Belicheck press conference RE Hill

Transcript of news conference of New England Patriots coach Bill Belichick after learning of the death of defensive end Marquise Hill.

Q – Coach you have the deepest sympathies on the death of Marquise Hill. He was not only a fine football player, but also a good man, who went back to New Orleans to help those still victimized by Hurricane Katrina. Could you tell me, what is the feeling in the organization?

Belichick– Right now Marquise is listed as day to day with an upper body injury. I would say he is questionable for the season opener.

Q – Uh, coach, Orleans Parish coroner Dr. Frank Minyard said that Marquise drowned in Lake Pontchartrain on Sunday. Surely this is a tragic loss for your football team, and the community.

Belichick – We’d like to have our own doctors check him out. I am sure that there are fine doctors in Orleans Parish but it’s our policy not to comment on injuries until our own medical staff has examined them.

Q – He’s not injured coach, he’s passed away, he’s dead. It’s been confirmed.

Belichick – Look, I am not going to stand here and argue about the status of one of my players. You’re not a doctor, I’m not a doctor, we have doctors and once they have examined him then we’ll be better able to give you his status but as of right now he is questionable for the opener.

Q – You can’t be serious coach, this is not a football issue, the man is deceased.

Belichick – I was told Tedi Bruschi could not play after his stroke; he’s playing as well as ever. I was told not to have Ted Johnson practice after getting a severe concussion. He can’t count to seven. There is no real way of determining this until we get him out there and examine him.

Q – OK Coach, since you are not forthcoming on this issue, can you at least tell us if Bridget Moynahan is having a girl or a boy.

Belichick – We consider Bridget day to day on whether she will have her menstrual cycle in the next few weeks. Again we need to get our medical team in there to see what’s going on and then we’ll have a better idea of her status. Thank you.

Middleboro MA: Great place for a casino

My wife and I were driving through Middleboro last weekend doing what we normally do there, getting lost, after I had suffered a bout of: SRCS (Sudden Rotary Confusion Syndrome) and taken 44 instead of 28, when suddenly it hit me - Middleboro: What a great place for a casino.

Now I must begin with an apology, because I have lived in Southeastern Massachusetts my entire life, and never knew there were Indians in Middleboro. My Father grew up there, and has told us every story (with painstaking detail) about his experience, but never mentioned his trips to the reservation, his trouble converting wampum to American coin, or his neighbors circling the DeSotos whenever there was rumor of an uprising.

Now my father’s family, the Gays, and the family of the man his sister would marry, the Dykes (People, I would not lie to you about this) both came over during the 17^th century. (My father refers to his nationality as “Swamp Yankee” reportedly because his ancestors kept pestering the Indians for their Maize recipe until one of them said: “Let’s throw that freaking Yankee in the swamp.”)

The Gays and the Dykes, along with other Puritans escaping England for religious freedom and compassion, gave the local Indians blankets contaminated with small pox, waited for them to die off, and took their land, making their surnames evil to the Indian people, and explaining why you never see a Gay Indian. (Also, because, in that time Indians lived in either wigwams or teepees, which did not have closets, making the term “guess who came out of the closet?” nothing more than white man gibberish and the alternative “Did you hear Laughing Buttercup finally came out of the place where we hang the headdresses to dry to his parents?” too long for everyday conversation, although, in retrospect, it may be more apropos.)

But now the Gays and the Dykes have all moved to Taunton (and boy is Mom pissed about that) and Middleboro has become a Gay free zone. So, if you who oppose the casino and need someone to blame, as always, blame the Gays and the Dykes.

But since I don’t live in Middleboro, and have a tough time working up sympathy for my neighbor never mind someone a town over, I see no reason that a casino shouldn’t be built in Middleboro (except for the Indian’s sense of entitlement that it is their land – yeah – I bet there’s a Roman guy walking around France calling it Gaul and claiming everything belongs to the Italians.)

First of all, it would be close enough to Taunton to get all the elderly off the streets during the daytime. I have spent a half-life sitting at the corner of Danforth and Tremont behind a 70-year-old woman with a perpetually blinking light waiting for traffic on the city’s busiest street to cease. It would be nice to be able to go to the store five minutes away and not have it be a 40-minute trip.

Also I would go there to study how an elderly woman who can’t find her change purse to pay for a book of stamps can simultaneously play twelve slot machines while smoking the same cigarette for an hour and sipping a vodka and tonic. They can’t figure out a Medicare plan but they could wake from a six-month coma and automatically know which cards to keep in video poker.

Plus this may be my last chance to see the big time entertainment, Rich Little, Wayne and Madam, Leo Sayer, that were big before Curt Schilling was born perform.

