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Check out Rod’s podcast and blog: The Black Guy Who Tips
Follow Rod on Twitter: @rodimusprime

Tyler, describe this bitch up:

Based on today’s intro, you might come to the conclusion that I was intoxicated. Not so! Just, really ridiculous. Also realizing I am in somewhat desperate need for a co-host. Please send me your applications.

[Note: This was recorded earlier and delayed]

After I talk about how much Drake sucks, and how lame my neighbors are, I welcome the silky-voiced assassin bokeen (@bokeen) to talk about why the college game is so much worse than the NBA.

Tyler and I are the Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen of podcasting. As such, I am growing a hi-top fade. Tyler better shave his damn head.

(Left to right): Jimmer Fredette, 2011 Men’s College Player of the Year; Derrick Rose, favorite to win the 2011 NBA Most Valuable Player award. These guys are the best in their respective games. I rest my case.

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Tyler, get your description on:

Sports themed podcast today, and it’s a beauty. I am furious over the NHL’s ruling on the Zdeno Chara hit on Max Pacioretty that broke his net and left him severely concussed. Air Canada has also threatened to pull out of its sponsorship agreement with the NHL if immediate action isn’t taken on head shots. I’m joined on the show by the silky voiced, NBA aficionado, bokeen (@bokeen) to talk about how sick I am about talking about the Miami Heat. Pretty hypocritical, huh? Kenny Norton (@KennyNorton), Derek Masters (@drockfilms), and “Randy Savage” are on next to talk about old school WWF Wrestling. Not WWE, because that shit is lame.

Tyler and I are like Siskel and Ebert, but much younger and with fatter balls. Also, neither of us is dead.

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Tyler – go:

Big.. JUICY.. podcast this week. I don’t bore you with details, and get right into Oscars talk with Lucas Walker (@WalkerLucas). Next I talk to Paige Raquel (@paigeraquel) about celebrity gossip, specifically the trials and tribulations (no pun intended) of Lindsay Lohan. Resident NBA expert bokeen (@bokeen) comes on to talk NBA Trade Deadline.. and of course make fun of Baron Davis. ENJOY!

Juicy indeed. You know what else is juicy? Your panties after listening to Tyler and I speak.

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Run it, Tyler:

After taking the best holiday in Canada (Family Day) off, I’m back to podcasting! I talk about the turmoil in Libya, fat pets, and a man with over 30 wives and over 90 children! I also adress the state of web series "Hello Phoenix, with a new episode coming tomorrow! I have posted the first 2 at the bottom of this post. bokeen (@bokeen, bokeen.com) joins to discuss the NBA All Star Weekend, as well as the much awaited conclusion to the Carmelo Anthony saga.

Tyler and I have impressive masculine voices that would make James Earl Jones jealous. Listen to this podcast with your girlfriend, and watch her nipples get hard.

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Tyler’s summary of the episode:

“In today’s show Tyler Conium further addresses the protests in Egypt, as well as criticizes the Catholic Church for releasing a “Confession” app for the iPad. Author, digital artist and filmmaker Joshua Murphy (@element3media, http://drinkinganddebauchery.tumblr.com) joins to discuss his new book "Drinking & Debauchery" and his upcoming film "The Heroin Derivative" based on the book. bokeen (@bokeen) comes on to discuss the ridiculousness of headbands in the NBA, as well as many other basketball topics.

Tyler and I both have silky-smooth voices that will surely arouse you, in the sexual way.  I recommend that you keep a roll of paper towels nearby as you listen.

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I am sure that millions of people tuned in to the closing ceremonies to watch the elaborate parade of athletes with funny European names smiling and waving.  I imagine that silly national anthems were played, and that Bob Costas said very positive things.  I assume that a torch was involved and that viewers felt a heartwarming sense of national pride.

The extravagant pageantry of the closing ceremonies is thoroughly uninteresting to me.   In fact, I despise the Winter Olympics as a whole. 

