To the guy who was in front of me at the vending machine today:

How in the hell did you get all the way to the vending machine without knowing what you intended to purchase? What were you so busy thinking about on the way from your desk to the break room that distracted you from making this decision? Should we expect a plan for peace in the Middle East or a cure for H1N1 to be coming from your office soon? I don’t take one fucking step away from my desk and I know exactly what I’m getting from the vending machine.

Even if you somehow managed to arrive in front of the vending machine without knowing what you wanted, how GOD DAMN LONG can it possibly take to process the 20 or so available options and choose one? It’s a vending machine, not a fucking tax return. You can have salt, sugar, chocolate, healthy crap that nobody ever eats anyway, or stale gum. Just fucking pick something or get the hell out of the way so people who actually have their shit together can get their snacky.

If our society didn’t have rules I would’ve kicked you in the small of your back hard enough to knock you right through the fucking glass. Then I would’ve picked a candy bar out of your face and taken $5 out of your wallet as payment for the two minutes of my life you cost me while you stood there staring like sedated livestock, hoping against hope that the vending machine would somehow do the hard work of making a selection for you. Stupid fucking simpleton.

(Yes, all Browns fans are this keyed up right now. I’d rather not talk about it.)

From last week’s game: Adrian Peterson catches a short pass and has just enough time to turn up field and trample Pittsburgh safety William Gay like a rampaging elephant running over a helpless zookeeper.

The only way AP could have made that domination more complete is if they stopped the game so he could pull down Gay’s pants and screw that football into his ass like a light bulb.

Technically I think the Pittsburgh police could issue AP a ticket for littering. You can’t just leave your discarded garbage anywhere you please, Mr. Peterson! Throw that safety in the trash when you’re done with him. YOU’RE MAKING NATIVE AMERICANS CRY.

Since the NFL already has penalties when players break the rules, they need to add bonuses for when something like this happens. Instead of a yellow flag they could throw a green flag at the spot of the amazingness. Then the referee would announce something like “Roughing the defense, number 28 offense. Five yards will be added to the end of the run. First down.”

1. Josh Cribbs is now the starting quarterback, and the new offense is 100% from the Wildcat formation. Throw out the entire playbook and start over with everything based out of this formation.

1B.Promote Jerome Harrison to starting tailback, as Jamal Lewis would be useless in the Wildcat.
1C. Trade Derek Anderson for whatever value we can get.
1D. Train Brady Quinn to run the Wildcat as the backup, then trade him in the offseason as well.

2. No punting, field goals, or extra point kicks. Run four downs on every offensive series and go for two after every touchdown. Kickers are a wasteful extravagance, and they are often smelly foreigners to boot. Win lose or fail, the new Browns will be BALLS TO THE FUCKING WALL.

3. Recruit offensive lineman from the Japanese sumo wrestling circuit. Ever seen those guys in action? They’re 400+ lbs, and their sport demands agility and hand-eye coordination in the same way that being a good offensive lineman demands those things. Loin cloths would be optional.

4. Recruit at least one failed basketball project who is over seven feet tall to be the new short yardage tight end. His only job will be to run 3-5 yards off the line and post up so Cribbs can throw the ball up to him like a high rebound. The guy would probably have to be at least 260 lbs so he doesn’t get jammed off the line.

5. In the 2010 draft, pick Tim Tebow. Next season’s backfield will be some combination of Cribbs, Tebow, Jerome Harrison and a big fullback for goal line situations.

Have you ever gone into a public restroom to wash your hands and they have those hands-free soap dispensers? It’s got a motion sensor that will dispense soap when your hands move under the tap, so they don’t end up with a soap dispenser coated in other people’s poop-loaf germs.

