Overreaction Wednesday: Ozzie Guillen is the greatest sports figure of all time and if you don’t believe that then you are a certified lunatic

14 11 2012

A few days ago I had every intention of writing a post about Ozzie Guillen getting fired. That’s the beauty of being a mediocre blogger with zero ambition, I can write about stories that are long overdue and no one really gives a baker’s fawwk. And really, in my defense, what could be better blogging fodder than the seemingly invincible Oz finally getting shit canned after years and years of spewing controversial jibberish with absolutely zero repercussions. Jesus if I could get away with calling people fags at my office I can tell you I’d be doing it a hell of a lot more often. But I honestly can’t bring myself to give that dude even 1 more ounce of thought and attention. I’m an enormous fan of Ozzie mostly because he brought me to climax in 2005 when the Sox won the World Series, but the guy’s a moron and a MASSIVE attention skank. You know who I’d compare him too? Cee-Lo. Absolutely the same kind of person as Cee-Lo. Could be the least talented dickweed in his industry but he cashes checks and never apologizes for being such an obvious piece of shit. Cee-Lo and Guillen could be running mates in the 2012 No Talent Ass Clown Elections, which will be held this December in Two Chainz’ basement, immediately following a Daughtry concert, sponsored by the ’17 Kids and Counting’ family.

Do you, baby. Do you. Oz and this short dude just cheesin’ hard, probably just drank a fifth of tequila ordered a taco 12 pack and prank called Jay Mariotti’s mom a couple times. Also I’ll definitely be perusing the rest of ‘theDirty.com’ site after this. This picture has to just be a still shot from a porno. No way it can’t be.

My big question is – what in God’s name will Ozzie Guillen decide to parlay his MLB career into? You can take any media jobs right off the table considering I haven’t understood a single sentence the fucking guy has ever said. MOVE YOUR LIPS BRO! NO, NOT THOSE LIPS! USE YOUR WORDS! ANUNCIATE! Seriously a good part of me is actually surprised that reporters continued to bother attending his postgame interviews. If I wanted to hear a dude mumble about indecipherable shit I would have gone and played checkers with my Grandpa for a couple hours. Ozzie’s probably pleading with his agent as we speak, begging for a spot on Dancing With The Stars or American Idol. Actually, dude would actually fit in perfectly in that show Swamp People. Those fuckin guys make Ozzie sound like the most articulate swingin’ wang on the planet.

One things for sure, retirement opens the door to copious amounts of free time. And what do dudes like Ozzie do with copious amounts of free time?

Tongue their sons.

Dad, dude, why are your eyes open?


Overreaction Tuesday Evening: Lollapalooza? More like BingeDrinkapalooza right?! Who’s with me??

14 08 2012

I know I’m jumping the gun a bit with this OW, but like my priest always says, blow it out your ass. I’m actually long overdue with this little diddy seeing as the subject is Lollapalooza, which wrapped up over a week ago after a successful three days of drinking, getting muddy as shit, and picturing Florence from Florence in the Machine naked. It’s like “Pardon me, Flo? Whaddya say you lose a couple of the dozen tweed tunics you’re wearing and maybe toss on some shorts? Looking like Link from Zelda isn’t the most flattering look.”  Lollapalooza was neat, for reasons including but not limited to the following:


1) $8 beers! They were practically giving those puppies away! Warm Bud Heavies out the bumhole like you wouldn’t believe!

2) Crowded-as-fuck-ness! Show me someone who doesn’t like massive sweaty wasted pukey dubstep moshes and I’ll show you a liar.  Sidenote everyone at Bassnectar was funneling Ecstasy into their jugular, I’m pretty sure. One dude next me literally threw his tiny friend into the crowd in front of him to try and clear out some space to stand. Dedication I had to tip my cap to.



Snapped the photo above of some of the rowdiest moshers we ran into. Ruthless motherfuckers, these guys. Chick crowd surfing was a real bitch…

3) Comfy sleeping arrangements! Hardwood floor? Um yes please. Dishcloth as a pillow? YES. Jamming my legs through a long sleeve shirt as blanket? C’mon now you’re spoilin’ me! By Monday morning I felt like Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky, but it wasn’t televised. I’m going to look back at that weekend as the turning point when spinal degeneration took hold of my L4 and L5.