I can relate more to the summer games, since I have actually participated in many of the summer sports.  The sports in the Summer Olympics are simply more accessible.  If I want to play basketball, I can purchase a ball and a pair of sneakers and go to a nearby schoolyard.  A desire to run 400 meters could be quenched by stepping outdoors, after phoning the British Empire to determine how far 400 meters is.

If my friends and I wanted to play tennis, we would break into a Bimmer and steal the racquets from the trunk.  Then, we would steal a tennis ball from my neighbor’s dog.  As a child, we referred to this procedure as “Instant Tennis.” 

The Summer Olympics are sexy. The Winter Olympics feature German broads with guns.

When I have an itch to play volleyball, I can head to North Avenue Beach, if the weather permits.  As an added bonus, I would get to see dozens of pairs of exquisite female mammary glands in their glistening, bikini-covered glory.  If I wanted to play baseball, I could purchase a ball, bat and glove at Target, call a few friends, and head over to the nearest park.  Unfortunately, I have the debilitating handicap of retarded ambidexterity which forces me to throw a baseball with the same hand that is most comfortable for wearing a mitt, so I do not play baseball.  Clearly, God hates me. 

In comparison, participation in winter sports is a logistical nightmare.  They require snow, which is only present in Chicago for three to six fucking grueling months each year.   For most of the year, participating in winter sports is not an option.  In addition, winter sports require a significant capital investment in the form of highly specialized equipment.

When I was a kid, snowboarding was still an emerging spot struggling for mainstream legitimacy.  I had a few friends who would snowboard from time to time, but they were mostly spoiled little bastards.  Snowboarding is a sport which requires expensive equipment and periodic vacations to picturesque, snow-covered hills.  My family did not go on vacation when I was a child.  My parents both earned modest incomes, and most of their money was spent on alcohol, anti-depressants and the payment of whatever fines had been assessed to me in juvenile court.

My friends and I never went skiing, bobsledding or figure skating.  If one of my friends invited us to luge, we would have played “Smear the Queer” instead, pummeling the poor lad in the genitals until we eliminated any chance that he would procreate in the future.  The notion that we would have the desire, let alone the funds to acquire the necessary equipment to luge was obscenely offensive.

Creepy-looking speed skater Apolo Ohno wears gloves with gold fingertips. Also, he is still perfecting his “jazz hands.”

Speed skaters wear special gloves with reinforced fingertips to prevent their precious digits from inadvertently being sliced off by the razor-sharp edge of a competitor’s ice skate.  I briefly scoured the Interwebs to learn the cost of these sturdy gloves, but my searches were unsuccessful.  Apparently, this type of equipment is made exclusively for professional skaters and is not available to the general public.

It is safe to assume that such exclusive gear is very pricy, and that many amateur speed skaters have bled to death after having their finger sliced open while practicing.

Most kids never participate in winter sports, due to these absurdly high costs.  As a result, I perceive the Winter Olympics as games of privilege, dominated primarily by Caucasians with wealthy upbringings. 

Alpine skier Lindsey Vonn was skiing at the age of two.  When I was two years old, my parents were scrubbing my feces out of cloth diapers because they were too fucking broke to afford disposable diapers.  Clearly, I have nothing in common with the athletes at the winter games, so I have a hard time giving a shit about them or their extravagant sports.

The Summer Olympics, on the other hand, are far more relatable for the average person.  For many summer sports, the list of required equipment is short, consisting of “shoes” and “legs.” 

An athlete need not be a part of exclusive club of caviar-eating, summer-home-owning, Anglo-Saxon Protestants to be successful in the Summer Olympics.  This assertion is supported by the fact that track and field events are routinely won by athletes from African countries that lack luxuries that we take for granted, such as clean water and the Malaria vaccine.

These common tales of athletes from impoverished countries overcoming adversity make the summer games inspiring.  The winter games are an exposition of rich athletes participating in sports that I cannot connect with.

The best example of this is the biathlon, which features the curious combination of cross-country skiing and rifle shooting.  I have never been compelled to ski with a gun, because the awkward mishmash of skis and firearms seems unnecessarily complex.  Inevitably, I would wear my rifle as a ski and blow my toes off, leading to the most gruesome biathlon injury in recorded history.  