Ever tried to use one of those hands-free soap dispensers, only it doesn’t acknowledge that you’re there? You stand there like a street mime waving your arms around in front of the sink hoping to somehow get the electronic eye to notice you, but it never does. So then you move away to the next sink…and right after you step away that soap dispenser fires off a milky white stream into the sink that would make Peter North jealous. The whole experience makes you just want to jam both arms into the shitter and then slap the building maintenance manager in the face with your icky toilet water hands. HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDS-FREE SYSTEM NOW, FUCKO!

This is exactly how it felt being a Browns fan after the Braylon Edwards trade. We installed that wide receiver as an upgrade, and he worked well for one season. So we kept waving our hands under that wide receiver, expecting continued production, but suddenly he wasn’t producing. Then, as soon as we gave up and moved to the next wide receiver he unveils these amazing sticky glue hands and actually plays like he cares. For the last 1.5 seasons in Cleveland the guy can’t catch a five yard curl route; now he makes leaping catches over his outside shoulder 30 yards down field while pirouetting the sideline like a fucking Russian ballet dancer?!?

Shove your rediscovered work ethic right up your freshly bleached asshole, Braylon Barishnikov. I hope LeBron joins the Knicks in 2010, buys a house right next to yours, and fucks your girlfriend in the upstairs picture window where you can see/hear/smell everything.

Braylon Edwards got into an argument, punched the owner of a Cleveland nightclub in the wee hours following Epic Failure Vol. IV of the 2009 Browns season.

http://blog.cleveland.com/metro/2009/10/a_cleveland_man_accuses_browns.html

First of all, the guy that got jacked went to the hospital with a black eye, a cut, and…a headache? If you are a professional football player you should be able to do a hell of a lot more damage than that with a punch. When Joe Thomas punched that guy a few years ago, the police never found the guy’s fucking head. They just treated it like a shotgun wound because they couldn’t figure out any other way to splatter someone’s brains on a vaulted ceiling like that.

It probably feels like a soothing massage when Braylon punches you. All those footballs sliding through his hands have probably filed away any calluses or rough spots that were there. Like rubbing your face with smooth silk. How about a little less time in the nightclubs and a little more time with the Jugs machine there, GQ Edwards. Or if you’re gonna jam up some ghetto garbage at 2:30 in the morning at least learn how to throw hands so you can lay the guy out.

Based on Mangini’s $1,700 fine of an unnamed player for taking a $3 bottle of water from a hotel without paying for it, I assume Braylon will be fined eleventy billion dollars and the deeds to Park Place and the B & O Railroad for his involvement in this little incident.

I’m actually glad the original Browns left for Baltimore, because if Ray Lewis had to play for this team there would be a string of sewn-together dead hookers festooning city hall like Christmas lights every Monday morning.

Mark your calendars now for Oct 11^th – Cleveland at Buffalo. That game should be like two obese people fucking on a vibrating hotel bed. Eventually, by sheer accident, someone will find the right hole and stuff it in, but it will be a long sweaty painful process to get there and nobody will be satisfied in the end.

From ESPN.com today: Browns rookie CB Coye Francies was pranked by some of the veterans in the secondary, and basically lost his shit and started throwing ice, punches, and possibly punch-flavored Icee’s all over the place.

http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=4504153

First of all, whenever you see stories like this about your favorite team your first phone call should be to Las Vegas to bang the “under” on number of wins for the season. There is no way in hell any team that has crap like this going on behind the scenes wins more than four games.

That having been said…thank God someone in the Browns locker room is pissed off about something. If I had to call Brandon McDonald or Mike Adams a “veteran” I would probably start throwing punches too. Brandon McDonald hasn’t earned the right to haze Ronald McDonald, let alone an NFL player.

“Before he could be stopped, Francies tossed the ice on cornerback Brandon McDonald, hitting him with cubes and covering the floor.”

That bucket of ice was the first damn thing that Brandon McDonald has stopped this season. Adrian Peterson showed up 30 minutes later just to stiff-arm McDonald face down into the pile of ice on the floor.

“Welcome to the Browns locker room!” wide receiver Braylon Edwards hollered as players rushed over to check on the commotion.

