Henry's Trash Talk Express

In your face, John McCain. Again.

Shut up, I'm trying to watch the game

I never thought I'd be taking up for John McCain, especially while simultaneously scolding my beloved Rachel Maddow, but here goes:

There are pretty much three types of people at Super Bowl parties. (1) Some have no interest whatsoever in the game, but they like nachos and socializing. Some people (2) like those things as well, have a passing interest in the game, and are good at multi-tasking. The other kind of Super Bowl viewer is (3) someone who loves football and is really, really interested in the game. This kind of person often can't stand to have a bunch of commotion going on while he or she is watching the action and also trying to hear the announcers when a play is in dispute or other vital information is needed. We suspect Rachel is in none of the above categories, particularly the latter. However, the Madame and I are entrenched in category 3, as is, we suspect, John McCain. That's why we disagree with her assertion that McCain is snubbing Obama—and commiting a severe breach of etiquette—by declining the invitation to attend the White House's bipartisan Super Bowl party. Instead, he will watch the game at one of his six or seven houses.

If John McCain fell into either category 1 or 2, then I do think it would be in bad form not to attend Obama's shindig. But these are exceptional circumstances. John McCain is from Arizona. The Arizona Cardinals are from Arizona. The team was founded in 1898, back when McCain was just a teenager. The Cardinals have never won a Super Bowl (though they won the pre-Super-Bowl-era equivalent of it in 1947). So he has a more-than-passing interest in this game. He's a category 3, for sure.

Barack Obama (and Joe Biden) have been loud and clear about their support of the Steelers. By all accounts, the Steelers will win the game. Can you imagine what might happen if John McCain had to endure another in-your-face smackdown moment with Obama? The man is old and fragile, Rachel. Cut him some slack.




*Photo of Steelers running back Fast-Willie Parker, who hails from the Madame's childhood home.

Get a dentist to Panther Stadium. Stat!

When I saw this photo of the gargoylesque Panther guarding entrance to the stadium in Charlotte, I thought "Heavens to Mergatroid, would you look at those claws!" But then I zoomed in on the teeth. My god, man. That's an emergency tartar situation if I've ever seen one.

Sir Purr in trouble?

Not even the NFL is immune to the recession, with the league announcing it is canning 150 employees. One wonders if this trend will trickle down to the franchises and their mascots, like our own Sir Purr of the Carolina Panthers. Perhaps due to attrition, SP has been assigned administrative duties on top of his other responsibilities of shaking his corpulent belly at games (a record 331 times in 1 minute) and hugging people at will (451 per appearance). Surely this guy has earned his keep.

Basketball too?!!

Turns out, not only did the M&M leave me high and dry for the Panthers meetup, they also took in a game of Rat Basketball. Without me. Knowing how I feel about rodents! At least they were kind enough to take some video footage.

I give you .... Pepper Jack & Nacho, street style:

The 40-yard line! Are you kidding me?!

Tonight I'll be perched on the arm of the recliner watching the Carolina Panthers (9-3) and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers (9-3) battle in Charlotte for the top spot in the NFC South. I was going on and on about this and asking the Madame and Mister who's bringing the snacks and whether the fleece blankie is laundered and ready .... then they drop a bombshell. They're GOING TO THE GAME. Going to the game? When did they start doing that?

So I put my nose in the air and huffed off, thinking they'll be in the cheap seats, hemorrhaging from the nostrils, while I get to see the close-ups and instant replays and that oh-so-handy yellow line on the screen. And I won't have to wait in line for a bathroom. But I can still hear them talking in the other room: .... blah, blah, blah ...... seats on the 40-yard-line .... blah, blah, blah .......what an incredibly nice gift that was ... blah, blah, blah...too bad we can't take Henry, you know, what with her being the biggest football fan in the house.

I hope it rains. No, I hope it snows. No, sleet. Yeah, sleet. And 40 mile-per-hour winds.

ffffffffftttttttttttttt!!!!!

The A-11 Offense: truly offensive

I know a lot of you are probably screaming: "Less politics, more football and fashion!" Seems lately I have to get riled in order to be inspired, and politics is an easy target (I'm lazy at heart). I almost posted about Kenley's ghastly "hip hop" outfit on Wednesday's Project Runway, but it would've been like shooting fish in a barrel. Finally, I gleaned something from the world of sports that is worthy of my razor-sharp claws.