The summer games offer an elegant simplicity, while the winter games are a convoluted mess of complex, expensive sports that I cannot summon enough energy to give a shit about. 

Furthermore, all winter sports involve snow and/or ice.  Snow and ice are the two most wretched substances in the entire universe.  I am unable to enjoy the Winter Olympics because snow is a total fucking bummer.  When I see snow, I instantly become angry; it usually means that I have to shovel pounds of the shit in order to move my car, and that I will inevitably fall on my ass.  This is a conditioned response that extends to watching television. 

(Whoever wrote the song White Christmas was a delusional asshole.  I hope he died a slow and extremely painful death.)

As I write this, thousands of athletes are taking their last opportunity to bask in the glory of the Olympics before packing up their medals and equipment.  Soon, they will return home, to places like Norway, Finland and Sweden.

In four years, many of these blond-haired, blue-eyed athletes will head to Russia to compete in the next round of the games.  Once again, millions of white people around the world will be transfixed on the games.  They will breathlessly follow the medal count, hoping that their country will be declared physically superior to all others. 

(I believe that this is how World War II was started.)

I will continue to be puzzled by the world’s collective fascination with the Winter Olympics, or as I call them “Crackers on Ice.”  Part of me wishes that the games would never return, though I can appreciate the quiet tranquility that occurs when millions of Americans are distracted by the events. 

For example, I acquired four new tennis racquets during the closing ceremonies last night.    

This may seem a bit hypocritical, as I recently decried celebrity news outlets for continually churning out mindless drivel.  I make an exception for the tales of Woods’ philandering, as two captivating storylines have been brought to the forefront by the burgeoning fleet of women that have taken turns serving as the golfer’s personal semen dumpster.

Thanks to Rachel Uchitel and her fellow skanks, America has been given a behind-the-scenes look into the sex lives of rich and powerful men.  Celebrities like Tiger hire experienced pussy wranglers to gather a collection of young dames eager for their chance to mount a famous penis.  The ladies are treated to top-shelf liquor and a fun night out, and the lucky lad gets to pick the gal (or gals) that he will bed.

The women are treated like cattle in this extremely organized and businesslike approach to sex.  It is quite similar to high-end restaurants that allow you to pick your lobster from a tank, or your preferred cut of porterhouse from a silver platter. 

(Several years ago, one of boqueen’s friends was recruited to be a part of Michael Jordan’s harem in Vegas.  While she is a woman of striking beauty, she was not selected to be one of the plump ex-superstar’s mates for the evening.  She felt quite fortunate to avoid an awkward situation, and, as an added bonus, she drank free Grey Goose cocktails all night long.)

"Your pussy is ready, Mr. Woods."

This is a fascinating glimpse of the daily lives of the wealthy and famous.  Apparently, when a man has great sums of money at his disposal, he can eschew the courtship of potential mates.  Instead, he can hire people to gather a few dozen women and have his pick of the litter.

This is precisely why the terrorists hate us.  For once, I actually agree with the bearded fellows running Al Qaeda.  Such behavior is absolutely reprehensible. 

Another byproduct of the Tiger Woods mistress parade is the damage to the man’s credibility, which I find thoroughly enjoyable.  

For over a decade, Tiger has been revered as a demigod.  Nike, Gatorade and the sports media worked tirelessly to craft his squeaky-clean image.  Certainly, he is the greatest golfer in the world, but we were lead to believe that he embodied perfection as a mixed-raced Christ of sorts.

The media gleefully co-opted the absurd storyline.  In 1996, Sports Illustrated named Woods “Sportsman of the Year.”  In the epic narrative, Wood’s late father states that he golfer would have a greater impact on the world than Gandhi, Buddha, or Nelson Mandela. 

The author briefly challenged Earl Woods’ boastful assertion before lending it credibility.

“Surely this is lunacy. Or are we just too myopic to see?” Gary Smith asked.

“We are witnessing the first volley of an epic encounter,” Smith continues, “the machine at its mightiest confronting the individual groomed all his life to conquer it and turn it to his use.”

