Sunday, December 30, 2007

2007: The Nuttiest Year of the Millennium

The New England Patriots just wrapped up an incredible 16-0 regular season, and you know what? They're unprecedented feat doesn't top my list of things I'll always remember from 2007. Okay, that's obviously a lie but three things happened this year that truly blew me away.

And they is...

1. Britney Spears was absolutely crushed by the media (and everybody else) for being an overweight pig at the MTV Awards, even though she looked like this:

(Yeah, like you've ever gotten anyone that hot in the sack...)

2. Richard Hidalgo's name wasn't on the Mitchell Report. How did that happen? Seriously, look at his forearms:

Finally, and really, this probably deserved its own column...

3. David Chase somehow made "Don't Stop Believing" a cool song. I can't believe I'm writing this but I actually get goosebumps every time I hear this song. I bet you do too.

(and yeah, I think Tony is dead)

Keep the change, you filthy animals.

-Brad Spieser (

Friday, December 28, 2007

Millennial Locks of the Millennium

You might be wondering why I'm writing on a Saturday morning, since, you know, it's Saturday goddamn morning. My only explanation for this madness is that I didn't swallow a drip of booze last night. Regardless, I gots me some football pickin' to do. My record now stands at a respectable 15-13 and I couldn't be any more focused than I am right now. Watch out, people. This week I'm giving out one NFL lock, as usual, and five bowl game winners.

And here they is...

NFL: San Diego (-9) at Oakland. Jammy Russell might be a good player one day, just not Sunday.

(Note: I really think the Bengals will pummel Miami--something like 42-10--but I'm pulling so hard for the Dolphins that I can't bring myself to make it a lock.)

Top 5 Bowl Locks:

1. Florida (-10.5) vs. Michigan

Reason: Prepare for the obvious. 3...2...1...LLoyd Carr is an uninspiring goof who won't be able to fire up his team for his last game. And even if he could, the Wolverines couldn't stop Tim Tebow, who appears to be a blend of Hercules, Batman and a young Daunte Culpepper. Florida rolls, 38-13.

2. Ohio State (+4) vs. LSU

Reason: You'll have to stay tuned for my BCS Championship Game preview. This news should make you horny.

3. Wake Forest (-2) vs. UCONN

Reason: Wake is a solid team and UCONN, um...isn't. Really, that's about as deep as my analysis goes. I truly believe UCONN wouldn't have won a game in the SEC this year. Wake 41, UCONN 20.

4. Mississippi State (+3) vs. Central Florida

Reason: Mississippi State plays their ass off for Sylvester Croom, even when they're overmatched, which isn't the case against Central Florida. Plus, I like the idea of an SEC team gameplanning for a guy (CFU's Kevin Smith) who is on the verge of breaking the NCAA's single season rushing record. Miss. St. wins as an outright dog, 23-6. Also, Smith goes for less than 100.

5. Virginia Tech (-3.5) vs. Kansas

Reason: This is the 2001 Florida/Maryland Orange Bowl all over again. I remember watching the first five minutes of that game and thinking, Maryland doesn't have a prayer. This was for two reasons...(1.) Florida's talent was obviously superior to Maryland's, and (2.) Maryland--a basketball power--looked happy just to be in the Orange Bowl; they simply weren't ready for the big stage. Florida murdered Maryland that day (I believe the score was 52-24), and I don't see any way Virginia Tech won't do the same to Kansas when they go at it next week. Final score: What the hell, 52-24.

Funny parallel: Ralph Friedgen (Maryland's losing head coach in the Orange Bowl) and Mark Mangino (the expected loser for Kansas) are both the fattest people in the history of people.

Side note about Maryland/Florida game: Who would have thought that of the three QBs prominently featured in that blowout--Rex Grossman, Brock Berlin and Shaun Hill--that Hill might end up being the best pro of the bunch? I certainly didn't.

-Brad Spieser (

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Youth of America and Stuff

Actual conversation I overheard in the movie section at Best Buy this afternoon:

15-year-old boy with bad skin: There are like, no movies here.

15-year-old-boy with bad skin and bad teeth: For real.

That really happened.

I wonder if I was I that dumb twelve years ago.

-Brad Spieser (

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Craig's Top 5 Super Blacks: Week 2

Top 5 Most Super Blacks of the Week:

1. Omar (The Wire): Really black and really awesome. Sadly, he'll never procreate. (Reader note form Brad: I'm pretty sure Omar has a kid on "The Wire.")

2. Earl Boykins: He's 5'5 and nicknamed "The Squirrel"...and his weiner is much bigger than yours.

3. Travis Henry: Numerous examples (scroll down to the "Controversy" section).

4. Jerome Iginla: He's a black in the NHL. I assume he scores 200 goals per season for the Flames. Sadly, I'm prevented from watching his blackness as a result of not having the Versus Network.

5. Dave Chappelle: Smokes a lot of weed. Is funny. George Carlin might as well tell knock-knock jokes.

Others receiving votes:

Slash (November Rain); Ike Turner.

-Craig (email Brad if you hate me and/or want me to stop breathing.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Josh Hamilton Traded. Me Want to Kill People.

In the last 24 hours the following things actually took place:

1. Isaac Bruce became the NFL's No. 3 career receiver.

2. Jerry Sloan cried during a television interview.

3. The Reds traded Josh Hamilton.

I didn't see Nos. 1 and 2 coming, and they absolutely floored me. As for No. 3, it left me wanting to blow up the nearest building with dynamite. Hide the women and children if Josh Hamilton ever becomes Mickey Mantle.

Craig, a Josh Hamilton supporter like me, gave his assessment of the trade: "The world is dumb and God is a faggot."

Couldn't have said it better myself.

Onto my NFL Lock of the Millennium...

First, let me just say that I appreciate all the emails I've received regarding my 14-13 record this season. Okay, I didn't receive any emails regarding this, but I am 14-13. Not bad, considering I was once 5-9 against the spread. Anyway...

The pick this week is Washington (+6.5) at Minnesota.

My Top 5 Bowl picks will be coming in the next week.

It's Friday night, and I'm updating my mediocre website. My life is terrible.

Oh yeah, listen to the "vegas tales" podcast. No more words.

-Brad Spieser (

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Troy Smith to Start For Ravens! (Exclamation Point)

I will look forward to Baltimore's game at Seattle on Sunday the way I looked forward to the birth of my first-born child. (Note: I do not have any children.) Really, I'm that excited. In a few days, my excitement will have shifted to full-fledged nervousness. It's a little embarrassing, I realize, but's my life.

Frickin' A, Bon Jovi!

But anyway, here's what I wrote on MySpace about my man-crush a few days after the Bengals decided to pass on him more than a few times:

Troy Smith...

F**k, where do I begin? As he went undrafted on day one (mind-blowing), and ignored twice (TWICE!) by the Bengals on day two (umm...A LOT more than mind-blowing?), I felt like I was watching a family member getting hit in the head with a 2 x 4...for FIFTEEN STRAIGHT HOURS!

Admittedly, there's more than a little bias here, but don't let that screw you up too much. I care about Ohio State football like little else in my life, blinders rarely mess with my head on draft day. Consider this list of former OSU players: Nate Salley, Ben Hartsock, Anthony Schlegel, Donnie Nickey (and dozens more I'm struggling to remember). I never thought for a second anyone on that list would be anything but--at best--career back-ups (by the way, I was spot-on with my assessment). And for the record, I don't think Quinn Pitcock (3rd round) and Antonio Pittman (4th) were the steals of the '07 draft; that seemed like fair places for them to be taken. I bring this up just to illustrate my ability to think (somewhat) objectively about the Buckeyes, which—if you're familiar with me in the overwhelming minority.

Now that I've done my best convincing job, here me out some mores...

I love being right about things (this isn't a newsflash, but still). This is especially true when the topic is the future of college athletes. This is even more true when it comes to players I follow passionately, like Troy Smith. It's truthful (and pathetic), but I watched every throw of his OSU career. I also watched him sit the bench for an unjustified reason (Justin Zwick!) and an embarrassing one (taking $500 from a booster). I watched him grow by leaps and bounds, personally and athletically. He wasn't just the best Buckeye of my lifetime; he was the best team-leader I've ever seen at the NCAA level (only Shane "Moonlight" Battier and Byron Leftwich rival Troy Smith).

In November 2004, Troy Smith (a sophomore) turned in a performance for the ages versus Michigan. I was a happy boy, but not yet convinced of Smith's ascent to stardom. Weeks later, the story was leaked about Smith's involvement with a booster. I was an angry boy, but only because I couldn't watch him play in the upcoming Alamo Bowl. The way I saw the situation, it didn't matter that he took the cash; only that he didn't do it again. (Note: I may have felt differently had Zwick not been the back-up QB). As of December 2004, Troy Smith was merely OSU's QB; a guy I would root for simply because he wore an Ohio State uniform. Things were about to change. And soon.

Sometime in February (or maybe January) 2005, I listened to Kirk Herbstreit interview Troy Smith on, and I was blown away by Smith's candor. He made no excuses, and he didn't duck the barrage of tough questions. At the end of the conversation, Smith apologized to his teammates, the coaching staff and the fans. You might find it hard to believe, but I had goosebumps for the duration of his apology. Listen, I've spent approximately 3,500 hours of my life lying to, I never believe anything an athlete has to I can tell you--there wasn't an ounce of bulls**t spewing out of Smith's mouth that day. When he spoke of his teammates, I was legitimately inspired. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard. It's hard for me to imagine another human being possessing more charisma.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking my man crush for Troy Smith is making you a little uncomfortable. You're also thinking it's impossible for someone to change over night, and that I'm just drinking the scarlet and gray Kool-Aid. That's a fair rebuttal, I suppose, but all I can tell you is I heard the interview and you (probably) didn't. I would never dispute Smith's shaky character before 2005. Since then? An alter boy. I never buy into stories about bad people experiencing a rebirth (a jerk is a jerk, you know?); with Troy Smith, I'm making an exception.

As for Troy Smith the football player, I have no doubt he's a starting NFL QB. Strong arm (check), accurate passer (check), mobile (check), natural leader (check), handsome (obviously)...what else do you want? Yeah, he's only 6'0, but that doesn't concern me; I don't recall too many of his passes being swatted to the turf last year, so why would the change be drastic in the NFL. Plus, look at the success of Andy Brees, Steve Young and the Buffalo version of Doug Flutie...(lack of) height didn't relegate them to the bench...why would it for Smith?