Thanks for fiddling while Rome burns there, Braylon. It’s a good thing he didn’t throw the ice at you because there is no way you would’ve caught any of it, and some of it might have screwed up your French manicure and caused you to miss 6-8 weeks and have to cancel your next GQ shoot, ASSBAG.

I love that Shaun Rogers broke up the fracas by grabbing Francies and dragging him out of the locker room. The fact that Shaun Rogers, a 400 lb toilet clogging machine who is about as quick as frozen maple syrup in January, is still quicker than one of our CB’s says all you need to know about the 2009 Browns secondary. I bet once they were in the hallway, instead of talking Rogers just chomped his mouth like King Hippo until Francies inserted a whole chicken to placate him.

Quote from defensive coordinator Rob Ryan:

“They’re starting to care for each other. We’re coming together. I can see it.”

Maybe you should get your fucking eyes checked Rob, because all I see is a bunch of future CFL players throwing things at each other in a locker room. Baghdad Bob thinks you’re fucking kidding yourself asshole.

As of right now Vegas has the Ravens at –13.5 and if any of you has more than 35 cents in your pocket you need to jump on this. The Ravens could get shut out and still win by two touchdowns against this mountain of elephant excrement that is the 2009 Browns. I’m seriously thinking that the Browns could be penalized two touchdowns for shitty play and end up with –14 points. After which Rob Ryan will declare the game to be a glorious victory, and hopefully Coye Francies will punch him with a brick of ice.

1. Get your hands on a copy of the NFL schedule
2. Look to see who the Browns are playing this week
3. Dump a big pile of money on whoever the Browns are playing to win
4. Roll around naked in your winnings like Demi Moore in “Indecent Proposal” (optional)

But Dr Friction, you say, how can I be sure this will work? The NFL is so unpredictable. Any team can look terrible one week and awesome the next. Like Cedric Benson and the Cincinnati Bengals unloading that Hot Carl on the Packers’ chest last week, for example.

Here is one statistic that will shut your mouth and open your wallet faster than a lapper from Megan Fox: from the Browns return to the NFL in 1999 through week two of the 2009 season, their record is 54-108.

That means over 10 years they have literally lost 2 of every 3 games they’ve played. What other gambling option presents you with a 2/3 chance of winning? Combine that with the fact that the 2009 Browns remind me of that hard crunchy shit that forms around the cap of a ketchup squeeze bottle and this is pretty much a no-brainer.

Oh, by the way: the Browns play at Baltimore in week three.

You’re welcome.

I spent enough time on the couch this weekend that my ass groove is really rounding into mid-season form. A few observations from the Sunday games:

* The announcers on the Browns-Vikings game were shameless Brett Favre cheerleaders. I’ve seen pornos with less deep-throating than what we had to listen to during the first 15 minutes of that game. “Oh, he just loves the game so much he couldn’t stay away, SLURP SLURP SLURP, heart of a champion, TWO HANDED PEPPER GRINDER, what a great hero, MAP OF HAWAII PAINTED ON MY FACE.” Give it a fucking rest, you’re not convincing anyone of anything except your own unrequited man-crush.

* Adrian Peterson’s touchdown run where he stopped, threw the Browns defender out of bounds like Hulk Hogan throwing the Iron Sheik over the top rope, and then floored the gas pedal and coasted into the end zone…I mean, holy crap. Was that a real Browns defender or some kid from the Make-A-Wish foundation whose final wish was to play one snap for an NFL team? The only way that guy could have ended up looking worse is if he somehow landed in a metal garbage can with just his legs sticking up in the air, kicking and flailing comically.

* Josh Cribbs continues to be a singular talent trapped on a sinking ship in Cleveland. For the good of the NFL, can Cribbs “defect” to another team like a Cuban pitcher coming to the US? Can we put him on the hood of a 1963 Buick and send him across lake Erie, en route to New England or New York? He deserves better than the Mangini and Touchdown Mary traveling circus.