In reading this, I quickly realized that humanity was short-changed by the unfortunate timing of Woods’ birth.  Perhaps, if he has born 50 years earlier, he could have killed Hitler and prevented the Holocaust.  Or, if Woods was around a few centuries earlier, he might have been able to end the exile of the Jews by knocking them out of the desert with his nine iron. 

Perhaps part of the obviously cartoonish portrayal of Tiger Woods is due to his intense desire for privacy.  We never learned who he was as a person, and his sponsors filled the vacuum.

Regardless, it always reeked of bollocks to me, which is why I relish in his downfall.  After 13 years of being told that Tiger Woods was a superhuman family man who was entirely beyond reproach, I am happy to learn that he is in fact, a fucking scumbag.

::

I will not write a sanctimonious piece about Woods’ infidelity or speculate on how he can repair his image.  The Interwebs are full of articles which take these angles and, frankly, I don’t give a shit.

Instead, I would like to focus on Woods’ questionable taste in pussy.

::

Soon after Tiger Woods plowed into a fire hydrant, a fleet of white women went public with their personal tales of mounting the golfer. 

I cannot understand his obsession with white women.  After all, he is married to a smoking-hot Swedish broad, and those people are whiter than any people in the known universe. 

Hey girl, I like your braids!

When cheating, one would expect Woods to seek some variety in his sex life.  For example, my girlfriend, boqueen, is black.  If I were to cheat on her, it certainly would not be with another black woman (in part because boqueen is the only black woman in the world willing to see my pasty body in the nude.)  Instead, I would pursue a more exotic sexual conquest, such as one of those blue broads from the Avatar trailers.  Those blue bitches are smoking hot. 

Instead, Woods kept his philandering inside of his comfort zone.  As a result, the lineup of skanks claiming to have been bedded by Woods resembles the charts that appear on the side of teeth whitening products.

One of the women stands apart from the rest.  To continue the whore-to-tooth reference, Mindy Lawton is the snaggletooth of the bunch.

Lawton provided graphic detail about her alleged affair with Woods.  She described sultry text messages and spoke about the size of Woods’ penis like only an elegant lady could.

Get your feet off of my blog, bitch!

I neglected to mention an important point: Mindy Lawton is a fucking sea monster.

As with all of the allegations made against Woods, Lawton’s stories may be true, or they may be the stories fabricated by a desperate woman hoping for her turn in the spotlight.  For the purpose this post, I will give Lawton the benefit of the doubt and assume that she is telling the truth, as that is the far more entertaining option. 

I cannot understand why a multi-millionaire – one of the most famous men in the world – would decide to bed such a grotesque creature.

While most of Woods’ mistresses range from “pretty decent” to “fully bangable,” Lawton is a downright ugly woman.  Her bulbous forehead extends to the heavens and is complimented by a wide, awkward shaped nose.  The dark bags of middle age underline her glassy gaze.  The curious girth of her upper arms creates an odd juxtaposition with her human-sized forearms and hands. 

The woman is a ghastly mutation of the human form.  Mindy Lawton is one of God’s mistakes. 

When I first saw Lawton’s picture, I was certain that she was a transsexual caught in an uncomfortable stage after his/her operations had begun, but before the gender reassignment was complete.   

Woods’ attraction to this beast is utterly incomprehensible.  Even if I were single, drunk, desperate and mentally challenged, I wouldn’t buy Lawton a drink, let alone engage in physical contact with her presumably disfigured genitals.

::

Famed celebrity-problem-troubleshooter Dr. Drew Pinsky suggested that Tiger Woods might be addicted to sex, explaining his shameful behavior.  This explanation is complete bullshit. 

The entire concept of “sexual addiction” is preposterous.  Sex is the single most enjoyable activity on earth.  If you do not agree, you are doing it wrong.

I would have sex 15 times per day if I was not certain that my scrotum would rupture from physical exhaustion.  Several times per day, an unannounced and unwelcome erection will magically appear in my jeans, despite the fact that I am more than a decade removed from puberty. 

My point is that sex is awesome.  If you are not addicted to sex, you clearly aren’t getting any. 