Prediction #1: Troy Smith is the starting QB for the Baltimore Ravens by the end of 2008.

Prediction #2: Starting sometime during 2008, I will be a Ravens fan for fourteen games per season for the next decade.

Advice to Bengals fifth round pick Jeff Rowe: It would be wise not to suck.

More words Friday.

-Brad Spieser (

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Bad News For This Guy

This website has been sucking lately and I'm pretty sure I have AIDS.

Pray for me.

-Brad Spieser (

Monday, December 17, 2007

Pathetic NBA Franchises Make Me Laugh

Multiple choice question: What do Rory Sparrow, Grant Long, Kevin Edwards, Bimbo Coles and Keith Askins have in common?

A. They're nondescript (and kind of semi-terrible) basketball players from the 80's and 90's.

B. They are tall people.

C. They have had more group sex than I have.

D. They are part of the recently announced 25-man Miami Heat 20th Anniversary Team.

E. All of the above.

Answer: E (although I'm only 99.9 percent positive about choice C).

Am I nuts or is this really funny? I mean, did you look at Keith Askins' numbers? He averaged 3.8 ppg and 2.9 rpg in his 9-year career in Miami.

The Miami Heat celebrating its best players is kind of like Lou Bega coming out with a Greatest Hits album.

-Brad Spieser (

I Hate Pat White THIS MUCH: Part One

I didn't see it coming. Nobody did. Pat White's dislocated thumb was supposed to be a good thing for Ohio State and their whacked-out fans. After all, that was one of many things that contributed to Ohio State backing their way into the national championship game.

Story interruption for long overdue rant...

(Note to Ohio State fans who resent the phrase "backing in" when applied to the 2007 Buckeyes: It's not a bad thing that it happened--in fact, it's a great thing. But it is what happened. Ohio State played their last game before Thanksgiving, a pressure-free tilt (relatively speaking) against a banged-up rival who was led by an uninspiring lame duck coach. Again, nothing to apologize for. But back to the "playing a pressure-free game" thing. Imagine if OSU played its final game on the first weekend of December--like many other teams--and needed a win for a title birth...don't you think the chances of a tightened sphincter would have increased tenfold? Or perhaps nineteenfold? Either way, I'm happy, and I don't care. Ohio State's in the BCS Championship game, and from where I'm sitting, they're a worthy bunch. Now this doesn't mean they'd definitely handle Oklahoma, USC, Georgia, a healthy West Virginia or even Florida on a neutral field. They might, they might not. I'll let you try to settle that debate in a crappy Westside tavern. What doesn't need to be settled is any kind of debate involving Ohio State backing their way into the title game. This is because I just settled it. Ladies and Gents, my name is Brad Spieser, and I write about topics two weeks after they become relevant. Stay tuned for my early-January piece regarding the Mitchell Report...)

Back to Pat White's injury and how it affected my livelihood...

When that bastard (who seems like a nice guy) went down with an injury versus Pitt, and when it became apparent he was out for more than a series, it was the third happiest I've ever been as a result of an on-field injury.

A quick breakdown of my top three:

1. Will Allen's fourth quarter devastation of Willis McGahee's left knee in the 2002 title game. I'm almost positive my ensuing joy reserved me a spot in hell.

2. Robert Reynolds' WWF-esque choke-hold on Wisconsin's Jim Sorgi in a 2003 loss in Madison. One of the smartest/dirtiest plays I've ever seen on a football field. Imagine what psychotic Buckeyes fans would've said had it been Krenzel, and not Sorgi, who was on the business end of that choke-job...

3. Pat White's thumb injury versus Pitt.

Look, the first two injuries are the kind you feel guilty about cheering for. But White's injury was perfect. It didn't affect his future earnings, which allows you to sleep well at night. More importantly, it directly benefited Ohio State football, and we can all agree, little ol' Ohio State is in need of good fortune. it turns out, OSU didn't need White's injury to help them; Oklahoma's dismantling of Missouri was all the Bucks needed to receive an invitation to New Orleans. But it was nice, at the time, to watch West Virginia's superstar QB on the sidelines, surrounded by every athletic trainer in the state. Remember, the West Virginia-Pitt match began almost 45 minutes before Oklahoma-Missouri...and that game wasn't truly out of hand until late in the third quarter. So at the time of White's injury, Buckeyes fans like myself were thankful for every little thing that could potentially aid OSU's title chances.

And I know I've taken too long to get to my point, so here it is:

If Pat White hadn't gotten hurt, West Virginia would've murdered Pitt. And a win over Pitt means a national title bid. And a national title bid means...

Rich Rodriguez is still the head coach at West Virginia, as opposed to Michigan, where he will give Jim Tressel a legitimate reason to worry heading into the last week of the next ten (or so) regular seasons.

It just hit me...Pat White's thumb injury is like the cigarette butt that starts a forest fire. Okay, that was gay. But you get the idea. Anyway...

I think you need to know something: I don't necessarily think Rich Rodriguez is a better coach than Jim Tressel. But he might be. All I know is that I don't know. And neither do you.

Michigan fans are smiling.

Rich Rodriguez is the innovative, charismatic recruiting whiz that Michigan has needed since the turn of the century. And the kind of guy who will help Michigan challenge for Big Ten supremacy. He was bloody successful at the NAIA level before taking his talents to the Division I level, where he somehow turned Tommy Bowden into a hot commodity.

As an offensive coordinator and play-caller at Tulane, Rodriguez unleashed his form of the spread offense on college football, and saw the Green Wave go undefeated in 1998, break countless records along the way and generally just confuse the hell out of their opponents. As he moved on to Clemson, with Bowden, Rodriguez was instrumental in turning Woody Dantzler (Woody Dantzler!) into one of the best duel-threat quarterbacks of all time.

Following the 2000 season, Rodriguez left Clemson for West Virginia, his alma mater. He took over for the legendary Don Nehlen (always a difficult move) and was handed the keys to a once-proud program that was now in shambles. It didn't take long for him to make his mark.

It would have been impressive had Rodriguez made the Mountaineers relevant again. The fact that he turned them into a national power in half-a-decade is simply amazing. He implemented the spread and somehow convinced elite-level talent to come to Morgantown, West Virginia. The history.

In 2005, West Virginia won a BCS game over a very good Georgia team, and did it with freshmen Pat White and Steve Slaton leading the way. Think about that for a second. In college basketball, when a perceived inferior opponent wins a few games in the tournament, it's generally due to veteran leadership, not an all-freshman backcourt.

Just last year, he posted a stellar 11-2 record...and that was actually considered a disappointment!

As for this season, he had West Virginia a few quarters away from playing in the championship game. WEST BY GOD VIRGINIA! PLAYING FOR A NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP! What universe is this?

I guess what I'm trying to say is that Rich Rodriguez can coach. But you already knew that. My suggestion to Ohio State fans is this: please don't call for Tressel's head if he ever endures a 3-game losing streak to Michigan. Just because we knew Lloyd Carr was incapable of such results, doesn't mean it can't happen.

As an Ohio State fan, Rich Rodriquez has me shaking in my tube socks. And if he does convince super-recruit Terrelle Pryor that Ann Arbor is a better fit than Columbus...well, it will be full-fledged fear. I do not like this feeling.

That concludes "I hate Pat White THIS MUCH: Part One." Stick around for Part Deux, where I'll explain my other reason for hating Pat White. It won't be as long. Or as stupid.

-Brad Spieser (

Mariah Carey Might Be Saving the World

This world's going to be a much better place when everybody freely admits to the greatness of Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas is You." Hell, even my mom has come around, and her face is in the dictionary next to the word traditionalist. I mean, she's the type who'd rather listen to a 700-year-old recording of "O Come All Ye Faithful before listening to anything that's been recorded in the last fifty years. Plus, she thinks Mariah Carey is a tramp. I guess what I'm trying to say is that Mariah Carey's undeniable awesomeness gives us hope for the future.

Now watch this terrific video--that I've somehow never seen before--and answer me one (seemingly rhetorical) question upon it's conclusion: Do you feel better than you did four minutes ago?

Do you realize that the only listenable FM radio station in Cincinnati, 94.9 The Sound, promotes the fact that they won't play this song a trillion times this month? a bad idea. Not that they don't play it--I realize their alt-rock format won't allow it--but that they admit to such madness. That'd be like ABC promoting the fact that they won't be showing SEC football or American Idol this year. What's the point of promoting the great stuff you don't have?

That's all for now.

Ohio State words coming later this afternoon.

-Brad Spieser (

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Top 5 Super Blacks: Week 1

Craig has insisted for months that he should contribute something to the website other than podcasts.

This was his brainchild:

Top 5 Most Super Blacks of the Week

1. Omar (The Wire): Overwhelming blackness trumps unfortunate gayness.

2. Slash: He's responsible for 3 of the top 3 guitar solos of all time. Eddie Van Halen is a faggot.

3. Floyd Mayweather: Easily murders white guys with his very black hands.

4. Kevin Garnett: Obvious reasons (i.e., weiner length, basketball skills, etc.).

5. Lil Wayne: Never heard of the guy, but a white acquaintance recently told me that he's "changin' the game" or some shit.

Others receiving votes

The parent(s) of Marcedes Lewis (imagine their thought process while naming him...let's name him something a little flashier than a really nice luxury sedan); Armanti Edwards; Stephen Jackson.

This video is a solid example of Omar's blackness:

A new Top 5 will be posted every Sunday night/Monday morning.

-Craig (email Brad if you hate me and/or want me to stop breathing)

Chad Johnson's a Jerk, Too

I apologize for the vulgarity of last night's post. Actually, I'm really just sorry that Marvin Lewis was my sole target. If I could do it over again I would also direct my anger towards Chad Johnson, quite possibly the most un-clutch mammal in the history of mammals.

As for my lock, I'm taking Cleo Lemon and the Miami Dolphins (+3.5) vs. Baltimore.

-Brad Spieser (

Saturday, December 15, 2007

I Am Drunk. I Hate Marvin Lewis

Marvin Lewis is the shittiest fucking shit fuck faggot head coach I've ever seen.

