For your entertainment pleasure...

-It you're looking for a new flavor of country to wet your whistle this summer, I highly recommend 'The Foundation" by Zac Brown Band. Especially their new song "Toes". Definitely something to take your mind off the summer grind, a la "Some Beach" by Blake Shelton, check em out.

More to come today...

Thank You Holy Favre!

-So finally, we get the report that first ballot HOF'er/Gunslinger/High School loving quarterback Brett Farve has finally decided to stay retired and not persue a shot as the signal caller for the Minnesota Vikings, and only two words can sum up what I think...

Thanks God.

It was bad enough that Favre turned himself into a walking novelty last season when he decided to (eh hem...) come out of retirement and join the New York Jets. Throwing 22 picks to go along with 22 TDs and be granted the clerical error of election to the Pro Bowl for the AFC (Matt Cassell, anyone?) If he were to come back, the man who has thrown the most interceptions and been sacked more than any active player at his time of retirement would have further damaged his reputation of being a rugged, southern, gunslinger with a pechant for forgetting plays and improvising with nerves of steel. Though I always thought that whiskey played some sort of part in it.

Now all things are in place. Brett Favre can cut grass, the Vikes can go about signing Michael Vick and watch to Brad Childress and his mustache travel the world and solve crimes.

On the brightside, some is about to get very rich...and possibly very arrested for fraud.

But hey, it's not like we haven't seen this before, with better special effects.

The Dog Days Are Upon Us

-Right after the MLB All-Star Game, before the start of NFL Training Camp, these are what we in the biz commonly refer to as the 'Dog Days of Sports'.

I can't tell you how much I hate these days. Like Lindsey Lohan hates rehab. Like Matthew McConaughey hates Right Guard. It's terrible, nothing really to write about, nothing going on to write about, nothing to even think to write about.

So it's hard to even find the want inside me to blog, but I believe that adversity proves character, rather than defines it, so the best thing to do it talke about the problem.

It's the time of the year that makes you try and do other things. I'm an avid fisher (by hobby) and golfer (by trade), but those can only take me so far. So what now? Knitting, no (not great with sharp things, it's hereditary). Reading, maybe (Does ESPN.com count?). Henna tats? Not that much of a hippie.

So tell me folks, what do you do during the Dog Days? And keep your minds out of the gutter, I like to think of this and a PG-13 show.

Just so people know...

So, apparently, the lil women wasn't happy about my foray into using Marissa Miller on my Cubs post (some people just can't appreciate works of art, I tell you). But anyway, per her giving me the silent treatment. I love her. She's my women. She's Rachael, check her out at...http://rachaelpostgrad.blogspot.com/.


Now, back to our regularly scheduled program...

The Cubs Stigma

-Cubs fans. Know them, love them, loathe them. Pick your poison.

It's always been easy for me to see what makes a person a Cubs fan, they are the lovable losers. The bridesmaids, the Pippen to Jordan, the AFC Title to the Super Bowl. Always close enough to root for, but never quite good enough.

So the story goes, everyone knows the curses. The black cat, the billy goat, Bartman. All their losing goes back to something that transcends sports. In a tight situation, it always seems to be something completely unrelated to the actual game that keeps them from getting to the next level. Like the Red Sox until circa 2004.

I know real Cubs fans. Those fans see all that as a joke. They know they are the lovable loser, they can't help it. They know that it all comes down to the game. That even if Alou catches the ball and Bartman stays in his seat, they still have two outs to get and a great Marlins squad that won the World Series to beat. That a billy goat and his owner have zero effect on balls and strikes. That God doesn't hate them for bleeding blue and white.

Even those that want to believe it say it with a touch of sarcasm. As my friend K.P. says it (best): "I know I shouldn't blame it on Bartman. But I do."

Then there are the fake Cubs fans. The ones that truly believe all the BS is true. God hates them, the world is designed against them. It's all a conspiracy. Those are the ones I frequently laugh at. They deserve it.

I've ventured to Chicago many a time. I find the city great, and, even with the White Sox winning a World Series three years ago, more and more Cubs fans everytime I go. But what else is it? No one can love a team for losing so bad right? It defies convention. No one is supposed to love a loser!!!! Is it the friendly confines of Wrigley Field? The beer? The fact that Boystown on N. Halsted provides entertainment outside the stadium?

But they do, and maybe that's what bring on more and more faithful to the Giant C. Other recognize the allegiance and decide to follow. Much like Red Sox Nation.

I guess, but it doesn't make them any better. Nor will it make that Word Series championship banner appear after 101 years of absence.

I guess their fanbase is the truest essence of the old addage that has been made famous by struggling squads and politicians...Wait 'Til Next Year.

Until then, fans of the Cubs, take solace that Marissa Miller has also worn a Cubs jersey. Much like Sandberg, Banks and Sosa (well...). Only wears it better.

An amazing development in the NBA

-ESPN.com reports that the Toronto Raptor's traded sharpshooter Jason Kapono to the Philadelaphia 76ers for Reggie Evans. An amazing one-player trade. Something of a dying art these days in the world of professional sports.

Every trade that seems to happen these days includes multiple players and cash, cows, oil fields and the kitchen sink. It's like a game of "How Much Can We Move Out?"

One player trades are a something you don't see everyday, with no strings attached.

One of the fairest comparison comes from Will Ferrell in Semi-Pro when his ABA team traded a washing machine to the Kentucky Colonels for Woody Harrelson. We laughed, but hey a kid got traded for maple bats a few years ago, and in the end, unfortunately, the bats got the better end of the deal.

Take pride Jason and Reggie, your part of a dying breed. Well maybe not you so much, Evans, have fun in the cold, eventually it'll numb that losing feeling.

When refs get too much credit

-So, I'm watching the NBA Finals tonight. I'm not usually an NBA fan (Clay Bennett ripped out my soul and poured Epsom in the wounds) but at least I can enjoy some hint of defense not normally seen in the League, and it's an added bonus that Allen Iverson is currently playing as many minutes as I am. Plus, being a future Western Kentucky University alumnus, I love watching former WKU guard Courtney Lee play while Adam Morrison and his porn-stache enjoy the view from the bench in a suit as cheap as his haircut.

But I'm watching, and about midway through the third quarter L.A.'s Lamar Odom goes for a loose ball with Orlando's Jameer Nelson and Marcin Gortat, subsquently Odom decided to be R. Kelly at a middle school dance and lay them both on the hardwood, pulling them to the ground. When the dust settled, Odom was called for a loose-ball foul.

ABC Play-by-Play guy and world-renowned coaching failure Doug Collins then enlightened all of us in T.V. land with his refereeing expertise. Saying the foul call was a "great call."

At that point, I reached Nirvana. Thanks Dougie.

Great call. What the hell actually constitutes a great call? The ref perfectly pointed at the player committing the infraction? His shirt was neatly pressed? He earned his paycheck? Honestly, no call in the NBA is a great call. Especially in the NBA Finals, the best refs were chosen for this gig, it's their job.

A great call would be actually calling a foul on LeBron when he fullbacks a 6'0", 175 lb. point guard while driving through the lane. Or NOT calling anything in the final five seconds of a one-point game unless someone bleeds. Right call or wrong call, period.