in mixed martial arts history. Brock is still greener than Kermit the Frog at this point, but he still punched the fuck out of Heath Herring’s eye and dominated the entire fight. Randy’s been on the shelf for over a year and is north of 45 years old, but is still one of the best mixed martial artists of all time. Needless to say, this is an intriguing fight on many levels and one that I’ll certainly make time for come November.

And if you practice jiu jitsu, there’s really only one rule you should always follow:

Happy Friday! See you next week.

edagger@crujonessociety.com