Nice challenge, homo.

Lock of the Millenium coming Sunday morning.

Brad Spieser (

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Mario Williams is Gooder Than Frick

After Thursday's 3.5 sack performance versus Denver, Williams now has 13 sacks with two games remaining. Believe it or not, there's a reason I bring up such riveting information. Take a look at what I wrote in my 8/27/07 preseason Q & A with Wess:

"My out-of-nowhere sleeper to be much-improved would be Houston. I think if Mario Williams tosses up 15 sacks (which is plausible) he could make things a whole lot easier for folks like Demeco Ryans."

Please...somebody, anybody, find me a human outside the city of Houston who wrote anything similar to what I did back in August. Actually, don't even try...because you'll come up empty. What you will find, though, is a bunch of scouts telling you how Williams will be a solid-but-not-spectacular run-stuffing DE with the potential to post an 8-10 sack season one day.

Do you hear that noise? It's me patting myself on the back.

-Brad Spieser (

People I Want to Murder

One thought before writing more about Las Vegas, the North American city I recently visited: I want to murder 99 percent of NFL players. It's true. And believe it or not, I have a reason for these homicidal feelings. Can someone explain to me why--every time there's a pile-up after a fumble--every player on the field gives false hope to their fan base by pointing in the favorable direction of their if they have a fucking clue as to what's going on underneath that mess?

Coming tonight: I will finally post the new podcasts and I will write something about the Mitchell Report. Horny?

Brad Spieser (

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Las Vegas is Slightly Different than Southwest Ohio

At the moment, I can relate to Tom Hanks. Perhaps more accurately, I can relate to his character in the pretty awesome motion picture Cast Away. You know how he has a difficult time adjusting to the real world upon his return from the island? Well, that's me right now. It's quite evident that I have more in common with the real Tom Hanks than Cincinnati does with Las Vegas. Not to be insensitive or anything, but I'm guessing the adjustment to everyday life that I'm currently experiencing is on par with what Vietnam vets went through thirty-plus years ago. (Note: the last sentence is probably not true).

But listen, my Saturday in Nevada included such events as...

a. receiving gambling advice in an elevator from goddamn Bert Sugar, and

b. having a tequila-soaked nineteen-year-old Canadian gal puke all over herself and my queen-size bed (see picture below).

Basically what I'm trying to say is that being stuck in traffic on I-71 North is the exact opposite of my weekend in Las Vegas.

(Note about Bert Sugar: He was wearing a wrinkled, Irish green Guinness shirt and--of course--one of his signature hats. The man looked like he had been drinking whiskey since October. Needless to say, I loved him. Me and Bert could be friends. Anyway, Sugar's betting advice was correct. He told me to bet my cash on the Mayweather-Hatton fight NOT going the distance. I am an asshole for only winning $100 on the advice of boxing's most recognized historian.)

(Note about the picture of the teenager who thought it was a bright idea to come back to my room at 3 a.m.: It's entirely possible that I've violated some sort of law by posting an unflattering picture of her without her consent. Then again, it's probable that she'll never find out. This is because I'm fairly certain that Canadians don't have the Internet.)

More Vegas updates coming Wednesday night, right after Xavier defeats my beloved Cincinnati Bearcats in the Crosstown Ass-rape.

Oh yeah, one other thing: Craig and I had to abort the podcasting mission today. Such noise will now be conducted Thursday. This information should make you horny.

-Brad Spieser (

Monday, December 10, 2007

Las Vegas Didn't Kill Me

I'm alive and well. Check that, I'm alive.

My face hurts. My shoulder hurts. My ribs hurt. My pancreas hurts.

And I'm pretty sure I have Hepatitis Q.

Oh yeah, I have $-71.83 left in my checking account. This means that I could win $75 on a scratch-off lottery ticket tomorrow morning and I still wouldn't have enough money to pay for a sausage egg & cheese crossainwich meal from Awesome King.

Besides that, my life is fantastic.

I have no more words.

Bedtime for now, Vegas posts galore to be posted periodically for the next week or so. Craig and I will podcast Tuesday afternoon and the sole focus will be Vegas. Stay tuned, boys and girls.

-Brad Spieser (

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Vegas: T-Minus 17 Hours

In less than one day I will hop on an aeroplane that will either (a.) deliver me to Nevada, (b.) crash into a mountain or (c.) do something else entirely. This excites me because, even if choice B happens, I will make the nightly news and I will immediately be recognized as a modern day prophet. Of course, I'd be a dead person, so that would kinda suck. But I might die in Vegas anyway...

(Note: If I do take my last breath over the weekend--whether a plane crash or mobster is responsible--please tell Nick Van Exel how much he meant to me. And tell my mom something similar.)

Anyway, the weekend got off to a nice start today when my bookie met me downtown to pay me the healthy chunk of currency I earned by wagering on college football futures. In case you were wondering, I bet on seven teams, with my record finishing at an impressive 5-1-1. My winners were as follows: Hawaii (over 10 wins); Clemson (over 8); Missouri (over 9); Ohio State (over 9); Kentucky (over 5.5). My push was Texas Tech (under 8), and my loss was Cal (over 9.5). Pretty impressive, no? Either way, thanks to mammals like Colt Brennan and Chase Daniel, I now have a whole bunch of extra cash to place on one spin of the roulette wheel. Come on black! Or perhaps...come on red! I'll never learn.

Speaking of futures wagering, my big bet this year in the NBA was Golden State (over 41.5), and six games into their season I was ready to drive off the nearest cliff (which is pretty far away, but still). The Warriors opened up 0-6 and, as previously stated, I wanted to do bad things to myself. And then...something happened. And that something was Steven Jackson coming off suspension, which ignited a stretch of basketball that would make Henry Iba jealous. G-State now stands at 10-8 (do the math) and it looks as if nobody can stop them. This is a good thing for me, because I'm afraid of heights. And dying.

(Note: G-State plays twice while we're in Vegas, and I won't be able to resist the urge to bet on them both nights. And yes, I know betting with my heart is a bad idea. But who cares, it's Vegas, right? Plus, it's already documented that I have a gambling problem, so it's not my fault.)

Yeah, yeah, what about your predictions?

Here goes...

I predict that I will step off the plane drunk. Really drunk.

I'm leaving with $1200 to my name...I predict that I will return with $0.000000.

I predict I will come home without the back panel on my new cell phone.

I predict that I will regret playing so much roulette.

I predict Craig will get kicked out of a casino for blowing up on a blackjack dealer (note: he has no idea I'm making this prediction, and I suspect he would have no problem with it. In fact, he would probably predict the same thing. I will try to stop using the word "predict" so goddamn much.)

I predict I will eat more Chinese food than what is generally considered normal and/or safe.

I predict I will get naked with a white girl.

I predict that I will get offered coke at least ten times. Weed, twenty times.

I predict that I will be mean to a harmless cab driver or twelve.

I predict I will either break my camera or forget to take enough pictures, thus hindering my blogging potential.

I predict that if I remember I have a camera in my pocket, Craig will make fun of me for trying to take so many pictures.

I predict that if I come home (a big if), the most overrated band of all time will still be the Beastie Boys.

I predict that I don't have any more words at the moment.

Again, I'm bringing my computer machine with me and I hope to blog a little bit over the weekend. Nothing too crazy, though. This is because I have a gambling problem. And a penis. But I will post a few things, so keep checking back.

Also, Also, ALSO...I posted a new podcast--it's titled "is the westside pathetic or great." I only did this to keep you from complaining about the site not being updated.

Wish me luck, peoples.

Now if you don't mind I have to go to Walgreens to purchase a mini-toiletries kit.

-Brad Spieser (

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Hot Girl in Underpants Playing Indoor Badminton!

It's fairly difficult for me to concentrate at the moment. There's three reasons for this problem:

1. I'm headed to Vegas in 36 hours.

2. I'm watching Pretty Woman for the first time in my life. Don't tell me what happens. I'm really hoping these two end up together.

3. Arby's and Sonic have recently added some sort of fried cheesecake bites to their respective menus.

Because of this madness, I'm going to treat you to a video that I swore I would never post. It's not pornographic (YouTube won't allow such filth), but it's not PG-13, either. Who knows, maybe it is PG-15.9846. Regardless, here's a video of a hot girl (with extremely hot calves) playing badminton in her living room. Oh yeah, she's not wearing many clothes.

I promise, what you're about to watch--despite being arousing (or whatever)--is one of the strangest things you will ever watch. Anyway, enjoy...


My personal predictions for Vegas will be posted Thursday afternoon.

-Brad Spieser (

The University of Oregon Has Awesome Stuff

Mark this video down as something that might only be interesting to me. If you've never seen the facilities at the University of Oregon you won't believe your eyes. Nike CEO Phil Knight is an Oregon alum and has decided that not only do the Ducks need 856 different uniform combinations, but also the most futuristic-looking lockers to store such clothing.

It goes without saying that Oregon has the finest facilities of any university on the planet. As for the pros...

I've been inside the locker rooms of two professional sports teams (Bengals and Reds), and I can tell you that those two were nowhere near as nice as Oregon's. Now, it's true that I haven't seen what Mark Cuban has going on in Dallas, and I haven't watched a documentary about the size of Kobe Bryant's bath tub in Los Angeles, but I'd be surprised if even a pro team can match what's going on in Eugene, Oregon. Really.

Enjoy (and I apologize for the meathead douche who hosts the video)...

-Brad Spieser (

I Have Nothing to Worry About

I just googled "my tuna smells like urine," and wouldn't you know it, I found exactly what I was looking for. Read some guy's blog post about urine smelling like recently ingested food/drink. Or just skim through it. But definitely read the comments section, it's littered with reader experiences of tuna-rific pee stories.

Cyberspace Rules!

-Brad Spieser (

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Vegas Revisited: Part Deux


Below is my second entry from my inaugural trip to Vegas in May. I'm going to Vegas this weekend and I promise to act like an idiot and share such tales with y'all. I think that's why I'm re-posting the stuff that I originally posted on my MySpace page. If you only suspected I was a dope, these stories will assure you. Anyway, enjoy, and don't bother telling me that they're too long--I already know...

VEGAS BLOG PART 2 (Wednesday, May 16, 2007)

The following passage is part two of my trip to Vegas. Scroll down below this to read part one if you haven't yet read it. Enjoy...


