Archive for Aqua Velva Men

Mariano Rivera: Evolved Man of Mystery

You’ve heard the big new out of Florida, as related by Bob Nightengale via Navin Vaswani of our NotGraphs’ Investigative Reporting Investigation Team:

Night

Predictably, given the subtle and deep knowledge of British culture that Americans have inherited from their parent country, this led to approximately eleventy billion jokes summarized in this outstanding Paint.NET masterpiece by yours truly:

Mariano Danger Rivera

Once you have regained your aesthetic bearing after confronted by this marvelous combination of the beautiful and sublime, prepare to have your mind grapes squeezed. Nightengale’s wording was too apt to be just an accident leading to a joke. It is, in fact a brilliant cultural reference that deserves further exploration.

Read the rest of this entry »


Boileryard Clarke Endorses “Four Loko”

Those concerned about creeping Maoism will recall that Four Loko — the drink that helpfully combined restorative caffeine with mind-clearing alcohol — was banned by the meddlesome crypto-Etruscans at the FDA. After all, taking our guns away is easier when we’re neither awake nor drunk.

Anyhow, base-ball-ing legend Boileryard Clarke, who has for years sustained himself on a diet of nothing more than hooch and punched-out constables, has entered the fray and wielded his celebrity like a sword that looks like a dick.

So please do drink deeply of first the following paid advertisement and then a high-reaching pour of Four Loko …

Boileryard's Choice

Play better base ball and beat back tertiary syphilis with Four Loko.


Internal Monologue: Jim Bowden’s Night Out



Hoo, brother. Could use this. Lately, I’ve been going to bed at night thinking of the nap I’m going to take the next day. Gotta make some changes. Dark-wash jeans, the kind of cuffed shirt that makes the velvet ropes recoil. Nice start, Jimmy Dollars, nice start. Not gonna act my age tonight, no sir. Hoobastank, yes. Linda Ronstadt, no. But just for tonight. From now on, I’m only reading books that have a studio portrait of the author on the cover. Those are the books that teach you stuff. Wonder if this limo has seat-belts. Is it lame if I put on a seat-belt in a limo? I’m not gonna be able to relax if I’m riding bareback in this death machine. I feel young, but I still know I’m mortal. Which sucks. I know the stats on these things. I wonder if limos are more likely to crash. You’d have to think the driver is more distracted than other drivers, right? Lotsa neckin’ to check out in the rear view. But he’s experienced, right? Eh, I’ll be fine. Need a scotch. But I might go with a Bud Light Lime in one of those aluminum bottles, the kind that makes your palms go numb because it’s at the perfect temperature. That’s probably what these bosses drink, right, Jimmy Radios? Damn right. Do I still have John Smiley’s cell number? I think I do. Should call that guy some time. Seafood dinner. Sounds good. Sea bass. Maybe punt the Atkins for tonight and have some russet potatoes with some McCormick herbs on top, sauteed in Quaker State. Boom time. She’s looking damn good. Might need a carrot peeler to get that dress off. Right, Jimmy Horn o’ Plenty? Bah. What does that even mean? Carrot peeler. Dress isn’t even that tight. Irish diabetes. Whoa! What does that mean? Where did that thought come from? Palm Pilot’s buzzing. Ignore it, daddy-o. But I wanted them to know I was ignoring it. Forgot to turn the ringer on. What’s my ring-tone? “Send in the Clowns,” right? Yeah, that’s it. It’s all good, Hollywood. Scooby-dop-bah-dah-bah-doo-bop-bop! Damn right, Jimmy Hotbot Snot. Good night ahead. Chicken parm, ain’t no harm, baby babe. Right on, German Herman, action-sports highlights with Len Berman! Boomity boomstick, private dick! What’s the deal with this limo, don’t they make whitewall tires anymore? Is Roman Gabriel still alive? Should look that up. I could beat most living Grammy winners in arm-wrestling. Sure of it. No doubt, brook trout. Gospel according to Jimmy Good Times! Shit …


A Truly Saber Song

Award-worthy genius from Ted Berg that, for some reason, I didn’t share here earlier:


Eddie Murray’s 25 Ways of Doing Business

When one surveys the funereal countenance of base-balling great/fugitive from happiness Mr. Eddie Murray, one is likely to think, “Here is a man who conducts business even when he is not conducting business.”

Indeed, Mr. Murray’s famously solemn expression suggests not only a workmanlike seriousness and dedication to craft but also that he is about to become a signatory to documents awful in scope and implication — documents that he will soon entrust to a seasoned Latvian courier with whom he has a Business Relationship of longstanding. If Jeffrey Leonard has a “penitentiary” face, then Eddie Murray has a “tasked with making high-level executive decisions regarding the solvency and revenue streams of the penitentiary that houses Jeffrey Leonard” face.

