Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]
Coolest Person of the Day (or week or month or year, possibly):
Valerie Bertinelli, (former) wife of ex-Van Halen guitarist Eddie Van Halen, takes the honor simply for realizing how horrible she looked with him. She’s way too good for him and should have left him as soon as his one of his albums brought him the gold — selling a paltry 500,000 copies.
Eddie is one of those guys that looks like he stinks, literally. Something about gray-tinted skin and the countless infinitesimal wrinkles, wrapping around his neck up to his nose, that shouts "Ugh!" I'm guessing he'd smell like one of those people that just sweat alcohol — even when they haven't had a drink in three days, combined with unfiltered cigarettes and medium roast coffee. Old, stale coffee.
It was never cool that she was with him anyway. His band sucks, with or without David Lee Roth. If she had any sense, she would go for a handsome young buck in Little Rock with the heart of a lion and the sex drive of a toy Chihuahua.
... Accepting honorable mention for Coolest Person of the Day, posthumously, will be comedian Bill Hicks. Damn, he’s funny. If you’ve never heard of him, I’d suggest anything you can find, but especially Rant In E Minor.
Now, (drumroll please) here’s the...
Jackass of the Day (or week or month or year, possibly):
You know who you are. The news came Monday that your recruiting process is “in limbo.” I don’t know whether I should cry or, well, cry and scream expletives. You should be thankful I’m not of the screaming caste, but, dear God, you are tempting me.
Yeah, I’m talking to you, Mr. Mustain. Your audacity amazes me. Did you not see — or hear, for that matter — the crowd of 25,000+ that showed up to watch the 5A state championship? 25,000 fucking people. One quick note: They weren’t there to catch a good game. They were there to see this reputed football prodigy that made a commitment to attend our state’s pride and joy in Fayetteville.
I don’t care if you are the best high school player in the goddamn world. Furthermore, I don’t care if it’s in your best interest to attend Tennessee and work with one of the greatest quarterback coaches of all time. You made a commitment, and it meant so much to me and everyone in this state. Finally, the Razorbacks might — oh man, I don’t even want to say it — ranked?
Now, every drunken conversation I had in the bar is totally futile. I nearly made a USC fan cry and made him shudder at the thought of his team coming to Fayetteville next year to play us. “You’re gonna be sorry,” I said. “Those California surfer-pussies are gonna get stomped.”
I even had all your stats memorized. I could see the awe on others’ faces when they heard what I had to say. “Damn! He’s that good?” they would say. “Damn right, he is,” I’d reply.
Now, all I can think about is what I’ll do if you end up going to Tennessee and I, somehow or some way, see you after that decision. I would take great pleasure in stomping a mudhole in your ass.
Houston Nutt, a close second in the race for Jackass of the Day (or year, possibly), is even hiring your high school football coach, whom you love so dearly, to accommodate you. And what do you go and do? You just pissed on Nutt, your coach, your fans ... and me.
OK. I have to stop. First, I’m going to turn off Pantera. Then, I’m going to smoke a cigarette.
Ah, that’s better. Piss off, Mitch. And add a “g” to the end of your last name. It’s driving me nuts and it will make up for every time I’ve said “Mustang” when I’m drunk.