Of course there will be downsides. No one in Southeastern Massachusetts will ever see Plymouth again. The Middleboro rotary should back up far enough that cars will reach both oceans, plus the Mexican and Canadian boarders. The Herring Run will be renamed the Herring, Deer, Rabbit, and Anyone Who Wants to Get the Hell out of Middleboro Run, and chances will increase greatly that Middleboro will get a WNBA team.

But it could be worse.

Could be a Wal-Mart.

Vick implicated in cock figthing ring

We have learned that Michael Vick is also part of an alleged cock fighting ring as well as a dog-fighting ring. This is an interview with a man with first hand knowledge of Vick’s cock fighting

Q: How long has Vick been involved in cock fighting?

A: I think he’s been fighting cock since probably 11, or 12. That’s kind of early for cock fighting, some guys don’t start until 14 or 15 but Michael he started early. Of course I’ve heard of guys fighting cock at like nine, but that’s rare.

Q: Have you ever been present when Vick fought cock?

A: Oh sure! He’s known as a guy who brings a lot of money and a lot of cock. He’s always got the biggest cock.

Q: So he must have been very successful in cock fighting?

A: Well, the thing about cock fighting is it’s not the meat it’s the motion. He always brought a big cock but sometimes it didn’t do anything you know. Sometimes a big cock is just a big cock.

Q: Did you ever see him mistreat the cock?

A: Oh sure. I mean there were days Michael’s cock sucked. Once Michael got so upset at his cock when it lost that he choked it right there in front of everyone.

Q: That must have been very disturbing.

A: Well it certainly is something not easily forgotten.

Q: Did Vick ever seem concerned that he could get in trouble for cock

fighting?

A: Well it’s his cock. He takes good care of it. It’s well groomed. Always look good. But, you know, it’s a cock. A man should be able to do whatever he wants to his own cock.

Q: But surely you know that there are rules against cock fighting and agencies devoted to keep men from abusing their cock, whether purposefully or not?

A: Look, I have gone up against the MSPC Cock and all those other agencies, but a man’s cock is his cock, I mean come on, I don’t tell you what to do with your cock do I? Man’s got a right to handle his cock however he feels appropriate.

Q: And what about the cocks?

A: Sometimes a cock’s life is hard, sometimes it’s soft. But Michael, when he’s not fighting cock, he takes real good care of that cock, believe me.

Q: And how is your cock?

A: I have to take it to the vet because I think it burns when it pees.

Q: And do you think Michael will continue to put his cock in harms way with these fights?

A: Michael’s biggest problem with his cock is like it is in football, if Michael could just keep his cock in the pocket then it probably wouldn’t be hurt so much. I don’t know. Maybe it’s time for Michael to hang up his cock.

Q: Sound advice, thank you.

Bubbledome of doom

A long awaited battle for the UFFC (Ultimate Fast Food Championship) between champion Derek Lindsay, 34, of Taunton, and a Mr. X, from parts unknown, at a Taunton Massachusetts McDonald’s on Thursday, May 24, ended in a melee involving the police, Roland McDonald, and Shrek.

McDonald’s management is being blamed for the incident. Before the event began company spokesman Ronald McDonald got into the bubbledome of doom and began making balloon animals. “They were trying to use my son’s event for publicity!” Lindsay’s mother, also his manger said.

To further complicate matters Shrek then entered the bubbledome. “It was like some sort of freakin’ promotion,” Lindsay said. “The bubbledome of doom is no place for cartoon characters. This was my fight!”

The sight of McDonald and Shrek playing with their balloons caused pandamoneium in the crowd as children rushed into the bubbledome seconds ahead of Lindsay. “I could hardly get in there,” Lindsay said. “The bubbledome is where I do my business, it’s no place for children.”

Lindsay’s child, who is also his trainer, was infuriated when, upon entering the bubbledome of doom, he found children surrounding the clown and ogre. He began to fight his way through the crowd as his father ordered: “Get that effin clown out of the bubbledome.”

Lindsay claims that he was unaware that in the crowd, waiting for his balloon, was the son of his opponent, Mr X, known as Little X. Lindsay’s son pushed Little X from behind just as Mr X climbed into the Bubbledome of doom. Mr X, seeing Little X assaulted, bent down and gave Lindsay a crotch shot from behind, and then lifted him up and slammed the champ through the Spanish announcer’s slide.

A stunned Shrek began to fight his way out of the Bubbledome, squashing three young children. He then ran out of the restaurant and jumped on his waiting donkey breaking three of its vertebrae and causing Shrek to say “Oh donkey!”