4) Super easy to find people! Mobs of people using their phones = zero calls/ texts successfully sent. Fuck, now I know what Brendan Frasier must have felt like growing up in that fallout shelter in Blast From the Past. Except instead of having Christopher Walken as my dad and Alicia Silverstone as my girlfriend I had these two straight up wierdos of Die Antwoord screaming about…from what I could make out….Satan and darkness and metallic labia piercings.


I need those blood-stained Dre Beats and I need them like yesterday.  


Is this not the scariest album cover you’ve ever laid eyes on!? Holy SHIT, I’ll tell you what, you ain’t ever gonna see Chris Martin pullin a stunt like this. That stunt being taking a bite out of a human heart and arriving at the conclusion that a good finishing touch would be a pair of angel wings.

5) Shit-ton of rain on Saturday! #Wow! #Fun! #Splashing! #KONY2012! God dude, I can’t even pretend that was fun. Torrential downpour halfway through the day; was more depressing than Michael Caine giving a eulogy with Sarah McLachlan commercials playing behind him.  

So if you’re into any of that noise, I suggest you mark your calendar for next year.  Special release pre-order early bird first chance tickets are only $24,500!

– SR

Author’s Note: All this having been said, I had the time of my life at this absolutely, unapologetically filthy drunken festival. I’d do it again in a second no questions asked.


Overreaction Wednesday: Madonna Whips Nip Out; My Weiner Hesitates, Then Moves Slightly. (NSFW)

19 06 2012

Fucking Madonna, dude.  She’s relentless. You know what, when you’ve been a pioneer in the game since Day 1 I guess you just develop a sixth sense for knowing when you need to pull out all the stops and start yankin’ yer tit out to get some chatter going again about your career. This was a brilliantly calculated move by Madonna and what I imagine would be her Titty Agent, or PR Rep, or whatever. Just when you thought she was throwing in the towel and slipping quietly into retirement she comes out guns blazing and just starts getting nude on stage. In reality, though, this story should bring absolutely zero surprise or shock whatsoever. Madonna showers in these types of power plays and I respect the hell out of her for it. As a matter of fact, I fully intend to take a page out of her book when my inevitably short-lived career starts to derail. I’ll be on the chopping block 15 minutes from getting canned, and I’ll unbutton my shirt, scoop a nipple out in front of my boss and graciously accept a generous promotion. Thanks Mad-Dog, for the foolproof strategy. Gotta keep the general public on their toes anxiously awaiting their next glimpse of a breast. What make-a-da-world go ‘round.


That nip is 100% muscle.

God knows my interest in the music industry would skyrocket if more performers had the set of cojones that Madonna has. And part of me thinks that’s not a metaphor. Madonna may have a set of nuts. But you get Beyonce or Carrie Underwood to pull a stunt like this and I’d be buying up $80 concert tickets like they were front row seats to a Jenny McCarthy gyno checkup. There’s a business idea in there somewhere…

And Madonna doesn’t stop there. A week later she’s doing another show in Germany or something and she bends over and pulls her buttcheeks out. T&A like it ain’t no thang. Treating the crowd to an eyeful of pasty ass crack that makes one wonder how many foot-pounds of force that b-hole would put on a turd. Or Alex Rodriquez’ dong. Or Brittney Spears’ fingers. Or my face.


All kidding aside, God bless you Madonna. I’ll level with you, babe, your tits are disgusting, but somehow I can’t look away. I’m on the edge of my seat waiting for your next move.  At this rate, a couple more shows and you’ll be belting out ‘Like A Virgin’ with your snatch out while simultaneously playing keyboard with a strap-on and asphyxiating your backup dancers with g-strings while they squat on sybian machines that are mounted on giant wiener sculptures. That’s just how this shit progresses.