At 6:30--only fours after falling asleep--I was wide awake, and my heart was trying to leap out of my chest. I blame the makers of Red Bull. Oh yeah, I was still drunk. I woke up Party Dan (my roommate), but he wanted to stay in bed. I called Colly in the other room-just to wake him up--and guess what? First ring, he answered. He was just as awake as I was. And twice as drunk. Together, we hit the streets.

Only minutes after exiting the Tropicana, the shenanigans continued. Colly and I came upon an empty escalator, and it seemed to be going faster than your garden variety escalator. So what did I do? I bet him ten dollars he couldn't make it down the up escalator in 25 seconds. He agreed to the challenge. He made it in less than 9 seconds. Money well spent, the way I saw it. This was HTBTM #17.

Note: Colly performed the same stunt the next day, only it was early evening, the area around the escalator was semi-crowded, and he had to finish in 9 seconds instead of 25. He won again. This was HTBTM #18.

After a couple of hours, our Friday morning drunkenness morphed into a Friday morning hangover. We were still wide awake, we just felt like crap. Our solution turned into a trend that reared its ugly head the rest of the weekend: we stood around and stared into space, waiting for someone to say, "Hey, let's do this..." This time it was just me and Colly (at the MGM), but-for the rest of the weekend--the four of us probably wasted a half hour or more, in a circle, staring at each other waiting for someone to make a suggestion. This was HTBTM #19.

And yes, I just wrote a "paragraph" about standing around. Perhaps I need to pick up the pace...

But anyway...Colly and I did meet three interesting characters Friday morning...

Corona Guy...We went to a tiny Corona Store because Colly needed swim trunks and batteries for his camera. We were there for two minutes and I don't recall screwing around (much)...Colly paid for the trunks and asked if they had batteries (they didn't). Really, that was it. But the lone employee (Corona Guy, a thirtyish fellow with a thick Boston accent) managed to make us laugh with a smart ass remark. As we were headed out I asked Corona Guy when he left Boston for Vegas, and also, about his accent. Colly asked me how I knew he was from Boston, and right after I asked how it was possible that he didn't know, Corona Guy butted in with a raised voice to offer an answer: "He probably didn't here the accent cuz he was too busy yelling at me about batteries!" I'm not sure if he was hip to our goofball vibe or what...regardless, we agreed that Corona Guy was legitimately funny. Especially with the accent. The lesson: I'll always appreciate a smart mouth more than a kiss ass or phony. This was HTBTM #20.

Note: We let Corona Guy have it (it) every time we passed by his store after the "yelling at me about batteries" incident. He appreciated the playful banter. The lesson: This world would be a much better place if everybody didn't suck.

Coconut Guy...Colly and I saw this dope, a fortysomething douche bag, first, but Matt and Party Dan had a healthy dose of him before the end of the weekend. And we all agreed that he was the most annoying human being alive. In fact, as I prayed last night, I asked for Coconut Guy to suffer a massive heart attack, or maybe to get run over by a Nissan (or whatever). Anyway...

Coconut Guy spent his days in front of some crappy shop, loudly begging pedestrians to come inside. He walked back and forth (probably twenty feet each way), getting in everybody's face, offering some sort of pamphlet about his place of employment. Oh yeah, he had slicked back thinning hair, and (of course) he reeked of coconut. I'd love to see Coconut Guy's job description: Spray yourself with coconut fragrance (any kind will need to get the good stuff from Bath and Body Works), slick your thinning hair back so pedestrians can see your scalp, and generally just act like a stalker or child molester.

Seriously God, can you push Coconut guy off a cliff before the end of May? This was HTBTM #21.

Ginne...The plan was for the four of us to spend a portion of Friday afternoon at the pool (hence the Corona trunks). And since Vegas allows you to carry open containers everywhere, we took advantage of the rule by purchasing a case of Miller Genuine Draft (aka "MG-Danls" or "MG-Danl Dogs" or "MG-Danl Doggers," but that's a story I might explain later. Or maybe not.). Let me tell you, you might receive free drinks in casinos, but the gouging is pretty severe in the stores, because two 12 packs...of MG-Danls...ran us...THIRTY SEVEN F**KING DOLLARS!!! Anyway, as Colly and I lugged our beer through a food court in the MGM, I hear the beautiful sound of a drunken party girl. "Heeeeeeeey," said the twentyish black girl named Ginne (pronounced "Janay"). She had braided hair, a tight body tucked into a whorish white dress...and a busted grill (hey, two outta three ain't bad). Needless to say, I was in love. While she was hugging all over me, I managed to find out she was from California. While she was grabbing my narrow white ass, I managed to find out she had already sucked down three Captain/Cokes (before noon!) and was ready to start drinking O.E. While I was rubbing her curvy black posterior, I managed to get her phone number. I invited her to our pool, and-after her friend pulled her away-she made me promise to call her later. Long story short, I threw her a few texts and a phone call the next two days and she never responded. Oh well. This was HTBTM #22.

Note: Colly doesn't think I would've acted on my desire for gap-toothed Ginne, but I happen to know he's wrong. Look, we all have 'to do' lists, right? Some people want to go fly-fishing in Oregon before it's all over. And some people want to absorb a shotgun blast to the face. And some people want to sport a halo and dress up like David Pollack for Halloween (and I did!). And some people want to befriend midgets. And some people want to try drugs. And some people want to go to a Nickelback concert (just as dumb as the people who want to try drugs, as far as I'm concerned). And some people want to conquer Everest. Me? I want to conquer a young lady with a much MUCH darker complexion than me.

One more thing: Feel free to contact Ginne (and remember to pronounce her name "Janay") if you're around the California area in the next fifty years or so...951-965-0869. Go for it, kids!

As previously mentioned, the afternoon gameplan was swimming. The problem? It was f**king freezing; the high was 78 degrees. Before visiting the pool area, the four of us spent time in Matt and Colly's room, listening to music and-I can't remember why-spraying cans of MG-Danls in each other's face. Was it asinine, frat boy behavior? Obviously. But sometimes acting like that feels like the right thing to do. I blame the Tropicana for being such a piece of trash. This was HTBTM #23.

The "spilling" of MG-Danls continued outside, where-sadly-only four people were actually in the pool. Our spirits were buoyed, though, as we noticed several hot butts belonging to several tan 19 year olds (not as "tan" as Ginne, but still) hanging around outside off the pool. We decided to double the occupancy in the water with beers in hand (note: the lifeguard didn't enforce the NO DRINKING IN THE POOL rule until we gave him no other choice). Also, I can neither confirm nor deny rumors that any of us emptied pockets of urine into the Tropicana pool, but I do know this: Colly laughed really hard when a group of kids swam (swum?) directly in front of him underwater. Draw your own conclusions. This was HTBTM #24.

Note: the most depressing moment of my trip took place at the pool. Keeping things brief, I'll just tell you my 'A+ game' wasn't enough for a young woman. A young woman that looked lovely as she lie on a blue towel.

Predictably, talking to Blue Towel clouded my perception of time, and I was late arriving to Leroy's to place a bet on the Florida Marlins (my lock of the day). My rage for missing out on the Marlins wager (a winner, of course) was forgotten after Colly and I screamed "Sags" a couple hundred times in five minutes. And it turned into helluva time after more MG-Danls were sprayed everywhere inside of Leroy's. Staying true to form, Ron (the original Sags) wasn't bothered by our antics. This was HTBTM #25

Note: Remember when I told you the story about me and the "other guy" giving Ron s**t? Well, the MG-Danl scene was the reason.

Important story note: If you were wondering why I haven't mentioned gambling much, there's a reason...and it's not because I didn't spend 83% of my time awake either at the tables or with a pending sports wager. It's because gambling, the second greatest adrenaline rush imaginable, mostly provides boring stories. Except for occasionally plunking down $200 on one spin of the roulette wheel, it just seems boring to write about. I mean, you don't care about the countless $50 blackjack hands I played, right? I didn't think so.

Our Friday night...can only happen in Vegas.

Before grabbing a bite, the four of us stopped at a bar that served $18 blender drinks in an ultra gay, three-foot tall vase-shaped (or water bong-shaped) object. To counter the gayness, I ordered a peach drink in a yellow glass (container?). Booze drinks in hand, we headed to a food court for dinner. This was the first time I ate Panda Express, but not last. I would go on to eat it for breakfast Saturday and Sunday mornings, where Matt joined me each time.

Five minutes after sitting down with my Chow Mein-based cornucopia, I locked eyes with an exotic young lady, a super-sexy 5'2 firecracker. Drunken courage taking over, I invite her and her friend (another very nice looking gal) to join us. After giving Party Dan a "look at me, I'm a smooth mutha f**ka...I'm Double Down Trent" nudge, he quickly pissed on my parade: "They're hookers, idiot." Deflated but hopeful, I asked Party Dan if he was messing with me. "What do you think?" he replied, which was 100 times more damaging than being called an idiot. After taking in the situation for an extra second, I conceded that-unless my life has morphed into a Cinemax film--the girls had to be working girls. I am not a smooth mutha f**ka. I am not Double Down Trent. I gained my composure when I realized that a meal with whores still has endless opportunities.

The 5'2 firecracker, Camille, looked half black and half something else (maybe even white). It turned out she was half Korean-half Puerto Rican, although her accent sounded like that of an early 1800's southern belle. She was dumb, friendly and surprisingly, not very flirtatious. She would later reveal her tattoo (located on her stomach near her right hip): "F**k Love, Love to F**k." Camille enjoyed being a prostitute.

Stacy, the other girl, was a white girl from Arizona (or something). She had a pretty face with semi-big teeth. She looked like someone I would have hung out with in high school. Besides that, she epitomized the hooker stereotype. She was more than a little jaded, and claimed to being retiring after this weekend; none of us believed her. She was 21, married (although supposedly getting divorced), and one of the most insecure people I've ever met. She had a nervous giggle and ate like a horse. She was the walking definition of a "tragic figure." There isn't a chance that she has parents who love her.