Some smart-ass coaches at a California high school are playing football in a downright un-American way. They've created "the A-11 offense," which in essence means that on any given play, all 11 players are eligible receivers.

Says Steve Humphries, offensive coordinator for the Piedmont High Highlanders: "Football is so conservative. There's not a lot of strategy if you're just smashing 300-pound guys together in predictable ways. A-11 filters that out so everyone is active and nimble—like soccer."

Soccer!!??? What's great about American football is that it's not soccer.

Well, I don't give a whit about high school football, though I do love their marching bands. So I thought, big deal. Until I read that college coaches and even—gasp—NFL coaches are giving this strategy a looksee. The S.F. 49'ers reportedly incorporated aspects of the A-11 into their punt plays. Anathema! I took comfort, however, in this blogger's comments: "...this is something that can happen in college football and not in the innovation-hostile NFL."

Thank you. That's what I want from the NFL—hostility, not innovation and cleverness, no matter what this mathlete says:

"Anything that adds permutations, but also adds mystery about pattern makes this more complicated to decipher," says John Lindhe, a mathematician at Northeastern University in Boston. "Football has all these gimmick plays—Statue of Liberty, hook and ladder—that are seldom seen because they're very decipherable."

I have a hard enough time following the ball on a TV screen. I don't want to not know where the ball is even more than I do now.

I hope that when I awake from my next nap, this will have all been a dream.

Marco! Polo!

At first glance, I thought this diagram was a guide to calisthenics. Turns out, these are referee gestures for the sport of water polo. Water polo? A sport that Henry's Sports Dish is not familiar with? Do tell!

A Spectator's Guide to Water Polo laid it out for me: the sport is "a combination of swimming, lacrosse, soccer, ice hockey, rugby, Australian rules football, and professional wrestling. Actions such as pushing, pulling, grabbing, holding, and even sinking a player are not only likely to occur during a game, they are actually legal and encouraged under some circumstances."

A sport where one team tries to drown the other? HSD is totally on board. As luck would have it, the men's polo teams of Spain and Canada will be trying to asphyxiate each other Saturday night in Beijing. I thought only the NFL could satisfy my blood lust. Those wusses. At least they get to breathe while playing.

Detroit hockey fans: Two paws down!

When I heard about the tradition of Detroit Red Wings fans lobbing octopi onto the ice during playoff games at their home stadium, first I thought: Why? And then I thought: We are talking about stuffed animals, aren't we? But then I heard on the news that the arena's zamboni driver has been threatened with a $10,000 fine from the NHL if he swings any hurled octopus over his head in celebration. The reason? Bits of octopus might get on the floor and trip up a skater. Then I realized ... these aren't the fluffy innards of a kids toy. We're talking gooey bits of boiled cephalopod.

I know that people eat octopus. Eating is necessary. I do it myself. But pranks that waste food, especially food-with-a-face, are abhorrent, and you humans should be ashamed. This applies to people who make sculptures out of Spam, talk-show hosts who catapult cutlets and Mythbusters who blast pig carcasses to test some infantile ballistics theory. Every year, some 15 million children around the world die of hunger. Could you look even one of them in the face and explain how you squander the very resource that would give them life?

Dan Wholey, a Pittsburgh fishmonger, announced that he won't sell octopus to any Red Wings fans. And I thought, good for him. Then I learned the reason for his moratorium. It's not because he doesn't want to see such an end come to a creature that can remove a jar lid to retrieve treats hidden inside. No, it turns out Wholey's a fan of the Pittburgh Penguins, who will battle the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup finals this weekend in Detroit. He doesn't want to make it any easier for Red Wings fans to show their "team spirit."

In the name of all that is holy, people: Stop playing with your food. Or at the very least, when you're done playing with it, eat it. That's what I do.

Bill Belichick: Classless to the End, First-Class Jerk, The Spoiledest of Spoiled Sports

Sometimes the other cats in this house have what we like to call "The Smackdown." Smilla the Sasquatch and Pickles the Pounder (their WWE wrestler names) face off in the hallway and body-slam each other like there's no tomorrow. But when it's over and the fur has settled, they come together and rub noses to show there are no hard feelings.