Sexual addiction is a convenient cop-out used to justify otherwise inexcusable behavior. 

When I learned first learned about Woods’ growing army of fuck-buddies, I assumed the man was a scumbag.  Once Mindy Lawton came forward, I reached a different conclusion: the man is stark, raving mad.  There is no other coherent explanation for his attraction to this androgynous blob of pale flesh. 

Clearly, Tiger Woods is not capable of making rational decisions on his own.  He is a danger to himself and those around him.  For the protection of society as a whole, he should be apprehended immediately – dead or alive.

Preferably dead. 

Last spring, I chronicled ten different reasons that explain my contempt for the Chicago Cubs.  I noted that I merely dislike most rival teams, and that there are few teams that I truly hate, aside from the Cubs.

The Notre Dame Fighting Irish are worthy of such scorn.  If I were to summon any more energy to apply towards my hatred of the Irish, I would surely perish from extreme physical exhaustion.

I would make a fat joke, but this picture speaks for itself.

On Monday, the beleaguered Irish dismissed a bulbous sack of human flesh named Charlie Weis, who has been serving as head football coach since 2005.  I was strongly opposed to this decision, as I enjoyed watching Irish struggle through a series of dismal seasons under the leadership of an overmatched, overpaid obese man.  I feel cheated knowing that the Charlie Weis era has ended in South Bend.

Fortunately, the Irish will inevitably continue to struggle and toil away in college football obscurity for several years to come.  I am eager to spend more time basking in the warm glow of this shining example of a college football program gone astray, because I fucking hate the Fighting Irish.

It is worth noting that I hate college sports as a whole, particularly football.  While NFL and NBA teams are stocked with the finest athletes in the word, college athletes clearly lack the talent level of their professional counterparts.  To me, college sports seem amateurish in comparison, and I cannot ignore the discrepancy in the quality of play. 

Furthermore, there are over 100 schools competing in Division I football, with a small number of top programs competing for the nation’s top prospects.  This results in the powerhouse schools routinely beating on bottom-feeder programs.  Lopsided games are not enjoyable.

Finally, college football is pure bullocks.  The BCS is a comically arbitrary system for selecting a national champion.  I refuse to dedicate any more words to the BCS, as it has already been discussed ad nauseam on the Interwebs.  

While it may seem that my disdain for college sports would bias me against Notre Dame, it does not.  I do not take issue with individual teams.  I am ambivalent towards the Alabama Crimson Tide, Perdue Boilermakers, TCU Horned Frogs and scores of other teams with absurd names.  As a Chicagoan, I neither root for nor wish ill will on the squads from Northwestern University, University of Illinois or Northern Illinois University.  I do not care about the success and failure of these teams, because I have no respect for the games they play to begin with.

My hatred for Notre Dame, however, transcends my distaste and disinterest in college sports.  

Without further ado, I am proud to present my list of the top five reasons why I hate the Notre Dame football.

::

5. They have an inexplicable connection to Irish-Americans
As I have mentioned before, bokeen is a traditional Celtic name.  Despite my family’s Irish roots, I feel very little connection to my Irish heritage.  In addition, I do not exhibit any of the symptoms of being Irish, such as having revolting red hair and sickly pasty skin marred with freckles.  Nevertheless, when making small talk, people tend to assume I am a fan of Notre Dame.

Monday evening, I shared this exchange with a pale white man in the checkout line at the supermarket. 

“Hey, that’s an Irish name,” he said after the cashier confirmed that the identity on my credit card and driver’s license matched, “So what do you think about the Charlie Weis thing?”

“Couldn’t care less,” I replied, hoping to avoid an inane conversation with the stranger. 

“Aren’t you a fan of the Irish?” he probed.

“No, I am not.  I think they suck and I fucking hate them.”

The man responded with a look of shock and horror, his eyebrows raised and eyes agape as if I had just bludgeoned his infant son to death with his puppy, killing the dog in the process as well.