I made casual conversation-mostly with Camille--for maybe ten minutes before I encouraged Colly to come sit in the open seat next to Stacy; he had been seated a good ten feet away, and unable to hear our conversation. I did so because I thought Colly would say weird s**t to the prostitutes, which would (a) confuse them and (b) make me laugh. What happened-honestly--blew my goddamn mind: Colly asked these girls every question one would ever want to ask a hooker. Except he didn't operate like a creep or sleazeball, he did so matter-of-factly and they didn't bother answering. He asked about cost (note: $200 for one of them to get in the room, and an extra $100 to consummate the relationship). He asked how long they'd been doing this (note: I can't remember their answers). He asked why they chose "having sex with fat guys" for a profession (note: Camille's tattoo told us everything we needed to know; I don't recall Stacy providing an answer, although our guesses probably would have been somewhat accurate). Colly went on to ask several more questions before we (of course) got their cell phone numbers. Whether Stacy and Camille would receive calls from us would probably be determined at a blackjack table.

Note: give Camille a call if you're in're welcome.

We decided to spend the early portion of our night playing blackjack at the Excalibur. The topic of discussion on the walk over, predictably, was Camille and Stacy. But in a different tone than you might expect. Colly lead the conversation and routinely expressed how saddened and disturbed he was. Me? I didn't care; hookers have been around forever, and they'll be around long after we pass. But Colly...I mean, he's a heartless bastard. He's the kind of guy that laughs in your face if you sprain an ankle. I've known him for ten years and he's never once shown remorse. Ever. And now his mind is f**ked up over some prostitutes? Weird. This was HTBTM #26.

Excalibur is the best casino in Vegas for the poor man. It's a big place, so you're never cramped, and $10 blackjack tables are readily available. Plus-and this may be a coincidence-the two dealers we spent significant time with were infinitely more friendly than the assbags at the Tropicana. And since-to the best of my knowledge-the cost of staying at both hotels is relatively equal...just why in the hell would anyone stay at the same s**thole that we did? You know, other than f**king with Sags?

We sat down at an empty blackjack table and cranked up the smart-ass meter. Something about our dealer, a fiftyish lady named Kathy (or maybe Katherine), seemed inviting to our desire to screw around. This is probably because she laid down the gauntlet with this doozy: "You guys couldn't do a single thing that I haven't seen before." No sweeter words had ever been spoken to jerks like me, Matt and Colly. Unfortunately, Matt lost a wad of cash in a hurry and didn't get to partake in the good times. We ordered vodka/Red Bulls (even though we swore them off earlier that day), and much to our confusion they didn't have Red Bull. But they did have Sobe (remember Sobe?) So we drank vodka/Sobe for the next few hours, and they were delivered to us by a sixty year old waitress (seriously!). And they were terrible. This was HTBTM #27.

Note: Remember the TV ads for Sobe, starring the fat redheaded catcher from The Sandlot (aka Hamilton Porter)?

Note #2: I could be wrong but I believe Kathy told us cocktail waitressing in Vegas is unionized. Think about that for a second. Am I nuts or should Vegas have nothing but the hottest cocktail waitresses in the world? I mean, why should a senior citizen be allowed to push up her stuff and serve me drinks? Fix that, Vegas., Colly and our gauntlet-throwing dealer, Kathy...

You need to know something about me: yes I'm an a-hole, but I'm not a relentless prick. If this sounds like a pre-story apology, it is. But here me out. Colly and I gave Kathy a whole ton of s**t, just as we did to Sags, but both of them found us to be flat out entertaining, as do most of the people we mess with. It's pretty simple, really: we're given a green light and we push and push until a breaking point is near. And sure, sometimes we go too far but our track record is better than you might imagine.

Here are samples of our behavior at the table...

-Every winner, whether it be a dealer bust or a blackjack, resulted in uproar. By uproar, I mean "we just won the 7th game of the World Series" uproar. Remember, this place was fairly empty, so every outburst was amplified. This was HTBTM #28.

-Colly-only after a loss--asking Kathy the following questions: (1) "Has anyone ever flipped a table?"...followed by him standing up and acting like he was actually going to do it...and (2) "Do you think I can push a hole through the table?"...followed by pushing down on his chips-and holding it for an extra second-while they were in the betting circle. This was HTBTM #29. And #30.

Note: Colly's actions are a great example of 'having to be there.' I guess I'd just ask you to visualize the scene, and remember that it probably happened fifty times in a half hour.

Note #2: It would have been a much funnier act had Kathy not been as cool as she was. This is the kind of thing you actually want to do to an angry dealer, because there's no way they would have let him continue.


-Two of the funniest trends on this trip may not have started at the Excalibur, but they were certainly taken to new heights at Kathy's table...

Dynamite jokes.

After many losses--or sometimes as the dealer was checking to see if he/she had a blackjack-we would threaten to blow things up with dynamite. Here are some examples...

"If you turn over another face card I'm going to drive to my grandma's house and blow it up with several sticks of dynamite."

"If you didn't bust right there I was going to blow this place up with dynamite."

"Give me a goddamn blackjack before I strap myself with dynamite and end the misery."

The dynamite jokes were HTBTM #31

Also, there were Mom jokes. Many of them. Such as...

"Kathy, you remind me of my Mom...before the fire."

"You know, my overwhelming blackjack earnings would make me happy if my Mom hadn't died this morning in a fiery auto crash."

"Don't you just love Vegas? My Mom would have loved this place...had she not fallen into a stream of boiling lava."

The dynamite/Mom jokes stayed in heavy rotation through Sunday. Sometimes-naturally-we even combined the two...

"My Mom was going to come on this trip until she burnt to a crisp in a house that was ambushed by dynamite-lobbing teenagers."

The Mom jokes were HTBTM #32.

Thankfully, nobody took the dynamite jokes seriously, but the Mom jokes...most people didn't know how to take them. I suppose I'm responsible for this, considering that I usually sold it with the tone of a melancholy son.

Amidst the joking of dynamite and burning mothers, we actually gambled. Gambling! And at the Excalibur, we freaking won. At least I did. Matt-as previously stated-lost a bunch. Quickly. Party Dan...well, it just wasn't his week. That didn't keep him from giving his best effort, though (he was the winner of the first annual Vegas Participation Award!). And Colly...he may have won, he may have treaded water, but he definitely didn't get killed like Matt and Party Dan. Either way, after Kathy relocated to another table, he and I stood up from the blackjack tables; Party Dan continued to grind and Matt had wandered off. With $500 apiece in our pockets (and I started the night with $150!) we tried our hand at roulette.

That...was a poor decision.

I placed $25 on black and watched the ball spin around for a moment before realizing a very drunk Colly placed $100 on odd. And wouldn't you know it, that little f**ker landed on red…even. I only lost $25, so I wasn't deterred. Neither was he. In fact, he plunked down another $100 (this time on black), and encouraged me to wager the same amount. For purposes of solidarity, I also bet black. Stop me if you've heard this, but it landed on F**KING RED! That's okay...I'm still up $225, you know?. As for Colly, I don't give a s**t how much he's lost. So, we'll just scale back our bets or...we'll do the smart thing and simply walk away, right? Ha. I'm Brad Spieser, and I refuse to be bullied by a goddamn roulette wheel. Scared money don't make money, brother. Colly stayed with his customary bet of $100, while I inexplicably bumped my wager to $150. (Note: I have a tough time acting rationally when I'm losing cash. Just ask any of my ex-bookies). Again, we bet black. And once again, the little white ball stuck it in us, Teddy KGB-style. "F**k it" I said. "We gotta win, right?" Colly's arm didn't need to be twisted. I placed my remaining $225 on black, and Colly joined in the stupidity by placing $200 on the same. This time Matt was watching, and our friendly dealer (roulette spinner?), Giovanni, had a look on his face that was easy to interpret: "Are you guys sure you want to do this?" The pressure was rising. Just spin the freaking ball before I swallow my tongue, homey! This was my first legitimate "What the hell, it's Vegas" moment. And-finally-after what seemed like an hour—

Giovanni let her fly...

And it kept spinning...

It wouldn't f**king stop...

Holy S**t! It's slowing down...

Come on black...




Ladies and Gents, Brad Spieser is officially on suicide watch.

Take away the dynamite before he makes the nightly news.

That's right...Colly and I lost $1000 on four spins of the roulette wheel. We're talking five minutes. Tops. One thousand American dollars. A grand.

I've had better times.

For example...

The first time I rode the Vortex...that was a better time.

The first time I saw a Playboy...that was a better time.

The time I struck out of 11 of 12 batters in a wiffle ball tournament...that was a better time.

The time I punched my Grandpa for cheating at euchre...that was a better time.

The time I rescued the baby that was trapped in a well...that was a better time.

The time I ate dinner with Akeem Olajuwon and convinced him to change his name to Hakeem...that was a better time.

You get the idea--losing $100 a minute for five minutes should never be anybody's goal in life.

Fast forward an hour-and I honestly couldn't tell you what happened-we find ourselves in New York, New York. Using my best judgment, I took out $200 from the ATM. Showing the patience of a hungry wolverine, I placed all of it on black (are you sensing a theme here?), and Colly joined in for $100.

I'll buy you dinner if you can guess what happened next?

I'll give you a hint: it landed on red.

There was officially a ZERO percent chance of meeting up with Camille.

I'd lost $700 before I knew what hit me. I was like one of the 6'5 hairy-chested white dudes that entered a ring to face Mike Tyson in 1987, loaded with bravado and unafraid of this up-and-coming monster. And, like them, I was seeing stars 48 seconds into the first round. The Excalibur-New York, New York roulette debacle was HTBTM #33.

It would be fair to say I was legitimately miserable for the next half hour. All I did was roam around New York, New York while Party Dan played blackjack and Colly talked to three semi-attractive girls. As for Matt? He apparently never joined us at NY/NY, due to chest pains. I'll spare you the suspense: No Matt didn't die, and no, we never even thought about checking on him. So anyway...I was miserable at this goddamn place, and I hated myself for it. Try that on for size...I hated myself for hating myself. And then I remembered I was in Las Vegas, and I'd hate myself even more if I allowed my losses to take a mental toll on my vacation.

For the first (and what turned out to be the only) time, I took off by myself.