Mr. Eddie Murray, you see, is unceasingly about business, save for those moments in which he is not about business. Yet it is during those moments that he is most about business. As such, Mr. Eddie Murray has spawned and husbanded exactly 25 ways of doing business, and for each of these 25 ways of doing business he has a distinct visage. We present them here …

Mr. Matt Kemp may be Business Handsome, but it is Mr. Eddie Murray who is Business Business.


GIF: Johnny Damon Has Impressed the Ladyfolk

The handsomist is no doubt aware that the fairer, substantially more impregnate-able sex loves nothing so much as the sight of a Gentleman at Work. As the succeeding action-news footage will prove, this is especially the case when the handsomist in question is one Johnny Damon, with beard of might and pecker of firebolt …

My only disappointment? Whatever the young lady has on her finger made me think, for a fugitive moment, that she was smoking a cigarette — a Virgina Slim, one assumes — in the stands. And only with a cigarette is the already beautiful and multitudinous elevated to the sublime.

And so I invite you, Lady of Claret Breeches, to watch me blog some time from atop my ordure. Would you not be similarly titillated, Lady of Claret Breeches?

(HT: The prepossessing Big Daddy V)


The Rather Prepossessing Miguel Batista

When you lay rheumy eyes upon Miguel Batista’s abovely pictured Gentleman’s Ensemble, the first words upon your lips — upon them like libidinous kisses from Joan Collins and Adrienne Barbeau — might be: “Why is he wearing that?” They should not be. The first words upon your lips — upon them like the unbound breasts of Susan Anton and Billy Dee Williams — should be: “Why am I not wearing that?”

Unless, of course, you are wearing that. In which case, as you were.

As for Don Miguel, the coattails trail his deliberate, Crockett-&-Jones steps like the unrequited feelings of the countesses and sultanas he has known.

(HT: Gentleman Jay Jaffe)


The Lion in Winter, Roaring Still

Think of anything that challenges your moderating instincts, any signifier of the good life lived. Whatever that thing is, Dick Allen was through with it before you knew what to do with it.

Now shut up, sit down, genuflect, and watch as your better heaves a ceremonial first pitch for a strike as effortlessly as he once flicked aside mewling baby racists during the Hale, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, and Hale Administrations …

And now a relevant excerpt from Philip Kaufman’s screenplay “The Right Stuff,” adapted from the Tom Wolfe opus of the same name:

Unknown: Is that a man?
Jack Ridley: You damn right it is.

Wampum.


Poem to Ted Simmons’s Hair

I’m telling you, Simmons, those days!
Those days when we finally began turning away …

Your tresses plunged like the
Bellwether economic indicators of the day.
Like the necklines of those
Who tottered for your notice.

We shan’t survive these times, said wartime leaders!
We shan’t survive Ted Simmons
and his unmade-bed hair!
Sacco him before he Vanzetties us!

You, you catcher and framer, hitter and blocker!
Michigan man! Prince of quick wrists!
Needler of Herzogs! Merchant of dinnertime perils!
Tilter at windmills!
Tilter of pinball machines!
Holy bewitcher!

We were something, you and I! But mostly you …
We’d have made your hair the president if we could’ve.
But if elected it will not serve.
Which is the thing about things
Sourced from the womb of a Cumulonimbus.

That hair flows like beaded doorways granting wide berth to tall men!
It flows like riverine sperm heaven-bent on impregnating the 1950s!

As reliably as liquor drunkens,
So too do you!

O, feral wilding!
O, Simba!


On Brian McCann and Arn Anderson

Brian McCann is the hard-hitting catcher for the Atlanta Braves. Arn Anderson once teamed with Tully Blanchard to haunt the squared circle and our dreams. Both are Gentlemen of Verona. They are also quite possibly the same man …

In the upper left of the abovely embedded image, you see Arn Anderson dressed up like Brian McCann. Mr. Anderson has gone so far as to dress himself in baseball woolies and surround himself with central-casting teammates. He points menacingly at the opposition, which is what wrestlers are wont to do. Why is he going to such lengths and depths? Because he might as well be Brian McCann.

In the bottom right of the abovely embedded image, you see Brian McCann adopting the buffalo stance known as “Looking Like Arn Anderson.” Observe his hairy, sweaty skin the color of hamster bedding. Admire his championship belt, which signifies, by turns, the rewards of valor and or deeds of a dirty nature already done. Why is Brian McCann going to such lengths to look like Arn Anderson? Because he might as well be Arn Anderson.

This has been the zipper- and latex-clad, becocked work of the NotGraphs Investigative Reporting Investigation Team.