I fail to understand how my Irish name is perceived as an indicator of my college football allegiance, as my heritage does not create some sort of deep, mystical connection with the university.  This is clearly a form of racial stereotyping.  I am certain that the man in the grocery store also assumed that I am a fan of the Boston Celtics, Jameson whiskey and that I consume at least three potatoes per day.   

Perhaps this stereotype is reinforced by the fact that the Irish’s mascot is cantankerous cartoon leprechaun.  Organized bands of hypersensitive ninnies have decried the use of Native American mascots and have experienced limited success in curbing the use of Injun names and images by sports teams.  Inevitably, a sanctimonious group of politically-correct pussies will band together and protest Notre Dame’s logo as a demeaning caricature of the Irish.  

The name “Fighting Irish” only serves to reinforce a negative stereotype about Irish people.   Namely, that they are all violent, drunken leprechauns.  If a similar name were applied to other ethnicities, such as “German Genociders” or “Mexican Landscapers,” controversy would surely ensure. 

Proposed decal for the new Notre Dame helmets.

While I typically find such protest to foolish, I welcome the day that Notre Dame is forced to drop the “Fighting Irish” moniker.  Perhaps they will select a masculine name that projects the strength of their football program.  I would like to suggest “The Shamrocks,” “Moribund Gingers,” or, my favorite, “Gold Hat Wearing Pussies.”

4. They are big smelly pussies
Most of the 120 Division I college football teams are organized neatly into conferences.  Every year, teams will play multiple games against opponents in their conference.  At the end of the regular season, some conferences host a game between the two best teams to determine a conference champion.  Other conferences employ a complex system to determine the conference champion based upon teams’ regular season records.

The system fosters rivalries between schools, since teams aligned with a conference are required to play a certain number of conference games each year.  In highly competitive conferences, the system can also help to ensure a number of quality games each year. 

Notre Dame eschews the conference system altogether, functioning as an independent school.  This affords the team a relatively easy schedule year after year.  For example, the Irish played only two ranked teams this year. Notre Dame plays at least one game each year against the Army or Navy military academies, both of which are particularly weak opponents. 

One might think that an annual cakewalk schedule would be a detriment to Notre Dame, as BCS rankings are determined by the combination of polls and computers.  This is not the case, as the school’s storied tradition becomes a factor in the rankings, despite the school’s obvious fear of competing like all other schools.  In addition, the rules used to select teams for BCS bowl games include a special exception for Notre Dame, as they are not eligible for the automatic berth enjoyed by the champions of certain conferences.

Due to these special concessions unique to Notre Dame, the school has very little incentive to join a big-boy conference.  This may change in the coming years if the team’s terrible performance continues and the mystique of the football program continues to erode.  By joining a conference and eliminating woeful teams from their schedule, the football program could reclaim the legendary status that the pompus bastards love to brag about.  Or, they could fail miserably and become an even larger national laughingstock.  I prefer the latter.

3. They are bat-shit crazy
In 2005, rookie coach Charlie Weis led the Irish to a 5-2 start and was subsequently rewarded with a contract extension which increased the term of his contract to ten years. 

Notre Dame was extremely generous in signing the unproven head coach to a large, six-year contract before the start of the season.  Notre Dame was completely fucking insane to extend the contract to ten years after Weis had coached only seven games. 

A ten-year contract for a head coach is absolutely absurd in any sport, particularly for a new head coach.  Ten years is an entire fucking decade.

For comparison, consider the contracts of Gregg Popovich of the San Antonio Spurs and Bill Belichick of the New England Patriots.  Both are considered the finest coaches in their respective sports.  Popovich has been with the Spurs for over a decade and has lead his team to four championships.  In 2007, Popovich’s contract was extended to five years.  Bellichick’s Patriots have appeared in four Super Bowls, winning three, since he took the helm in 2000.  In 2007, Bellichick was rewarded with a seven-year extension.

Weis’ extension proved to be a costly and irresponsible mistake, as Notre Dame paid approximately $18 million to buy out the contract. 

2. They are run by cracker-ass crackers
The timing of the decision to extend Weis’ contract is particularly questionable. His predecessor, Tyrone Willingham, lead the Irish to an 8-0 start in his first season.  In his third season, the Irish started 5-2 – the exact same record that earned Weis a contract extension.  