Meanwhile Lindsay had gained the advantage peppering Mr. X with soft, plastic, balls. Lindsay then was able to take down Mr. X with a fury of punches while his son performed a leg sweep on Mr. McDonald sending the clown down. Then both Lindsay and his son began to beat on Mr. X with the balloon animals.

The clown, unknown to everyone in the bubbledome, was acting as referee, and signaled for the bell to disqualify Mr. Lindsay for outside interference when suddenly a familiar song began to play over the sound system.

“Oh my God!” the store manager yelled, “That’s the Burger King’s music.” Suddenly the perpetually smiling, crown wearing Burger King was in the bubbledome of doom attacking McDonald and choking him out with a poorly formed balloon animal, reportedly a duck, but more resembling a snake.

The event organizers had to call the police to restore order and Mr. Lindsay, upon hearing the sirens, grabbed his son and left the Bubbledome leaving Mr. X face first in a pile of balls and the Burger King astride Ronald McDonald slapping him and saying: “Whose number one now bitch!”

Lindsay ran outside and climbed in to his SUV when he realized he left his keys, so he picked the vehicle up over his head and began to run down Winthrop Street with it. He tripped in a pothole and fell, and police were able to subdue and handcuff him by popping out the center of two hubcaps, chaining them together, and placing them around his wrist.

Animal control was called to assist with the injured donkey who was eventually put down, not because of his injuries, but likes most asses, he talked to much.

Mr. Lindsay retained his title at UFFC running his record to 27 wins, no losses, and 40 arrests.

George Tenant sequel proposal

To: Editors of Harper Collins

From: George Tenant

RE: Sequel

My intelligence network has informed me that there is a very large amount of profit to be made in what are called “sequels.” I have received numerous reports from field agents saying that best selling books, such as my own, can spawn said sequels, and make even more money than the original. I have it on very reliable sources that such people as a Mr. Harry Potter, and a Mr. Peter Parker, have done so to great success. I suggest a sequel to my bestseller At the Center of the Storm to be called I of the Storm. My sophomore year teacher, Hirable Osama, gave me highly classified Intel stating that using the pronoun I instead of the word “eye” is known as grammatical license. Among the subjects I will be covering in I of the Storm are:

That I did not, under any circumstances, advise then President Clinton that no one gives head like a fat chick.

That I did not contact President Bush on the morning of September 11, 2001 to tell him that the best stance for him to take was to keep reading the goat story then ride around on Air Force One like Payne Stewart until the whole thing blew over.

That I did not tell the President in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina that this was America and no one would give a damn about a bunch of poor spades stuck on their roofs. And in a related story, I did not suggest that we use the footage of these spades on the rooftops, and set it to Otis Redding “Dock of the Bay,” in an attempt to focus the story on the positive aspects of the levee break.

Collin Powell: Dick.

Condoleezza Rice does not have a tan line. Have not been able to get corroborating evidence to suggest why.

It takes Douglas Feith two and a half hour to do Sudoko, and that’s on a Monday.

I did not attend a luncheon in Fort Lauderdale Florida in the winter of 2006 where I told George Steinbrenner that Daisuke Matsuzaka was overrated and the best available foreign intelligence stated that Kei Igawa would be much more effective.

I did not advise Paris Hilton that being on probation and having her license suspended did not mean she could not drive; I am also not the man performing sex with her in the video, I have a much larger codpiece.

The AJ Soprano of the NBA

Fifth.

To understand what picking fifth means to Boston fans you have to understand that we are an all or nothing culture in New England. We were loyal to the crown, the British raised taxes on tea, screw them, give us liberty or give us death, and keep it on a license plates for 250 years. On Monday the Yankees won and we were back in the race, on Tuesday the Sox won and it was over baby! On Wednesday the Yanks won and all is lost.

(And what the hell was the Dick-Rod move with the elbow to Pedroia’s stomach to break up the double play? What if an Ump called interference? Didn’t he do enough damage with his “Jerry Seinfeld stealing the marble rye from the old woman” move on Arroyo in ’04. If both he and Roger Clemens are in the lineup shouldn’t the Irish Tenor come out and sing the Denis Leary’s “Asshole” song during the seventh inning stretch. )

See the Celtics were going to pick first because in Boston we don’t understand odds. Bostonians are the people on “Deal or no Deal” who have six cases under $10.00 and one for $100,000 and we know we have the $100,000 case and wouldn’t take a deal for $50,000. Boston had a 19% chance of picking first and an 81% chance of not. If a doctor tells you that you have a 19% chance of living you start spending your money like mad because those damn kids aren’t getting it, but, in Boston, when you have a 19% getting a number one pick, you’re convinced Greg Oden will be playing center and stunned when he’s not.