I'd love to tell you that I found myself in wild situations on the streets and in the casinos as I left Party Dan and Colly behind, but then I'd be a lying liar. I mean, yeah, I got offered coke outside the MGM, and was basically challenged to a fight by a squatty Latin fellow inside the same place, but I never once felt unsafe. That might not make sense if you've never been to Vegas, but if you're nodding your head. Coke offerings and the squatty Latin fellow were HTBTM #34

Colly and Party Dan eventually met me at MGM. We were all hammered, and thus, we did some more standing around. We settled in at the bar, sipped buy-one-get-one MG-Danls and played video poker. But we were too drunk (and tired) to keep the night going, although that didn't stop us from giving it a shot. At the excessive urging of the other two morons, who thought I wasn't partying enough, I bought another round of beers (six MG-Danls) and a shot of Jag (Yeg?). The bartender must have had hearing problems, because he didn't serve us shots of Jag...he served us glasses of Jag. With fear of not meeting Westside standards, we drank those f**kers down, gulp by gulp. By gulp. Hands down, one of the dumbest decisions of my life. Colly and Party Dan agreed. I didn't have to ask them, either. That was a universal knockout blow. My head hit the bar and so did Colly's. Dan? He did a better job of hiding his pain, but I've closed down many a watering hole with that man, so he can't fool me.

Like Thursday, the rest of the night was a blur. Despite staying out for a few more hours, the majority of the details are escaping me. I remember loaning Party Dan $300 because he'd already reached his bank's one-day limit. I also remember embarrassing myself as I talked to a pack of honeys. But that's about it. Like I said, we were out for a few more hours, then again, I haven't been that bombed in a long time.

That was Friday.

I'll certainly write about Saturday and Sunday, but I think it would be wise if I significantly shortened the length. Thursady and Friday alone approached 8,500 words. And that's not fun for me. I am not a writer. I have no idea what I'm doing. Writing 8,500 words takes me forever. I have better things to do. Like napping. BUT...if the demands are great enough I will write the Saturday/Sunday blogs the way I did Thursday/Friday.

I hate myself.

-Brad Spieser (

Tall, Athletic Human Beings

Watch Michael Beasley tonight (7:00 ET ESPN2). Don't say I didn't warn you.

And then watch USC-Memphis on ESPN at 9:00 ET. OJ Mayo + Derrick Rose = supremely gifted mammals.

Unless I'm missing something, the three most talented college basketball players are on display tonight. Watch, idiots.

That's all.

Website to be updated frequently tonight and tomorrow. Keep checking back, peoples.

-Brad Spieser (

Monday, December 3, 2007

Vegas Revisited

I know, I know, I said I would post words about my favorite college football team, but I'm having more trouble focusing than usual. This is because, at the moment, Kyle Boller is five minutes from making history. Let's just say that I never envisioned typing that sentence.

But anyway, I had an idea. Actually, my friend Party Dan had an idea, and it's this: Hey jerk, since your going to Vegas Friday, why don't post your Vegas blogs from May, and write about the stuff you never posted on MySpace.

You know what, Danny Boy? That's a dang nice idea. Especially since I'm bringing my computer machine to Vegas and I plan to update the site daily. (Note: that may or may not be a good idea; the drunken blogs have been hit-and-miss to this point. Oh well.)

So here it is, part one of my Vegas Trip from May (and forgive the occasional grammatical errors--I thought it would be stupid for me to edit something that's been available to the public for seven months):

Update: Sorry, boys and girls, I just realized that html issues are scattered throughout my original Vegas blog. For whatever reason this happens when I copy and paste something from MySpace. It's annoying, I know, but you'll just have to deal with it until I have time to fix it Tuesday. I hope you will enjoy the tales nonetheless. Sorry again. Anyway, Vegas: part one...

VEGAS BLOG PART 1 (Monday, May 14, 2007)

I remember the June of '99 like it was yesterday. It was my one-year anniversary of returning from Senior Trip (class of '98) in Panama City, Florida. It was also the first time I realized how annoying I'd been the year before. You see, when my friends from the class of '99 returned from their Senior Trip, they proceeded to repeatedly tell me (and anybody who would listen) about how crazy their time was in Florida. And by all accounts, they had a wild time. Then again, so did we. But neither the class of '98 or '99 experienced a single unique moment on Senior Trip; it's all been done before. What we did do in Florida was create a million inside jokes that are specific to our respective groups. BUT...trying to explain those jokes to somebody who wasn't there? Well, that's usually a bad idea. Nobody cares. So, in the June of '99, I wanted to (a) smack all the storytellers and (b) hop in my DeLorean, go back to the June of '98, and smack myself for honestly thinking ANYBODY cared about tales of bonging thirteen beers while "It's All About the Benjamins" blared on repeat. Jesus, I must have been annoying. And that's the thing about Vegas...everyone that goes thinks they had the best time in the history of times. I mean, as I sit here right now, I'm convinced that nobody has ever had more fun in Nevada (or anywhere, for that matter). That said, I'm hesitant to write about my war stories for the reasons mentioned earlier (it's all been done before) and I couldn't possibly do them justice. My inaugural trip to Vegas was four days of inside jokes. Four days of you had-to-be-there-to-understand moments.

So why am I about to write about my trip to Vegas? NO. F**KING. IDEA.

This will be hard.

And unfulfilling.

Vegas Trip 2007

Important note: Everything you're about to read is 100 % true. Despite being hammered for the duration of the trip, I have a good idea of what happened. As usual, I texted myself "important things" so I wouldn't, I have always possessed an uncanny ability to remember drunken dialogue from the night before. This is probably because I rarely black out. Anyway...

The characters...

Me: The awesomest dude of all time.

Party Dan: His second trip to Vegas. Drinks more than everybody else on trip. Ditto for gambling (at least now that I'm semi-retired)

Colly: Had been to Vegas for one day, but nothing like this. Traveled to Vegas to attend the De La Hoya-Mayweather fight. Worst possible influence on me. I have the same influence on him (see St Patty's Day journal).

Matt: Second or third trip to Nevada, America. Visiting Vegas as a makeshift bachelor party. He'll soon hate his life. Or maybe not. We ate Panda Express a lot together on this trip.


The trip was scheduled to kick off Thursday morning at 6:00, when we were to drive to Columbus (9:20 flight) from Party Dan's house. I woke up at 6:10. Yes, I was that guy. Again. We finally got on the highway at 6:40, and Party Dan started driving faster than the law allows. Spending more than thirty minutes in a car generally sucks, however, this was kind of fun. Lets play some math: driving to an airport to jump on a plane to Vegas + weaving in and out of traffic like I used to when I played Rad Racer + excessive flatulence = mildly enjoyable time in a semi-cramped Honda.

Note: I had extreme stomach issues from the time I woke up until the time we touched down in Vegas. Disgusting? Probably. Funny? You betcha. It's always funny to force car passengers to frantically roll down their windows on the highway when they realize they've been ambushed. For some strange reason, I always feel a sense of accomplishment when I'm responsible for chaos like this. This was had-to-be-there moment #1 (HTBTM #1).

HTBTM explanation: It's not as if you won't think my stories are funny, and it's not as if they're somehow difficult to's just that-like anything else--it will always be funnier to the four that went on the trip. So when I say, "I farted, you just had to be there to get it," don't take it as an insult. I realize you don't have trouble interpreting a fart, it's just-again-something that was (at least a little) funnier to us. Anyway...

Our flight to Vegas wasn't direct. We first flew into Nashville. If the car ride to the airport was a solid 3.5 out of 10 on the raw-doggy fun meter, this flight was a 10 out of 10. I was seated next to Colly, who's terrified of planes (calls 'em death machines), and after awhile I acquired a pen from a flight attendant. And why? To draw pornographic (sometimes very gay) images on a napkin. My best drawing was a naked Colly standing in front of a naked "Stone Cold" Steve Austin, titled "The Best Day of Colly's life." His best was titled "All Brad Thinks About," and I'm not even going to try to describe the sketch. This was HTBTM #2.

Explanation for the gay pornographic drawings: Colly and I play a game (and Matt joined in during the trip) where we try to convince the other-and anybody around us-how gay the other is. And it's not like the "You know how I know you're gay" scene in 40 Year Old Virgin. Simple example of our game: Colly's wrist might accidentally graze against my hip, which would lead me to ask him something along the lines of "why are you trying to reach down my pants?" And then his comeback will be immediate, and significantly more graphic in nature. And so on. Immature? Yes. Funny? Always. Just ask his parents. Seriously, his mom thinks it's hilarious. We've been perfecting this act for about three months. We'll probably be perfecting it in fifty years.

Note: I'm thinking about scanning the drawings and placing them on my page. Funny stuff.

The flight from Nashville to Vegas was the exact opposite of crashing into a skyscraper, a solid 12 out of 10. Almost immediately, Party Dan, Colly and myself started drinking vodka. Fast. Party Dan took a mid-flight nap, but Colly and I somehow picked up the pace. Our flight attendant, Diana, a fortyish lady with a nice smile, loved our act. Every time Colly and I had to pay, we would tell Diana we already paid for it, or that she didn't really deserve a tip, or something like that. Not everybody gets it...Diana gets it. She loved us so much that she gave us our last two drinks free! She is good people. This was HTBTM #3

I occasionally let a few fly on the flight. Rude? Yes. Embarrassing? Never. HTBTM #4? Sure.

If you've ever flown Southwest, you know the pilot and flight attendants think they're goddamn Chris Rock. They constantly chime in with unfunny jokes and it's always annoying. This is a trend that must stop. One annoying chime-in, however, added to the raw-doggy times: two of the passengers on board were flying to Vegas to get married, leading a flight attendant to encourage everybody to write down post-marriage advice/suggestions for the soon-to-be newlyweds. Well, if you didn't know, this is right up my alley. Colly's too. Especially when we've been drinking. We each decided to privately write down ten suggestions and reveal them to each other when we were finished. Five minutes after we started, this is what was written on our Southwest napkins...

Colly's suggestions...

1. Swing a Samurai sword as fast as possible.
2. Read a book about Kurt Cobain.
3. Push an old lady to the ground.
4. Get braces.
5. Watch You, Me and Dupree.
6. Visit LensCrafters
7. Get shot by a gun.
8. Buy a remote control truck off some geek at Radio Shack
9. Pull a knife on some kid.
10. Get a permanent at Bo Rics.

Brad's suggestions...