Overreaction Wednesday: J. Travolta and his questionably obtained handys

16 05 2012

I know this is borderline old news but GET OFF MY BACK, I have some commentary on the issue that our 14 readers (me 12 times checking our traffic numbers and another couple dudes mistakenly arriving at the site after misspelling a porn URL) deserve to hear. 

The central thesis of my beef with this story has nothing to do with whether or not Mr. Travolta did indeed get serviced by a couple random unappreciative masseuses. Last time I checked we were in a massive recession, so as a masseuse if you can’t roll up your sleeves and crank a dong to satisfy a paying customer then you need to check your attitude. The big question for me is, why do we continue giving – nay, wasting – valuable fucks on these celeb scandals? Didn’t we learn our lesson after that one chick tried to claim J Biebs ravaged her in a bathroom stall? I guess she was just hoping the dude that really knocked her up would miraculously have the SAME DNA as the Biebs?? Calculated, well-thought-out roll of the dice I’d say. And I’ll be honest I was really hoping that story was true. Just the idea of Biebs throwing the gauntlet down with some stranger in the men’s room of a Bob Evans had me listening to his tracks on repeat.

That’s how sick people are, though. They’ll gladly pinch a long turd onto the reputation of an unsuspecting celebrity and then blindly hope to the Piece-of-Shit-Freeloader Gods that the allegations stick. I imagine the thought process goes something like this: I need money > I’m too stupid and lazy to look for a job > I should rob someone > That someone should be rich, like a celebrity > I’m too retarded to pull off a robbery > I’ll just make some shit up about an actor forcing me to blow him and hope for the best.

Shit, now that I have that logic diagrammed out in the open, it does seem pretty bulletproof, but still. Even if I could pull it off, I wouldn’t be down with being immortalized as the guy that cashed in after allegedly getting his balls tugged by John Leguizamo at a massage parlor. Let’s get back to Travolta though. I’ve always been a huge fan of the Travolts. Grease was kind of gay but overall the guy’s track record in Hollywood has been nothing short of outstanding.  Pulp Fiction? Are you kidding me? I’m literally online right now applying for a job as a masseuse in LA just on the off chance that John Travolta might walk in and make me tickle his gooch or something while he tells me about how sweet it was to film that movie. 

That’s another thing I don’t understand about these supposed assaults. If I was in that situation I would be so star struck from seeing JT that I’d probably black out and forget what happened. I’d go home later that night and be like:

“Yo get this, I gave John Travolta a massage today!”

“No way, what’d he say to you??”

“Uh, damn, oh man, shit…actually come to think of it I think he may have banged me…”

I just want people to dial back their overreactions to these petty accusations against a great American icon.  This guy was one of the visionaries that brought us Wild Hogs; If that performance didn’t earn him an aggressive Old Fashioned or two, I don’t know what will.

Overreaction Wednesdays: Bikram Yoga

21 03 2012

Here at the TODM offices we pride ourselves on being calm, cool, collected cats. We navigate this hostile blogosphere with poise, class, and a pantload of swag. Pumping out tasty chunks of rhetoric like absolute G’s. You know how many times per day I’m mistaken for Prince Harry? Seven. It’s an average of seven times. I mean sure he’s no Dave Coulier but shit the guy’s a looker and his brother is pokin Kate Middleton. Which means I indirectly poke Kate Middleton. 6 degrees of separation or something. Thing is, beneath that seemingly impenetra-impentrate-imp-impenetrab…beneath that seemingly thick layer of composure there’s vulnerability. Vulnerability to overreact.

Yeah, I had a muthaflippin overreaction the other day. And here’s the umbrella issue: I don’t like participating in activities where my skills fall into the bottom 5 percentile when compared to the general public. And in these cases, the general public may include lepers, amputees, and infants. I just can’t be in that bottom 5. Which doesn’t leave me many options in the way of extracurriculars.

Anyways, I bored another hole into my lack-of-talent belt the other day when I made the near fatal mistake of thinking my current health would sustain me through a 60 minute session of Bikram Yoga. If you’re straight and haven’t heard of it, it’s Yoga but on the surface of the Sun. That should have been my red flag right there. Who was the dick that suggested taking an already impossible workout and adding unbearable heat? That wouldn’t fly in any other situation. “Yea Bill this conference room is fine but we’d rather review the Q3 numbers in the Nairobi desert.” It makes zero sense.