The consolation prize was Kevin Durant, but God knows what Danny Ainge said to his mother while sitting next to her in the tournament. She could have been telling her son: “You get drafted by that weird white man and you goin’ to Europe for a year. Rock with hieroglyphics on it? That man goin’ to hell and you’re not goin’ with him.”

We could have lived with third, oh, with a great deal of whining. We would have been crushed with the fourth pick. But fifth?

So now we think we’re cursed. It’s been a tough three years without a curse to blame in Boston. Who to name it for? What to call it? Len Bias “The Curse of the Free Basebino?” Reggie Lewis: “The Curse too much Blow-a-rino?” And don’t forget Tim Duncan. Only a couple of teams with the worst record have got the number one pick through the lottery, for those teams, it’s the way it worked out, for Boston? It’s a curse. The rest of the country gets a flat tire? That happens. Someone in New England gets a flat tire. “The Curse of the Michelin Man-ino.”

What Boston fans have to realize is from 1950-1988 the Celts were Vito Corleone. Now we’re AJ Soprano. We can’t even go into the tank correctly. We moan about their problems. We keep going back to Doc even though it doesn’t do them any good. We hang around with a bunch of early 20 something wanna-be’s. Wednesday night Tommy Heinsohn huddled over the #5 card weeping “My baby, what happened to my baby.”

So this is what we’ve become, a team best symbolized by the only Mafia family member that Fredo Corleone would look at and say: “What a pussy.”

It’s another Brando character that best sums up the state of the Celtics, Colonel Kurtz, writing his wife: “Sell Pierce, sell Jefferson, sell the house, the horror, the horror.”

George Bush: General Contractor

Imagine that you have bought your dream house. There are repairs to be made, so you hire a contractor.

“You have termites,” the contractor says. “I have to bomb your house.”

“Shouldn’t we wait to see if we have evidence of termites?” you ask.

“No, the termites are a clear and present danger. We need to commence the bombing now.”

They bomb your house. Then the contractor returns, strings a “Mission Accomplished” banner between the trees in your yard, and announces that you no longer have termites.

You rejoice: You can start rebuilding your house.

Except when you awake each morning another part of the house has collapsed. You call the contractor and say: “Excuse me, but the bedroom just fell into the kitchen,” and he replies: “Concentrate on the rest of the house. How is the rest of the house coming along?”

“Well great,” you say, “except a part of the house falls down every day.”

“A part of the house,” he says, “but the whole house is strong, its growing, good things are happening there.”

Then the sub-contractors begin to fight amongst themselves. The plumber doesn’t like the electrician and rips out the wiring. The electrician doesn’t like the carpenter and rips up the flooring. The electrician drills holes in the pipes so they leak.

“I can’t live here anymore!” you tell the contractor. “The sub-contractors are destroying my house.”

“Houses aren’t built in a day,” he says. “Give it time. But to ease your mind I will send in my security men.”

Two weeks later you call the contractor. “The landscaper just used the fertilizer I paid for to blow up three of your security men,” you tell him.

“I swear as long as I am contractor their deaths will mean something. We are not leaving that house until it is complete. After all we are there at your invitation.”

“Please leave,” you say.

“We will, as soon as you stand up we will stand down.”

“I am standing up,” you answer. “I have to stand up, the carpenter chain sawed through all my furniture.”

“I hear good things are happening in the basement,” the contractor replies. “Concentrate on the basement.”

Despite your pleading with him not to, he sends in more security men. They set up an armed camp in the kitchen. You sneak in an exterminator who tells you that there never were termites in the house. You call the contractor who tells you that may be true, but, he has a recording of two termites talking about eating your house, and a preemptive strike was needed.

Soon the subcontractors are fighting with the security team. You have to sleep on the kitchen counters, but the carpenter explodes the plumber’s pipes and your forced to flee to a trailer in the back yard where you watch the carpenter fill your Volvo with dynamite, and ram the plumber’s van exploding both vehicles.

Finally the contractor comes back. You inspect the wreckage of your house. He looks down at a piece of wood. “Here’s the problem,” he says. “You’ve got termites.”

“I didn’t have termites before you got here!” you yell.

“Termites are a constant threat, they’re after me, after you, after your children, we will stay here, continually destroying your house, until the termites are destroyed, after all, it is better to fight them at your house than mine.”

As you pile sandbags in front of your trailer, all you can do is shake your head in regret as the G.W. Bush and Daughters Contractor’s truck leaves the ruins of what was once your dream house.