Tom Brady Squeaks By Vikings


best buds

New England Patriot fans were relieved of their burden on Sunday. They were ready to hang Bill Belichick and Josh McDaniel in effigy and put Tom Brady out to pasture. Today the bluebird of happiness is singing at Foxboro.

Tom seemed to be on his feet most of the game and didn’t squeak like an old wheel, as he did last week, when he tried to get off the turf. He shaved off that hideous beard and returned to normalcy.

But, miracle upon miracles, the Patriots actually won the game with a handful of interceptions. Yes, the names we like to hear—Revis and Chandler Jones came up big.

Minime Welker, better known as Julian Edelman, also seemed to take on the spirit of Brady’s best receiver. Now that he has cut his hair and foregone his underwear, Julian is playing like a Minitron.

But, is all well in Patriot Land?

We think Tom Brady did not carry the game. He handed off to his nameless array of chuggers. If you were looking for big TD passes and impressive statistics, you’d have to return to the thrilling days of Tom’s youth.

We could excuse this as just the nature of Sunday’s game. His big targets (Danny & Gronk) were missing in action. They were out there. We saw them. They seem to be a rare sighting nowadays, like viewing an ivory-billed woodpecker. They are endangered, but still able to fly.

Of course, the Vikings were without their ace switchie man, Adrian Peterson. It appears he can only beat four-year olds nowadays.

We heard some fat moron who used to play basketball try to justify child abuse as an African American lifestyle. Oh, well, you hear lots of drivel on pre-game shows.

In any respect, if you want a definitive answer on the Patriots in 2014, we may need to wait till another day.


Week Two: More Felons Taken Off the Field

DATELINE: Wife Beaters and Child Beaters

We aren’t sure if we are writing about sports or keeping a police log lately. The down-in-the-dumps New England Patriots are looking up because arrested felon and child abuser Adrian Peterson is not suited for the game.

He may never be suited for the game, but the game and fans love a child beater. If he beat his wife, that would be different. Well, er, maybe not.

We have heard a few pundits say the NFL has a problem. It has a moral blind spot called hypocrisy. They will fine you and dismiss you if you are nobody, but those stars are harder to discipline. Just ask Roger Goodell.

The Commish will tell you that they only throw Rice at weddings, and only at the bride. The last time Rice landed a left hook on a bride, it was not a bouquet.

If you are a murderer, you may be in another category. Just ask Aaron Hernandez. Once was not enough for him. He was trying to beat the record set by Jack the Ripper. The NFL made a big show of ridding the game of an assassin, though they seem to cherish those qualities in other players.

If you are caught, Mr. Phelps, the Secretary and Commissioner Goodell will disavow all knowledge of you, and you are on your own.

Otherwise, the coverup is in high fashion. Just ask Robert Kraft who is cringing that Spygate may be re-opened. Like the Warren Commission, Roger Goodell knows how to bury you in false information, misformation, and disinformation.

Now let’s play some football with those left off the police blotter.

Red Sox Sink with the Season



We looked at the Red Sox standings today. They are now 23 and a half games out of first place. We knew it was bad, but this is a condition more for the morgue than for triage.

You may realize that we have stopped watching games. Yes, it has not been difficult.

During our absence, the lineup has been completely changed so that we do not recognize the players at all.

The one bright light of the season was Brock Holt, but now apparently he has gone to concussion central. He has dizzy spells from an apparent elbow to the noggin from Dustin Pedroia. We hope he recovers, but this looks worse than usual.

Pedroia is also gone for the season. The sparkplug who never met medical advice he liked, has played all season with a problematic wrist. It has made him play rather poorly, but don’t tell him that. Like a thumb injury in previous seasons, the little maroon keeps playing.

Now he has had season-ending surgery. Does anyone over at Fenway Park actually check the Mensa scores before they sign these players?

We hear Jackie Bradley, Jr., once heralded as the new Jacoby Ellsbury is now the new Iglesias, soon gone for a bag of chips. They have imported a new Cuban cigar for centerfield to go with the one in left field.

And, pitchers? When Crazy Clay is your ace, you need an Ace bandage.

True fans don’t give up on their teams. They give up on the front office and owners.

Now Serving: McDonald’s Screws the Customer Again


 Easy, Jack

Never did we think we would become Jack Nicholson’s character from Five Easy Pieces.

We made a weekly visit to McDonald’s on Sunday for a McMuffin sandwich. We can’t recall if their motto is “Have It Their Way,” or “You Get What You Deserve.” In either case, we had our Jack Nicholson moment.

In case you forgot the movie scene, he’s the refresher. He goes into a restaurant where the waitress tells him he cannot have it his way. You can only get your toasted sandwich a certain way.

Well, McDonald’s just pulled that gag with me. Yes, the one in Winchendon, Massachusetts, gives out a “Breakfast Club” card—another movie reference for a movie critic.