1. Go dinosaur hunting…LOL!
2. Buy a bunch of paint and become paint enthusiasts
3. Learn a lot about a new sport-like lacrosse-watch lacrosse together and become fans of an M.L.L. Lacrosse franchise.
4. Bury a treasure chest full of coins in your neighbor's backyard and leave a secret coded map for your children to find it in the year 2075. That will be fun if you're still breathing.
5. Go to church and be happy about God and stuff.
6. If they make You, Me and Dupree 2, you can create an awesome fan website.
Note: Remember, I had no idea he wrote down something about You, Me and Dupree. Odd.
7. Punch the family pet (presumably a parakeet) in the spine when he/she makes too much noise
8. Shove your daughter to the pavement as she's one bounce away from being the Guiness Book's 12 and under pogo stick record holder.
9. Go to the Sahara Desert for vacation, and don't drink anything until you almost die...then have a sip of Code Red!
10. Go to an outlet store in some hillbilly town, then start screaming, "WHERE ARE THE PHILADELPHIA EAGLES ZUBAZ PANTS!"

After we completed our lists, we read them aloud and laughed hysterically. I'm pretty sure we weren't quiet, and I'm positive we didn't care. Anyway, I had an idea: instead of passing them along to the lovebirds, I wanted to read them over the intercom. Diana told me to ask some woman up front. I was willing to beg for this opportunity, but I didn't feel like walking to the front of the plane. I decided to wait for the woman to walk back to our area...she never did, and I didn't get my chance to "entertain" the plane. I blew it. Maybe my biggest regret of the trip. This was HTBTM #5.

Colly and I stepped off the plane drunk. Party Dan probably had three fewer drinks than us, including one he spilled everywhere, and Matt didn't have a drop on the flight. He had no problem playing catch-up. It wasn't long after crawling into the cab (a Ford Aerostar!) that I let a few more fly. I made a conscious effort to (mostly) hold back in the sky, but a freaking cab ride? F**K THAT! I don't really remember it, but the others told me our Asian driver rolled down his window while laughing uncontrollably. This confuses me. Perhaps Asians enjoy the smell of such things. Somebody get back to me on this. This was HTBTM #6

When we checked in at the Tropicana (aka the s**thole hotel/casino we brilliantly chose to call home for three nights), the four of us followed through on a completely unoriginal idea that was settled by an in-flight coin toss: we would put $50 on a spin of the roulette wheel. The coin told us to bet on black. The coin was a f**king genius. Up 50 bucks...and we hadn't even dropped our bags in our rooms. Rawhide. This was HTBTM #7.

The path to our rooms included a pit stop: the Tropicana sports book (aka Leroy's). Let me tell you, this is the most pathetic excuse for a gambling parlor on the face of the earth. Most residences on Cincinnati's Westside have nicer setups in their basements. Small room, six 25' TVs, a dry erase board displaying the current odds (as opposed to a digital board, like everywhere else), cigarette burns on the seats, and two (sometimes three) grizzled, chain-smoking employees dressed in referee jerseys.

For some reason, I only remember Matt joining me the first time we entered Leroy's. Our reaction was identical: You've gotta be kidding me. I mean, I knew we weren't staying at Mandalay or the Bellagio, but f**k, I was embarrassed to be staying at this turd. That was my initial reaction until I realized it doesn't matter where you stay in Vegas. Plus, like myself and Colly, Matt is an incredible smart ass. Let the three of us watch Schindler's List together and we'll be laughing the whole time. As for Party Dan, well, he picks his spots to be a jackass (it's usually after 14 whiskey drinks), but he certainly doesn't disapprove of our actions. Party Dan always brings a lot to a party/vacation, even when he's just laughing at idiots; the guy is never (EVER) in a bad mood. For example, he probably lost more money than all of us combined and it never affected his--or our--mood., Matt and Leroys: as he and I joked about the lame ref uniforms, one of us decided to start calling the employees "Sags," after a family of well-known referees from Cincinnati, the Sagers', who are simply known as Sags (pronounced "segs"). Does that make sense?

Anyway, this was HTBTM #7. We wore out the "Sags" joke for the entirety of our stay. The primary victim, a sixtyish man named Ron, was happy to see us go. I think he thought we were funny, but we provided more action than Leroy's had seen in years. Every time we showed up, he looked like he was going to have a heart attack any second. But f**k him, he shouldn't have smoked three packs of Winston's a day for the past 45 years, you know?

Leroy's note #1: When I said we wore out the "Sags" joke over the weekend, I didn't properly explain myself. Every sentence spoken to Ron started and ended with "Sags." Generic example: "Sags, who do you like in the Derby, Sags?" Another: "Sags, do you think I should make nice with a prostitute, Sags?" Yet another: "Sags, do you think it should be illegal to play with the New York Giants in the original Tecmo Bowl, Sags?" It went on and on.

On Saturday afternoon, Matt, Party Dan and I showed up at Leroys to place Derby bets, and Ron asked if we were going to give him s**t again today. We gave him a collective "Sags, what are you talking about, Sags?" He rolled his eyes, dismissed Party Dan and Matt (even called them good guys), and singled out me and the "other guy." Colly was the other guy. I was excited to tell him. This was HTBTM #8

Leroys note #2: The yelling of "Sags" wasn't relegated to inside Leroys. In passing, it became commonplace to scream "SAGS" inside the sports book. In fact, it was sacrilegious NOT to scream it. This was HTBTM #9.

Leroys note #3: Ron never asked why we called him--or any other Leroys employee-Sags. This was HTBTM #10. I can't wait to go back to see Ron's reaction the first time I call him Sags. Because there's no way he'll forget. Similar to a Vietnam flashback, I'm suppose.

Leroys note #4: The place was always dead...maybe five people tops during the middle of the day, but it was never completely empty. The reason: a mid-to-late thirties Steel Reserve-drinking alcoholic. He sat in the back row (or sometimes the first, but-oddly--never in the middle) with his leg crossed and a blank stare on his face. He was the Norm of Leroys, you know, minus the jokes and pleasant company. If I wasn't an a**hole, I would describe the scene as depressing. His liver couldn't have much time left. Hell, I'd take him in a death pool before I took Jack LaLanne. Steel Reserve Guy was HTBTM #11. Anyway…

Note: At this point, I drank nothing but vodka/Red Bulls for the rest of Thursday.

Note #2: I drank less than fifteen beers for the trip.

After a shower, I met Party Dan at the Tropicana blackjack tables. He had only played a few hands at a semi-empty table when I joined him. Almost immediately, I wanted to leave. The dealer, Timaye, was one of the meanest people I've ever met. After my first win-a $10 f**king bet--she started bitching because I didn't tip her. And I'm not exaggerating one bit. I mean, who in the hell does she think I am, goddamn P. Diddy? I'm staying at the Tropicana, you know? And I'm at a $10 table. The nerve on this broad, I tell ya. F**k Timaye! Really. If it weren't for the two obnoxious cokeheads we met, Timaye would rank as the most hated person I encountered on the trip. Or maybe anywhere. But there was a good thing about the situation with Timaye: it's not exactly in my personality to stand up and walk away to another table. I was just like Ferris Bueller (or more accurately, Abe Froman) at the fancy restaurant in downtown Chicago, refusing to give in to that red-headed douche bag. I mocked Timaye for the twenty minutes we were there (hopefully hurting her feelings) and I stood up with $200 in my pocket. And I didn't tip her a f**king dime. I win.

P.S. I didn't like Timaye. This was HTBTM #12

We headed to the Venetian to bet on sports, mainly Golden State, who would later take care of Dallas in game six. That was my first time in a real sports book, and Jesus, I didn't want to leave. Big screens everywhere, free drinks, and it never hurts to have significant action on the biggest game of the night. Before G-State buried the Mavs in the 3rd, it was a game of big swings, and the crowd reacted to every basket. I'd never want to go to Vegas for March Madness but I imagine it's positively nuts on days one and two. This was not an HTBTM, but it was worth noting.

Note: Thursday night was the first time (out of four) I ate Chinese food in Vegas, at a place called Orient Express (Orient clever) located inside the Venetian.

The names of Chinese eateries never cease amusing me. Example: China Food, which is the actual name of a chain restaurant with multiple locations in the greater Cincinnati area. You know what? I'm moving to China and opening a hot dog stand called America Food.

Speaking of Asians, I was blown away by the number of them out in Vegas. Ditto for hot, 19-21-ish girls, too. But Asians-Jesus! Listen, I'm one of those people that believe 90% of all stereotypes. And since 80% of the 90% happen to be (at least partially) true, I feel okay about my life. So even though I knew-at least based on stereotyping-Asians loved to gamble, I had no idea they'd be everywhere. And by "everywhere," I mean EVERYWHERE. Which is actually a good thing, because I gots a thing for them Asian girls.

The rest of the night was a blur...

I remember walking up and down the strip. I remember my right achilles tendon hurting like hell (it still does). I remember Colly's volume increasing by the second. I remember spending time at Casino Royale because Dan insisted it was some sort of hidden gem (I thought it was a pile of junk). I remember Colly playing Caribbean Stud, despite never picking up on the rules (he played for thirty minutes). I remember Colly taking pictures inside the casino even though a woman behind the counter-located five feet from him-shouted over and over, "YOU CAN'T USE A CAMERA IN THE CASINO!" I remember not wanting to be there, probably because I lost $100 in fifteen minutes. I remember, on our way out, convincing Party Dan and Colly to put $100 on black. I remember winning that $100! I remember being terrified of Colly as we walked down the strip, because he unknowingly had red stuff on his hands (from a blender drink that tasted like a fruit rollup), and one of his signature moves is to smack his friends on the back, and I was walking in front of him, wearing a yellow shirt. I survived. This was one big HTBTM. #13, to be exact.

I don't remember any details after our time at Casino Royale, except for one: I was exhausted by 2:00. You can tell me all you want about oxygen being pumped into the casinos, and how the city is alive and bla bla midnight, I was running on fumes. I gambled and drank Red Bull (a goddamn energy drink!) all day long and I didn't have anything left in the tank.

Two texts I sent myself Thursday might further explain our late night experiences, but--then again-maybe not...

Text #1 (12:38 a.m.): Colly lost a bunch of cash and he's pissed--no worries-his shirt looks crisp so he'll probably meet several butt rimmers.