* From the Colts-Jags game: after Anthony Gonzalez fell down untouched and had to be carried off the field, I had the following text message exchange with a former co-worker:

Me: WTF just happened to Anthony Gonzalez? Sniper?
Him: I think his water just broke.

Best line of the weekend.

* Was it just a coincidence that Gus Johnson got to call the most exciting finish of any of the Sunday games on the same weekend that TNT was showing “300” every night? Couldn’t you just picture Gus dressed like King Leonidas and yelling “THAT…IS…A TOUCHDOWN!!” and kicking his producer in the chest, knocking him backwards out of the press box?

* Jason Campbell spent pretty much the entire first half of the Skins-Giants game with the same look on his face as that guy in the commercial selling the drug for old men who can’t stop pissing themselves. Which is actually pretty understandable considering that Osi Umsldkthqweioph and Justin Tuck look like they could skin a whole cow faster than a school of piranhas in the Amazon river. Those guys are scary good.

* Brandon Jacobs looks like someone who would spit a lot when he talks. Every time he gets up from being tackled he is talking smack to someone, and his facemask looks like a lemon being squeezed with all the spit spraying out everywhere. I think I would be more upset at the impromptu bath than anything he would say to me.

* How did the Packers make it all the way to the season opener without discovering that their right tackle is awful? Ogunleye made that guy look like a turnstile in a subway station.

* That fake punt direct snap to Garrett Wolfe was like something you would try in a game of Madden when you’re already ahead by four touchdowns and you just want to find out if any of those trick plays really work. They don’t work in Madden, and apparently they don’t work in real life either. Do the Bears have a special teams coach or is that job handled by a rooster pushing checkers pieces around a board while the punter plays the kazoo?

* Is Jay Cutler diabetic or retarded?

During the lunch hour today I went to Target to pick up a few things. (55 gallon drum of AstroGlide, a complete armada of air mattresses, enough whiskey for an Irish wake, giant tarp, a few dozen ShamWows…you know, typical errand stuff.)

When it comes time to check out, being the impatient person I am I choose the shortest checkout line. There is only one person in front of me – a girl who looks to be high school aged. The only things she is buying are two boxes of Tylenol Cold & Flu. This should take NO TIME AT ALL to complete the transaction; she shouldn’t even have to break stride on her way through the checkout aisle. Here’s my merchandise, here’s some money, here’s your change, BAM – exit stage left.

So this girl hands two boxes of Tylenol Cold & Flu pills to the cashier, and immediately the cashier says “Can I see some ID, please?” What…the fuck…for? This is COLD MEDICINE for fuck sakes; it’s not like she’s buying shotgun shells or morning after pills.

By now you can probably see where this is going:

Cashier: I’m sorry, I can’t sell this to you since you are not 18 years old
High school girl: But I’m going to turn 18 in two weeks, wah wah wah, LOUD MOODY TEENAGER WORDS
Cashier: [looking at her feet shyly] I’m sorry, I’m very sorry
High school girl: Fine, I guess I will just have to GO PUT THIS BACK ON THE SHELF THEN [Storms away in a big huff]
Me: So, why won’t Target sell cold medicine to minors?
Cashier: Uh…I don’t know

Can anyone explain to me why Target just walked away from $20 here? What is so dangerous about Tylenol Cold & Flu?

Earlier this week I had to take my Hyundai in for transmission service. Apparently transmissions only last 108,000 miles when they are screwed together by 8 year old Korean children.

Since my car was going to be in the shop for a few days, the Hyundai dealership gave me a loaner car to drive. Normally dealerships will give you the red-headed stepchild of their brand’s lineup…well let me tell you about the red-headed stepchild of Hyundai’s lineup:

The 2009 Hyundai Elantra Touring.