New England Patriots Coach Bill Belichick, the man who began this year's NFL season laden by a record half-million dollar fine for cheating, had an opportunity to show an ounce of class after the New York Giants handed the Patriots their hineys in the Super Bowl tonight. Instead, in the post-game interview, he acted like a 3-year-old whose sand castle had been kicked in. In fact, I think he acted WORSE. He could've sucked it up for the camera and been gracious, congratulating the Giants on their win. The interviewer even had the perfect opportunity to prompt him with a meaningful question (a novel idea, huh?) such as: Do you have anything you'd like to say to the Giants?

Now I'll admit, there's nothing more disappointing than seeing your sand art get ruined, that is if you're THREE YEARS OLD. But Belichick is 55. Even with the whopping financial penalty that was levied against him, he still reportedly makes about $3.5 million a year. He could have jewel-encrusted pancakes for breakfast every day if he wanted to. Surely he could cough up a few pennies for charm school lessons.

In spite of what I realize is a devastating loss, Bill Belichick's team won a staggering 18 games straight this season. When asked what he'd say to his team, I think he mumbled something like: Um, snuffle, blah, mumble. Might I suggest: "You guys played your hearts out this year. You've got nothing to be ashamed of."

Pickles and Smilla: I'm proud of you both. You display impeccable sportsmanship.

Bill: A big, fat, slobbery tabby-cat raspberry to you.

Oh, and Eli, Plaxico, Michael S. and all the other Giants*:
Congratulations. There are five cats and two humans in this house who are swelled with pride!


*To Giants Coach Tom Coughlin: If you can prove that your personality reform is more than just an engineered public-relations stunt, I may congratulate you one day as well.

To the person who bet $100 on the Giants 17-14, can I borrow a million dollars?

'preciate it.

News Update: "Henry The Cat" will live-blog Super Bowl XLII's fashion faux pas and all things absurd

Due to the overwhelming response to Henry's Sports Dish™ Vol. I (readers from 48 states stopped by to check on Tom Coughlin's frostbite and to read my critique of the Fox commentators), I have realized there is an audience hungry for more of the same. Technology willing, I will be live-blogging Super Bowl XLII, commenting on fashion do's and don'ts and other inappropriate displays and utterings.

These are situations I'll be monitoring with particular interest:

• What, pray tell, will Archie Manning will be wearing? It is my hope that the man will put on a New York Giants shirt! I was aghast when I saw him sitting in the box at the Giants-Packers NFC championship game wearing an Ole Miss shirt. Was his Giants shirt in the laundry hamper? Is Eli Manning that much of a second-string son? Or is old Arch living in the past, making sure the world remembers from whence he came. Let's hope he doesn't yell out "Go, Rebels!" every time New York gets a first down.

• Based on average temperatures in Phoenix for this time of year, it will probably be around 60 degrees outside. But weather won't affect participants anyway, as the game at the University of Phoenix stadium will be played sous la roof. The lack of a chill will make the Fox analysts' headgear less interesting. But you never know what might turn up on Terry Bradshaw's head. Keep the faith, fashionistas.

• Because it won't be six-ways-from-Sunday cold, Tom Coughlin will not have frostbite. However, if he's been hanging out in the tanning bed with Rudy Giuliani this week, he might have a lovely case of raccoon eyes (did you see Mister 9/11 on the Florida campaign trail? Rudy, call your stylist, stat!). At the least, Coughlin might have a booger hanging out of his nose.

Obvious Pigskin Prognostication #1:

Pumpkinhead? Mousse. Lots and lots of mousse.

Fashion Wild Card:

Tom Petty.

Tom Brady doesn't need your bracelets

Tom Brady has been spotted limping around with his foot in a boot brace. Talk show host Stephen Colbert challenged his audience the other night to buy and send as many of his "Wrist Strong" bracelets as possible to Tom as a show of encouragement and support (after all, Colbert says, the ankle is really just the wrist of the foot).

What Tom needs is high-carbon steel or whatever it is that 'bots are using to repair themselves these days. Did you see the last episode of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles? Tom probably killed some scientist for his eyeballs. It took him a while too, because it's hard to find a scientist with bedroom eyes. Tom will grow a new foot in time for the Superbowl. Send the bracelets to Eli Manning. He's the one who needs them.