Willingham was not rewarded with a hefty contract extension.  Instead, he was fired after three years.

Another key difference between Weis and Willingham is the fact that Weis is a pale-colored mammal, while, believe it or not, Tyrone Willingham is black.  (I was surprised as well. I thought that Tyrone was a Swedish name.) 

I will not attempt to judge the coaching credentials of either man.  From all I can gather, both are miserable excuses for football coaches. 

However, it appears that the school had far less confidence in Willingham and Weis.  Willingham had a better start, but Weis was rewarded with a long-term contract.  Willingham guided the team to a 6-6 record after his third season and was fired.  Weis’ Irish posted a 3-9 record in his third season and kept his job for two more years. 

Willingham was not fired because he was black, but because he was a terrible coach.  Weis was terrible as well, but he kept his job due to credibility of being a white man. 

It is stunning to me that racism would play a factor in the decisions of an institution so closely aligned with such a judicious and loving organization such as the Catholic Church. 

(Before writing the previous paragraph, I struck several events from my mental record, including the Inquisition, inaction during the Holocaust and sexual abuse of young boys by priests.  Everyone deserves a mulligan.)

Art thou ready for some football?

1.  They are holier than thou
Notre Dame is a Catholic institution.  As such, they kind of have a thing for Jesus (no homo.)

In Notre Dame’s creatively-titled home stadium, “Notre Dame Stadium,” a large mural depicts Jesus Christ with his arms raised in the same manners that football referees use to signal a touchdown.

I have a hard time believing that the purported Lord and Savior of Humankind has any interest in football, let alone that he perfers Notre Dame. 

In fact, Jesus was born in the Middle East, so he would probably express a preference for the sports favored in that region.  I presume that Jesus would favor soccer, or the time-honored tradition of shooting a machine gun into the air and yelling “loo-loo-loo-loo!” 

While Jesus is best known as the “Prince of Peace,” he also took part in a good old fashioned protest from time to time.

Suggesting that a sports team is favored by God is rather pretentious, and the depiction of Jesus stoically signaling “touchdown” seems downright blasphemous.  

Remarkably, Notre Dame’s bombastic claim of divinity expressed in “Touchdown Jesus” was completely eclipsed by a statement by their former Athletic Director, Kevin White.

During the press conference announcing Tyrone Willingham’s dismissal by the school, White drew a direct comparison between Notre Dame and the Vatican, noting that Catholic Americans look to Notre Dame as a proxy to the Pope’s opulent crib.  (Unfortunately, I am paraphrasing.  I have combed the Interwebs for a video or transcript of the press conference with no success.)

White’s assertion that Notre Dame is comparable to the Vatican is clearly boastful bullshit.

I am heretically irreligious, but my Pollack grandmother is big on that Catholic shit. I remember that she had a portrait of Pope John Paul thy Deuce proudly displayed in her living room when I was growing up.  Many of her friends had similar photos or painting as well.  None of them had framed pictures of the Notre Dame Leprechaun, “Touchdown Jesus,” or former coach Lou Holtz.  In fact, I doubt that any of them gave nor currently give a fuck about an overpriced private college in Indiana. 

::

The school will hire an expensive, high-profile coach who will be tasked with rebuilding the program that Willingham and Weis left in shambles.  Recruiting will be the most difficult part.  I suspect that high school standouts will not be enticed by the opportunity to become a part of the troubled program.

While visiting recruits, the new coach will speak of Notre Dame’s tradition as a college football powerhouse.  The average 18-year-old athlete will rightfully be skeptical.  During his lifetime, Notre Dame has finishing with a ranking higher than 10 only three times.  The school last won a national title when the prospect was an infant. 

Top recruits will have a difficult time committing to a stodgy football program in the frigid Midwest over destinations such as Southern California, Texas or Miami.  Notre Dame’s next coach faces a seeming insurmountable challenge.  

Perhaps Touchdown Jesus will bless him with the luck of the Irish.