“Touring” is poorly translated Korean for “station wagon”

Let’s start with the exterior. If you gave an epileptic child some crayons, blindfolded them, spun them around a dozen times, and asked them to draw a car it would still look better than this thing. It looks like the designer just took a refrigerator box and went apeshit on it with a samurai sword. You could pull up to a stoplight next to a mid-80’s windowless van, and children would voluntarily get into the pedophile van just to avoid being seen in this. Maybe Hyundai should make the rear brake lights a little bigger so astronauts in outer space can tell when you’re stopping. (I could go on but I’m already too angry, so just picture me swearing and foaming at the mouth in front of my keyboard.)

Now that we’ve toured the outside of this gem, hop in to the driver’s seat. The first thing you will notice is the acrid stench of whatever the hell it is that Hyundai makes interiors out of. For some reason the unique blend of plastic and failure calls to mind a semi trailer full of Hello Kitty dolls that is on fire, driving through your septum and into your subconscious. Other people’s farts smell better.

Settle into the luxurious driver’s seat, which may or may not have been inspired by a medieval torture chair. I would rather stuff my asshole full of M-80’s and squat over a hibachi grill than spend five more minutes sitting in this chair. Oh, you were hoping to get your 6’3” frame comfortable? Well the seat slides back plenty far enough…but the tilt steering wheel only comes up to your nuts. It’s like the Chinese water torture of automotive ergonomics – absolutely maddening, but in a very subtle way.

Turn the key (you have to fucking find the ignition by molesting the underside of the low-slung steering wheel since you can’t actually see it) and let the reassuring sound of a giraffe screaming in pain wash over you. It is a jarring experience to turn over a brand new car and actually wonder if it’s going to die before you can back out of the parking space. Speaking of backing out of a parking space, good luck using the mirrors on this car because both blind spots are like 18 feet wide. I have to assume that the designer who included side mirrors was being sarcastic because the only thing they might actually be good for is clipping bicycle delivery people in big cities.

Turning the steering wheel requires a surprising amount of muscle considering the small wheelbase. I’m going to assume that Hyundai just forgot to install the power steering pump. Or maybe it just died of shame when I started the engine.

Take any corner faster than 5 MPH and you will wonder if the back end is about to break loose. Instead of shock absorbers the Touring model comes equipped with shock magnifiers, which actually makes driving over smooth gravel feel like you are tackling the nastiest Jeep trail. It is advisable to hold your teeth in your head with an open palm covering your mouth before driving over rough road.

The engine and four speed automatic transmission work together about as well as Israel and Palestine. Try to pass someone on the highway and the following things will happen:

1. Loud, meaningless squealing from the engine.
2. A good “five Mississippi” count later, an audible clunk as the transmission downshifts. Remember that we’re talking about a BRAND NEW car.
3. Uneven and unpredictable acceleration, similar to riding in one of those toddler sized coin-operated cars out in front of K Mart.
4. Steering that manages to feel just as clumsy at 70 mph as it does in a parking lot.
5. Shame as you avoid eye contact with the driver of the car you are passing, who is almost certainly doubled over in peals of laughter anyway.

I can’t even imagine how much Hyundai had to bribe the NHTSA with to get this car to pass a crash test. You could dent the quarter panels on this car with a good stiff burst of ass wind. I haven’t tried the horn yet but I can only assume that it plays “Taps” because if you hit anything you are fucking toast. Or maybe it just releases a cloud of chloroform gas so you won’t feel anything when the steering wheel deposits your nuts in the back seat. I bet the airbags wait to go off until the coroner is trying to scrape what’s left of you out of the car.

The best thing Hyundai could possibly do for their brand reputation is slap a Toyota badge on the 2009 Elantra Touring before putting it out on the lot. After driving this colossal failure for a few days, I have a fresh appreciation for the mere mediocrity of my old Hyundai. Which was maybe their plan all along…to sucker me into paying for expensive transmission repairs?

Bravo, you clever bastards. You win this round.