Great googly-moogly, it's hot (did I mention I was recently promoted to the rank of captain of the obvious? It's pretty sweet). As I type this sports mess, it's currently 94 and cloudy. Cloudy. If the sun peeks through it will cut like a laser beam and your body will explode in a mess of sweaty balls of fire. It is so hot (how hot is it?) that you can fry an egg on the sidewalk, my seat-belt buckle and in my pants. It's also the time when we celebrate our nation's independence by further aggravating possible heat stroke by spending the day outside hovering over a grill and blowing shit up. America ... F*** yeah.
So in the wake of drinking, sweating and possibly losing a finger, let's get you caught up on the world of Tampa Bay sports.
The USA is out of the World Cup after losing to Belgium, home of the big fat waffle, jeans shorts and ... waffles. And now, desperate pundits are wondering whether the patriotic hype, excitement and part-time hooliganism will transform this country into full-time soccer fans. Spoiler alert: No. Admit it, the only people tuning in at this point are the annoying elitist leftovers who spend the rest of the year frowning upon us uncultured American boobs for not fully grasping and appreciating the genius of the most popular sport n the world. The rest of us will watch the Rays, Jack Bauer and count the days until football season, where triple-zeroes means the game is over. Sorry, world. It's like the metric system: far superior in many ways, but we simply don't give a shit.
Your chances of winning the lottery are about the same as the odds of getting struck by lightning while on a date with Erin Andrews on a cruise ship to the moon ... after Labor Day. But you buy a ticket anyway, dontcha? That's the magical frustration of your Tampa Bay Rays, who decided to play like we all knew and hoped they could. They're fun to watch, a likeable bunch and as of Monday morning, pitcher David Price is still wearing a TB on his hat — unless it's that sissy little sparkly sun-flare or whatever the hell it is. As far as the post-season is concerned, like Jim Carrey said in Dumb and Dumber after that chick told him the odds of hooking up was one in a billion:
"So, you're saying there's a chance."
I'm in. GO RAYS
Okay, what else...that's it? Really? Looks like we're going to finish a little early today, kids.
Honorable Afterthoughts: Former Buccaneer and recent inductee to the Asshole Hall of Fame (also pro football) Warren Sapp allegedly gave a zero dollar and zero cent tip to a Florida waitress for calling him and his friends "boys." "Boys don't tip," was the note under the goose-egg in the gratuity line (apparently, boys file for bankruptcy, get arrested for domestic battery and verbally abuse autograph and photograph seekers — men don't); a veteran jockey named ... oh, what difference does it make. Anyway, he was pulled over in Ocala and tried to drive away with the officer partially inside his pick-up truck (he faces charges of resisting an officer with violence, driving with a suspended license and driving a vehicle without a tag ... or a phone book. HA! He's short!); and finally, while former Patriot and EX-Gator Aaron Hernandez awaits trial for the murder of three people, he's currently "Mr. July" in a Gators 2014 sports calendar (sexy!) — the calendar was approved months before his arrest, however Gator Nation has not experienced this kind of embarrassment since Brad Culpepper was on Survivor. I mean, that's what I heard. I don't watch that show. I do remember those aggressive and tenacious music videos, though. All I know is, if I ever need a lawyer, I'd rather call Lionel Hutz.