I’m going to Tarantino this shitty story a bit and tell you that I didn’t make it the full hour. No chance. I had batwings after five minutes, a near heat stroke after fifteen, and squeezed a fart out after twenty. It was a silent one, I’m not rude. I ended up leaving a half hour early for the following reasons:

1) I had no idea how to ‘Let the energy escape through (my) fingertips’.

At first I thought our instructor was making a masturbation reference but no one was laughing…or masturbating. The commentary was so pointless I couldn’t even stand it. This lady’s second job had to have been printing nature scene t-shirts or selling shots of wheatgrass. Too weird, I couldn’t get my chi centered with all that BS being slung at me.

2) I lost 95% of the moisture in my body and was beginning to hallucinate.

My God, the positions they were trying to get out of us were ridiculous. “Now detach your leg and itch your neck with your big toe” was probably the toughest, I’d say.

3) The class was mostly dudes.

4) My friend was far better at it than I was.

I wasn’t going to accept the humiliation of watching this kid absolutely demolish an Advanced Warrior II while I sat on my thumb in Child’s Pose. I took the high road and left with my tail between my legs.

In retrospect I should have stuck it out. There’s a good chance I would have passed away but at least I could have said I voluntarily walked into Hell and didn’t back down. I admit it, I overreacted.

Looks like I’ll have to add this to the list of things I’ve quit on before even completing once:

– 6 Saltine challenge

– Satisfying a woman

– Bikram Yoga

Namaste, boners.


Overreaction Wednesdays

29 02 2012

Nations united Monday night in a slow, collective, Christmas Story-esque “Ohhhhhh Fuuuuuuck” as they watched a waiter accidentally dump an entire tray of beers on German Chancellor Angela Merkel.

See video below to put your shitty Monday in perspective:

My first thought was, Wow, this guy just committed the ultimate party foul, launching five cold cruisers onto the blazer of one of Germany’s most prominent political figures, and he hardly even flinches with emotion. Stone cold like he didn’t just squeeze a turd onto his future job security. He seems to shrug it off like it’s just another day at the office…like after this he’d head over to Nicolas Sarkozy’s house and smother him in nacho cheese. You just spilled 60 ounces of Schnitzengiggle on the fuckin Head Honcho and you can’t even muster a quick look of shock?

If I had been in this waiter’s position, A-Merk would have had to towel off more than just beer…I would have whizzed on her back in embarrassment. A lifetime supply of Kudos to the guy for keeping his composure. Merkel probably wanted to deport his ass on the spot but she collected herself and decided to smile it off. As far as I know there was no additional news of a post-event castration or tar-and-feathering or whatever it is Germans do these days for punishment, so we can assume the guy was truly forgiven.

That being the case, I have no idea why this was viewed as such a travesty. It’s Germany for Christ’s sake, getting coated in a veneer of hefeweisen is like a fucking aphrodisiac to these people. I’m actually more surprised the two guys sitting next to her didn’t shoot a load in their lederhosen and beg for the next beer bath. At least have a little respect for your heritage and zamboni that shit off the floor. German brews are like elephant tusks man you have to treat those puppies like gold.

Snoopy D O double Gizzle knows the seductive power of the lederhosen.

The media needs to get off this poor bastard’s wienerschnitzel and get back to providing other meaningless, non-newsworthy tidbits. Totally, CNN.com, keep those Costa Concordia updates coming every 14 seconds! We get it, the ship is stranded. Just let me know when I’m a go to toss my flippers on and pillage that bad boy for silver candlesticks and shit.



Lent 2012: Make it Count

27 02 2012

Padlock your pantries, Catholics. Gorilla Glue your laptops shut. The Lenten season has officially begun. For the next 40 days we’ll cut the fat from our diets and the guilty pleasures from our everyday routines as we ignorantly convince ourselves that the sacrifice of not eating cupcakes for a few weeks even remotely absolves us for being shitty people. Jesus starved himself in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights and I’m getting night sweats about having to lay off the Mountain Dew.