Note: Remember that game Colly and I play? Apparently it makes it into the world of texting.

Text #2 (1:01 a.m.): Colly is spittin and socked a nerds chair.

Note: I have no idea what this text means, although I'm sure Colly was out of control if I felt the need to document it.

As I went to sleep Thursday (sometime around 2:30), three things were on my mind...

1. How did I only lose $150.

2. Why did I only bet $100 on the Warriors?

3. My Uncle Bob. My Uncle Bob (aka Smart Uncle Bob) passed away recently and I think about him constantly. We were fairly close and he always took interest in my radio career. We occasionally talked about sports betting at family parties, because he knew I secretly had cash on whatever game was on TV (mid-season Sonics-Hornets game, Bowl, whatever). So, when he returned from Vegas for--I think-his first time (I was maybe 18 or 20), he pulled me aside and told me to go out there with a group of single guys. And he did so convincingly. Look, I knew Vegas would be awesome, and I'd obviously heard countless people say things similar to what Uncle Bob told me...BUT, something about the way he said it has always stayed with me. Over the past six years, I passed up dozens of Vegas opportunities, mainly because I was broke, but partially because it wasn't the right mix of people. This time, the group was perfect. My Uncle Bob was a wise man. Why else do you think he gave himself the nickname "Smart?"

Edit: Another thing I remembered from Thursday: Colly mixing it up with several tourists...

Example: He'd walk by a group (usually attractive Asian ladies or really REALLY old people) posing for pictures in front of a Vegas landmark (like the Bellagio fountains), and he'd ask the same question: "Are you going to post your pics on MYSPACE DOT COM?...which is always funnier when your asking 85 year olds. This was HTBTM #15.

Another 'Colly with tourists' example (this time in front of the aforementioned fountains): As people walked by, Colly would convince them he was about to jump off the ledge, complete two flips, and splash into the water. He even went so far as putting his foot on the wall like he was climbing up to perform his stunt. I believe he told them he was doing it for $10, and that the offer was too good to pass up. I wasn't surprised at the naivete of the passers by, but I was a little surprised with their kind-heartedness. Almost all of them were genuinely concerned for Colly's safety, pointing out the (likely) shallow depth of the water. I mean, if I saw a guy do something that stupid, I'm cheering for him to GO.FOR.IT! This was HTBTM #16.

That was Thursday. My Friday blog (aka Vegas part 2) will be posted soon. Stay tuned...


-Brad Spieser (

More Amazing Than Winning the Ohio Lottery

After spaghetti time will be nap time. After nap time will be writing about Ohio State time. In the meantime, listen to the new podcast. It's the least you can do for someone who very well could be dying of SARS (me).

Anyway, in the latest podcast, the one titled "random acts of amazing amazingness," you can enjoy several tales of actual things that have happened to me in my adult life. You might believe them, you might not, but they absolutely happened. Either way, I'm positive you won't care.

But listen. It's awesome and shit.

-Brad Spieser (

Sunday, December 2, 2007

I Hope You're an Ohio State Fan...

because I'm going to be more obnoxious than usual over the next month. And I mean, get ready for 5,000 word pieces about the genius of Anderson Russell (or whatever). It'll be bad. I promise. But what else would you expect?

I have very little to live for.

I'd write more about Ohio State now but I'm pretty sure I shattered my elbow last night as I drunkenly wrestled with my landlord. Don't ask.

One more thing about Ohio State before I go over my brother's house to eat various dips and salsas that my sister-in-law prepared: I don't care who they play in New Orleans. Really, I could care less. I'm pretty sure Georgia and USC are the two best teams right now, with Oklahoma right there with them. What that means is the Buckeyes will undoubtedly face an overrated LSU squad. But again, I don't care who they face. Bring on the '85 Bears. Bring on the '96 Bulls. Bring on fucking Sylvester Stallone. I ain't scared, I have Jim Tressel on my side.

And I'd follow Jim Tressel into hell.

Now if you don't mind I have to go listen to "Hang on Sloopy" a couple thousand times in my '98 Dodge Intrepid.

UPDATE: Yes, I know that Ohio State will face LSU in New Orleans. Yes, I know that I should have written more words about this. elbow still hurts like frick. Ohio State words are coming tomorrow.

-Horny White Boy (

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Locks of the Millennium

On November 14th, I was the only guy to say that Ohio State still had a shot at playing in the national championship game. In the weeks that followed--after my scenario started playing out--others started jumping on board. And by "others," I mean every goddamn college football writer in the Western Hemisphere.

So what does that have to do with my Locks of the Millennium?

Nothing, really. I just wanted to pat myself on the back for beating everyone else to the punch.

Okay, I do have a tie-in, and it's this: I'm terrified of Missouri. Actually, what's worse than terrified? Because I'm that.

The same day I posted my scenario of OSU making it to New Orleans, a reader, an Oklahoma fan, thought I was nuts to think OSU still had a shot. She also thought the Sooners were the best team in the nation. My response was this: I still think Mizzou's better than Oklahoma.

As one team after another started dropping (including her beloved Sooners), it became clear that the Missouri-Kansas winner controlled their own destiny, which meant that a win over Oklahoma in the Big 12 title game would secure their ticket to New Orleans. Which is why, my picks last week were made with my heart, and not my head. I knew Missouri was better than Kansas. In fact, I told everyone all week long that they were the play. But in the back of my mind, all I kept thinking was, "Oklahoma will murder Kansas, but Mizzou is a 50/50 game...please Kansas, beat Missouri. This is why I made the Missouri-Kansas OVER my lock last week instead of Missouri. It's usually a bad idea not to follow your gut instinct when wagering on sporting contests.

Because of this, I can't make Missouri my UPSET SPECIAL, although I think they have a great shot at beating Oklahoma. Believe me, I hope I'm wrong. I hope my guts have shit for brains. I hope Vegas is right for making OU a favorite today. Jesus, I feel like Red at the end of "Shawshank," with my endless string of "I hopes."

I hope.

Anyway, the picks:

NCAA: Oklahoma-Missouri OVER (65.5)

NFL: Jacksonville (+7) at Indianapolis

-Brad Spieser (

Friday, November 30, 2007

Sophomoric Humor Isn't My Intention Here

Once again, I need a smart person to tell me if I'm nuts...

When I urinate after eating tuna I swear to Christ that I can smell what I had just eaten. The thing is, it almost knocks me out; it's that strong. Am I crazy or is this just what is supposed to happen after downing a can of Starkist?

Again, sophomoric humor is not my intent; I just need to find out if this issue is specific to me. I'm not necessarily worried, but then again I've never heard anybody else discuss this. Perhaps this is because tuna-scented urine isn't exactly a fun conversation. Who knows? Jesus, I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore.

Can someone just tell me if it's normal for my pee to smell like tuna?

That's all. Locks of the Millennium coming later.

-Brad Spieser (

Thursday, November 29, 2007

I Want to Die (I Want to be a Dead Person)


I'm sick. I'm sure it's nothing a triple dose of Robitussin won't cure, but in my world I practically have monkey pox.

Here's what I've done since I came home from work: nap; eat tuna; podcast; nap; eat spaghetti. And as I type these words all I want is to lay in my bed without brushing my teeth or washing my face. If any women (females between the age of 18 and 19) want to make me soup or cookies I will gladly accept--you can email me your best offer(s). The only thing keeping me from going night-night is what has become the most important thing in my life (I'll give you a hint: the important thing is a 6'10 African American playing amateur athletics in Kansas, America). It's worth mentioning that the Cowboys and Packers are currently battling for NFC supremacy and I hardly care; the SCORE ALERT feature on ESPN2's Bottom Line is enough for me. That's how much I enjoy watching this extremely tall fellow.


His name is Michael Beasley--I'm sure you've heard of him. He plays power forward for Kansas State and he's one of the ten best college basketball players I've ever seen. This isn't a projection, either. If he doesn't get any better for the rest of his career in Manhattan, Kansas, I will still feel this way.

Jesus, I can't stop coughing.

That's it, I don't have it in me to write any more. This is because I'm a giant pussy. But Beasley is so good that I needed my prediction to get out there before the rest of the planet jumps on board. I hope to write more about Beasley soon, but let me briefly say this if that never happens: Stop comparing him to Derrick Coleman! Just because they are lefties with similar body types doesn't mean they're the same player. And even if they do have similar skill sets--which, okay, they do--the difference in heart-size makes the comparison a stupid one. Beasley, like Coleman, will be the No. 1 overall pick in the NBA draft. Beasley, unlike Coleman, will become an NBA superstar, and not a forgotten waste of talent.

No more words about my new man crush.

Podcasting update: I just posted a new podcast, and it's titled "craig visits the shrink every two weeks." It's a pretty good look into the mind of a man who needs serious professional help. Actually, that's not true, but it is six-plus minutes of semi-entertaining noise. And I will say that the funniest/insensitive line in the history of podcasting (possible hyperbole) is the last line of the podcast. Go listen, people. And send me soup, dammit.

Oh yeah, I also posted a new poll question. Probably the most important decision one could ever make. And if you think both choices are gross, then I think you're a dope.

-Brad Spieser (

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Fact: I Am Not Young, Black and Famous

More and more, I find myself doing things that a typical blogger would. This makes me want to hang myself in front of my family at the annual Spieser Christmas party. Really, I can't tell you how much I hate posting links to someone else's work and suggesting that you read it. There's nothing necessarily wrong with people who do that, but it's just not me. Or at least it hasn't been me. Here's to hoping I don't become another lazy blogger. But if I do succumb to the seductive blogging world, I promise you it won't be long before I tie the noose. Please wear black to my funeral. And turn off your goddamn cell phone at the service!

But anyway...this article about Sean Taylor's death really opened my eyes. I've always known I wasn't young, black and famous, but Antrel Rolle's comments made me realize more than a profile mirror ever could.

When I decide to stop associating out with a friend, the only fear I have is bumping into them at a local bar. And even then I wouldn't fear for my life; I'd just cringe at the possibility of an awkward conversation.

I have no more words.

New podcasts should be posted Thursday. The operative word in the last sentence is "should." My friend Craig is the X-factor here. He's kind of like Dante Hall, with the only difference being height, skin color and checking account balance.

-Brad Spieser (