Tom Coughlin's Frostbite

I know it's late to be blogging, but I couldn't sleep. I could not stop worrying about Tom Coughlin's frostbite. When I close my eyes, his blackened cheeks are all I see. I had to get up, come in here, boot up the computer, log on and google "Tom Coughlin" and "frostbite" just to see if someone else was obsessing about it. Someone else is! Thank you Wilablog. I now leave this matter in your capable hands.

Henry's Sports Dish, Vol. 1

All text ©2008, Henry's Sports Dish™

“Look Ian, she’s lying in my lap. She NEVER does that!” Yes, Carla, I was “resting” in your lap. Don’t get used to it. I’m not a lap cat. People are not beds. I stand on people. I walk across people. It's just that it was gonna be a long day of football, and you were in my seat.

I was most interested in the NFC championship, but I just had to watch the Chargers game beforehand. See, I love Ladainian Tomlinson. He has the best dimples in the NFL. And of course he’s a superb running back. But he also seems like a really nice kid. He loves his mama. He performs numerous acts of charity in the community. I think he might be Michael Vick’s (for lack of a better word) doppelganger. Ladainian is either really genuinely sweet, or he has a crackjack PR agent, unlike Vick, who doesn’t even have a stylist. If he did, he’d have nixed the facial hair and adopted at least a neutral expression on his way in and out of the courtroom. He looked really mean. He looked like a guy who not only kills dogs, but then hunts down their parents and grandparents and offs them too.

But I digress. The Chargers lost, predictably, to the superhuman Patriots (I hope it won't constitute a spoiler to inform you that Tom Brady is a robot). I had to keep watching, even after Ladainian was sidelined after only three plays. You never know, New England, cybernetically empowered as they are, could lose. And Paula Abdul could have a moment of lucidity. Keep hope alive, people!

Like lemmings, the Green Bay Packers followed San Diego over the the precipitous cliffs of Not-Going-to-the-Superbowl Mountain. But, as always, the Fox pregame show didn’t disappoint, thanks to the perennial asses pictured above. The Spice Boys kicked off the show by talking about the weather. To wit, it was -1 degrees F at Lambeau Field with a wind chill of 20 below.

"What happens in cold weather is things shrink," says Terry Bradshaw, giving a shoulder-butt to Curt Menefee. "He usually wears a 58 inch jacket but today he's wearing a 48."

Har, har.

Then Howie Long says:

"If you leave your dog outside for three hours in this kind of weather, they will lock you up for cruelty to animals."

(What a douchbag. Maybe if Howie had given counsel to Michael Vick years ago, things would have turned out differently for him: "Now Mike, if it’s Arctic cold outside, your dog can survive without shelter for two hours and 59 minutes, tops. Sixty seconds longer, and you’re up the river. Oh, and don’t strangle, shoot or drown them.")

Then Jimmy Johnson holds up a glass that he's just filled with water.

"Let's see how long it takes before it freezes!

(Oooooo. A magic trick. I'm rapt.)

The segment ends with everyone teasing Curt about his not wearing a hat.

Here's the way I think the championship-eve IM’ing played out on the Fox NFL Sunday's AOL Buddy List.

Howie:

OK guys, it’s going 2 B be cold 2morrow. Let’s B sure we don’t show up in the same hats.

And before anyone has a chance to type anything, he writes:

I call dibs on the trooper-trapper hat. No one else on the panel but me could rock one like Frances McDormand.

Then Jimmy screams:

I'M GONNA WEAR ONE OF THOSE CUTE HEADBAND-THINGIES THAT BILL BELICHICK ALWAYS WEARS.

Scrambling for traction, and to ensure that no one in the entire stadium will upstage him, Terry types:

I’m wearing a golf hat. On top of a doo-rag. Rock that, Howie.

To which Curt, left with a choice of a crocheted knit cap or wizard hat, replies:

Screw it. I’m going cranial-commando!

For the record, by the time they went to the first station break, Curt had his scarf wrapped around his jughead like a Russian peasant lady.

I think it’s about time the NFL had a fashion critic. I’d like to throw my fedora into the ring. I could be the sportsworld's equivalent of those chicks over at GoFugYourself.com.

By the way, guess who ended up with the knit cap?

Pam Oliver.