My favorite part about Lent is hearing what other people choose to give up. You can learn a lot about a person by listening to what they’ll be abandoning for the next month and a half.  There are the people who get overly ambitious: TV, Internet, swearing (not fucking possible), and there are those who consciously opt for the easy way out. Last year my brother gave up strawberry pixy sticks. Punched his ticket to Hell.

I have no place to criticize when it comes to sticking with Lenten sacrifices. I have yet to go the entire 40 days without blatantly failing – and I rarely even come close. When I was a kid I’d always try and give up candy. Two hours after Ash Wednesday mass I’d be playing Chubby Bunny with Nutrageous bars under the dining room table. My track record with the whole meatless Friday thing is even more pathetic. Historically I’ve been known to realize it’s a Lenten Friday as I’m bulldozing a meat lover’s pizza or dumping a bag of Jack Links into my mouth. I’m the guy that brings Boston Market leftovers to a fish fry and still doesn’t get the hint.

So, if you’re still on the fence about what to give up this Lent, let TODM take the reins and offer a few friendly suggestions.

1. Stop using Chat Roulette.

Honestly, I don’t even know if there are still people doing this – but the fact that it was EVER popular is shameful enough. If I wanted to sift through live feeds of dudes jacking off I would have….just….searched for it on Google. Shit is creepier than Kevin Spacey and the Chupacabra combined.

It’s addicting for some people, though. Clicking from weiner to weiner to old dudes weiner to chick taking a dump is somehow captivating. So if that’s too ambitious for you, try giving up hashtag use outside of Twitter. “#hashtaggeryleadstodouchebaggery” is what I’m pretty sure I read on Warren Buffet’s LinkedIn.

2. Stop robbing the ‘Situation’ of Oscar nods.

I know Jersey Shore is a TV show, so not Oscar eligible, but barriers are meant to be broken.

What are Best Actor winners if not experts in the art of dramatic expression? Michael ‘The Sitch’ Sorrentino effortlessly makes Ron Artest and Coral from the Real World look like a couple of pussies. He strolls into the kitchen muttering a few controversial nuggets and pretty soon Ronnie’s upstairs taking Sammie’s bedframe through a woodchipper. Constantly plotting and scheming and stirring shit up – everything about him demands attention. After the episode where he pissed off JWoww until she punched him in the face, I literally went online and bought a pair of red Ed Hardy sweatpants. Look into your souls, people…did you truuuly enjoy ‘The Artist’? Rhetorical question. And by comparison, who DIDN’T tune in to watch Sitch headbutt a concrete wall…suffering brain damage in order to pump some entertainment back into the show. Selfless. Noble. Oscar-worthy.

 I also want to shed some light on how perfect it is that Sitch’s best friend’s name is ‘The Unit.’ Does he only hang out with guys who have nicknames inspired by John Grisham novels? I can’t imagine poker night with those guys…”Yo Obstacle, pass me one of those stogies that The Occurrence brought. I’m takin’ the Framework all in. And where the fuck is The Consequence, he still hasn’t paid up.”


I know bruh, it’s just not fair.

3. Refrain from buying those ‘Calvin peeing’ car stickers.

Wanna know why people think you’re a jagoff before even talking to you? Surprisingly it’s not the metal ballsack you have hanging from your hitchport….it’s the decal of Calvin whizzing on “My Ex Wife” written in block letters. Congratulations, you got the last laugh. Now crack another Steel Reserve and cut that alimony check!


4. Omit ‘Watch the Throne’ lyrics from your vocabulary.

As ‘cray’ as that shit may be, I think this has run its course.

5. No text messaging on weekend nights.

Bold, I know. Very bold. But you’ll thank me when you no longer have to explain the shaft-shots you mistakenly sent your uncle before dropping your phone into a urinal. These are the kind of sacrifices that really impress the Big Guy upstairs. You don’t think JC ever got hammed, carved something regrettable into a hunk of shale and gave it to some Galilee honies? He was human once too.

Peace be with you, TODM readers. Good luck.