You are supposed to get a free sandwich with every sixth sandwich. They punch the card for each sandwich—or so we thought. We had a surprise when we went to save the $3 for a second sandwich. It seems they changed the rules in midstream.

You get one punch on your ticket even if you buy ten sandwiches. So, It would behoove customers to drive through drive-thru one time for each breakfast sandwich.

The best part of the insult is to have the ersatz manager tell us that we should try reading the card before using it. So much for the regular customer always being right. A friend told us that, if you go to McDonald’s for breakfast, you get what you deserve.

This is after six months in which they blithely punched one hole for every sandwich on every visit. Apparently they changed the dead horse meat in midstream.

We told them to keep their card and punch themselves.

So, if you want a breakfast sandwich, we recommend going to Drunken Dognuts down the street.

Is Dominique Deader than a Doornail?


Jean Simmons

A small budget ghost/murder mystery movie offers plenty of thrills and amusement with the entertaining Dominique!

Starring Cliff Robertson and Jean Simmons as the middle-aged husband and wife deadly team, the 1979 movie could have reunited Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak, or Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. It probably was offered to Burton and Taylor. Robertson and Simmons are more than adequate.

It’s no-heavy lifting for the stars who emote to the rafters. Jean Simmons limps with a gamey leg, which adds to the creepiness when she’s an apparent apparition peg-legging down the corridors of her mansion.

Simmons feels her husband is trying to “Gaslight” her and thus gain control of her estate. Once she is gone, her ghost or a reasonably peculiar variation starts to drive hubby Robertson round the bend. He’s no angel, but is he a killer?

All this starts to make the audience giddy—as a grave is dug up twice, once to find a pile or rocks, and later to find Miss Simmons looking rather sedately dead. Yet, she shows up in the street, looking up at her husband’s office in London.

Younger stars Simon Ward and Jenny Agutter are around, but the supporting cast is about as suspicious a group of suspects as a British wannabe Hitchcock/Agatha Christie tale can be. It’s bargain basement material, but sometimes a bargain is quite a find.

As improbable as all the antics are, everyone seems to be stretching their acting chops—much to the glee of mystery fans as the piano seems to play by itself (and it isn’t a player piano) and play the audience too.

The staircases are nearly as grand as the grandiose plot and piano. If you want old-fashioned chills and thrills, you cannot find much more delight than this chestnut.

Highly Paid World of Athlete Crime


Unusual Suspicions

The world of athletes is filled with ignorance.

Where shall we turn? What name shall we use to fill in the blank? Let us count this week’s headline maroons: Ray Rice, Oscar Pistorius, Chris Davis, Adrian Petersen, Wes Welker, and tomorrow may bring more.

There are names of lesser magnitude we leave off the list because they are inconsequential to their game. We are talking here today about stars or people who make a difference when they play for themselves or their teams.

The crimes are drug related or violence related. There seems to be no limit—from murder to child abuse to drug abuse. They seem to hurt people who are physically weaker or different, sometimes both.

Worse yet, we find enablers and celebratory fans who see no wrong, hear no wrong, and speak wrong to the high heavens. Oh, you didn’t know that these games are populated with monkeys, if not gorillas.

We have found the analogy gives apes a bad name.

You’ve heard the arguments: first time offender, just a loss of control, and mostly acting out of ignorance—or that law ought to be changed.

We have heard a variety of boilerplate apologies, each dripping with sincerity, as if that was all you need to go merrily on your way. It is funny when you think about it—unless you happen to be one of the victims.

The media and the executives of the sports world have given us an world of enablers.

Yet, we have heard victims admit their culpability and offer the mea culpa. They provoked the crime. Society made them do it. We are laughing again.



From Dust to Ash Wednesday


ash wednesday


Back in 1973 Elizabeth Taylor did a movie directed by Larry Peerce that Richard Burton hated and told her not to do. She did not listen, and they were divorced (again) shortly thereafter.

The movie was Ash Wednesday about a fat, aging rich matron (Taylor) who undergoes plastic surgery and emerges as thin, beautiful, stunning Elizabeth Taylor, up to her shoulders in mink, jewels, and a bon vivant lifestyle.

For starters the movie begins with a montage of Taylor and her husband Henry Fonda in youth (early photoshopping of the two stars) as lovers, friends, and then married. The photos slowly reveal Fonda growing older and then Taylor growing fatter.

We have to give Miss Taylor credit for poking fun at her own image. All this suffering happens to a gorgeous, sensitive and delightful film score by Maurice Jarre.

Taylor is also done up in early scenes with plenty of wrinkles and weight. She looks like she was doing a reprise of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

The movie used actual scenes of plastic surgery, which put people off their popcorn back then. It is still mildly gross to see, and then Elizabeth is wrapped up like Claude Rains in the Invisible Man.

However, the transformation is stunning—and delightful. She expects to reveal herself to her old hubby Fonda as the beautiful girl he married. Therein lies the tale.

A year later Fonda actually did undergo surgery and took 25 years off his face. He then did Once Upon a Time in the West and played himself as a 25-year old villain in flashback scenes.

Who says movies don’t reflect real life?

This is a gem, but only available on VHS. Why? It deserves a wide audience on streaming video. We hooted audibly several times.

Roger Goodell: the New Nixon

DATELINE: Give’em the Gate


Will the Real Roger Goodell Please Stand Up?

The NFL Commissioner, the self-designated sheriff of pro football policy, is now engaged in a great coverup. It will test whether his Spygate mentality, or any –gate mentality, will long endure.

The score is not for losers: and Goodell and Rice are losers. The NFL has brought forth upon this nation a game of mental midgets.

Goodell is facing his own Rice-a-Roni-Gate, sort of like President Richard Nixon faced over Watergate, or Bill Belichick faced over Spygate.

Yes, when you cover up a crime and serve in a leadership position, your have cut your own throat.

Roger Goodell apparently never saw the Ray Rice slugfest in the elevator tape. Yes, we are looking at a Nixonian missing minutes on tape. Somewhere someone at the NFL offices erased Roger Goodell’s memory banks.

He probably has no idea that Ray Rice can throw a punch like Gentleman Jim Corbett, knocking down his lady opponent.

We can expect women’s rights groups will demand Congressional hearings on the pro football monopoly game.

Ray Rice may have knocked out the NFL Commissioner when he threw his featherweight hook into his future bride.

Rice-a-Roni has stuck a feather in his cap and called it a mistake worthy of a two-game suspension as long as no one saw the Jay-Z elevator tape. Going down: women’s boxing gloves, bad videotape, and men’s egos. Bargain Basement.

Roger Goodell may take the gentleman Jim route and resign. He already told us he screwed up and did not mete out enough punishment for NFL behemoths making a TKO of anyone 100-200 pounds lighter.


Ray Rice Crispy Noodlehead


 cute as button, dumb as rock

Cute as Button, Dumb as Rock

Baltimore Ravens well-dressed thug, Ray Rice, is now a former Raven. “Nevermore,” says Roger Goddell.

The yellow journalism of TMZ seems to have struck a chord in the world of wife beating. They actually found a video of Rice laying a haymaker on his wife, rendering her unconscious and not even checking on her condition. He stands over her and then drags her body out of the elevator with all the enthusiasm of a teenage boy taking out the family garbage.

How long has Ray Rice been beating his wife? Well, apparently before the nuptials. She still married him with his bloated salary, but now she may want to run as fast as she can away from this dangerous and quiet lunatic.

We presume beating dogs and children will be next on the Rice agenda, especially since he is now unemployed with no public-fearing NFL franchise with any desire to go near this radioactive waste bucket.

You can dress up Ray Rice and he can talk pretty, but we now see the truth. He wants to go ten rounds with anyone who is smaller and weaker. There is no such thing as an unfair fight when Ray Rice has his manhood on.

In NFL terms, Rice is a pipsqueak—a Napoleon in the middle of King Kongs every week playing a sport that must make him feel like king of the knockouts.

Now, like Aaron Hernandez, he is summarily kicked out of the NFL, but not before excuses were made and attention was not paid. He still has fans—other young men who’d beat their girlfriends to a pulp if given a provocation.

Patriots Season Opens a Can of Fishy Dolphins




If this is your 2014 New England Patriots, it will be a long, unforgiving season. Move over, Red Sox. You have a rival.

Miami played abysmal, and still could keep up with the Pats.

Our observations are distressingly peculiar. First, Bill Belichick looked like he was tanned and rested. That’s never good. Worse, he looked like he had botox shots. His face was ruddy and lineless.

NFL coaches are supposed to look haggard and worried.

Second, we took in Julian Edelman with his matching Tom Brady beard. We know they are bonding and playing a lot of catch with each other. Perhaps they are spending too much time shaving each other’s back.

The issue of Tom Brady’s beard seems to have sapped his energy. When he was knocked down, no one helped Tom back to his feet. An old man is like an NBA tall tree. When he falls, you must pick him up.

Thank heavens that Tom has friends among the referees because he had to wait for one of them to give him a hand.

Last year he never received a high-five from teammates, and now this year he is not even given a pity helping hand.

However, we did notice that Julian is no longer wearing underwear. Perhaps he is hoping to corner the lost fans of Aaron Hernandez. Alas, Julian has more shortcomings than Hernandez when it comes to his under armor. We checked out every wrinkle.

We thought the Patriots did not look like the team that seldom commits a dumb penalty. Indeed, there were enough dumb penalties to convince us that the playoff hopes may be the victim of too many yellow flags.

We insist it will be foolhardy to make predictions based on one game, and we never tolerated fools gladly. We still have all our yellow flags and a razor blade for Tom.