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Reigning breaststroke gold medalist Kosuke Kitajima of Japan showed up at the U.S. Olympic Trials this week, presumably because he’s training in the US and wants to scout his rivals. But this is how I’m picturing things really went down:
Bob Costas appears at Kosuke Kitajima’s pad, dressed as a tiny valet-slash-baby penguin. He’s holding an overstuffed envelope of cash, a list of instructions and a hat box. Inside the hat box is a trucker cap–yes, a trucker cap–bedazzled with a number “1″ in gold sequins.
The instructions, which Costas goes over with Kitajima in flawless Japanese, are as follows:
- Show up at the 100 M Breaststroke Final wearing the hat.
- Keep the hat on at all times.
- Sit in the nosebleed seats like you’re just there to chill with your bros. (Hence the trucker cap.)
- Clap at the appropriate times. If you’re confused as to what constitutes “appropriate” Continue reading How Much Did NBC Pay Kosuke Kitajima To Troll The US Olympic Trials?
Filed under: 2004 Olympics Games, 2008 Olympic Games, Asian Villains, Bob Costas, Breaststroke, breaststrokers, Brendan Hansen, eric shanteau, Everyone Loves An Asian Villain, Kosuke Kitajima, Kosuke Kitajima Shows At US Olympic Trials, Losers, male breaststrokers, NBC, NBC Olympics, olympic rivals, Olympic Trials, The Thrill of Victory The Agony of Defeat, US Swimming, US Swimming Olympic Trials, Winners
Ivy was booted from the show two weeks before but brought back this week, along with five other former contestants, to be a Sewing Bitch for one of the six remaining designers. But instead of shutting up and making “a look”–as they refer to clothes on the show–pretty, Ivy decided to stir up some drrrama and accuse one of the designers still in the competition, Michael C., of cheating in a past challenge. Something about tape over a model’s boobs. In other words: huh?
Ivy also accused Michael C. of playing “the game”–in a competition, no less!–and told him the only reason he was still on the show was because, “You talk shit about people and you sabotage people.”
Sound familiar? If you haven’t been following the show, this is Ivy a few episodes back talking shit and sabotaging another Michael, Michael D., whom she had to partner with in a challenge:
I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that most people who saw Seth Gordon’s fantastic 2007 documentary, King of Kong (a film about two middle-aged men–a middle school teacher and a condiment magnate–duking it out for the Guinness World Record on Donkey Kong), were not quickly inspired to follow in the principal characters’ footsteps. Though respectfully portrayed, most of the people featured in the film are lovable losers, aging dorks, gamer geeks–and the addiction itself so all-consuming that it alienates even our hero from family, home and daily life.
But of course, someone did. Hank Chien, a 35-year-old plastic surgeon from New York, started playing the game after seeing the film. He recently broke the standing record, held by longtime recordholder Billy Mitchell, with 1,061,700 points in two and a half hours. The score was 10,000 higher than Mitchell’s.
Filed under: Addiction, Arcade Games, Asians Love Winning Anything, Awesome Documentaries, Billy Mitchell, Breaking Records, Documentaries, Donkey Kong, Excellence, Excelling As A Pastime, Gamers, Guinness Book of World Records, Hank Chien, Harvard, King of Kong, Losers, NYC Plastic Surgeon Breaks Donkey Kong World Record, Plastic Surgeons, Queens, Records, The 80's, Twin Galaxies, Weird American Behavior, Winners, Winning, World Records
According to the UK’s Telegraph, Some Japanese brides feel so pressured to have a good guest showing that–in addition to forking out the hundies for an open bar, tiered cake and boring dinner plate–that they HIRE CHEERY AND CLEAN-LOOKING FOLKS TO ACT AS “FRIENDS” AT THEIR WEDDING.
Oh. My god. I have never. Heard. Of a more. Pathetic. And Sad. Set of Circumstances.
Seriously: WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK??!?!?!?!?
I hadn’t cheered for anything or anybody in three years–since my rejection by the leggy girl–and had even mistakenly come to believe that my new-found restraint was a kind of maturity. Oh, I had had my enthusiasms, but they were dark, the adoration of the griefs and morbidities men commit to paper in the name of literature, the homage I had paid the whole sickly aristocracy of letters. But a man can dwell too long with grief, and now, quite suddenly, quite wonderfully, I wanted to cheer again…
–A Fan’s Notes, Frederick Exley
Today I am inappropriately sad. The Sox lost to the Rays Sunday night in Game 7 of the ALCS, 3-1. This after an improbable, Lazarus-like comeback in Game 5 at Fenway, when the Sox were down 7-0 in the seventh inning and looked, to all intents and purposes, like their season was finished. You could spin their losing in seven as the Sox losing with dignity, but I don’t buy that. A loss is a loss, and it always feels like a punch to the throat.
I say “inappropriately sad” because I am a grownup, and I know cognitively that I shouldn’t feel this way. I’ve also experienced enough heartbreak seasons to have developed a thicker skin, and more than my share of victories to sustain me through dismal moments like today. But, if you’re still reading this, you know that no one watches sports to feel or act like a grownup. That may be the reason why you got suckered into this bipolar mode of existence–to emulate and impress your father, your grandfather, or, in my case, your older brother–and started reading the sports pages when you were eight years old and obsessively tracking stats before you ever learned long division, but that’s not why you stayed. That’s not why you kept watching losing season after losing season, why you persisted in loving a team that didn’t love you back, why you dreamt of winning a Super Bowl even when the only good thing that you could say about your QB is that he also knew how to punt the ball on that inevitable 4th down, why you intermittently believed in the power of prayer, why you didn’t turn the TV off and go to the movies when your team was down seven runs in the seventh inning of an elimination game. Loving a team is, in other words, totally irrational. It is child-like in its devotion. It is a love that clings.
The flip-side of the pain that this irrational love brings you most of the time is the unfettered joy you experience when your team wins. Fourteen Januarys that end with you sobbing uncontrollably on the dusty, dander-coated carpet of your parents’ living room before you get your first taste of victory? Worth it. Nine seasons of getting punked by either the Lakers or the Celtics in the Magic-Bird era before the Big One? Whatever. 86 years of curses, late-inning, pennant-clinching home runs by the opposing team, rollers between the legs, and Game 7 pitching collapses for not one but two World Series sweeps? An embarrassment of riches.
But, as the saying goes, winning isn’t everything. I mean, it is and it isn’t. No one wants their team to lose, because that means they’re a loser, too. But without losing and heartbreak, winning is shallow and pretty, stuff for the beautiful people. It is for those who want courtside seats because it is a place to be seen. It is for bandwagoneers who only want their ride to the championship to purr, and not to hiss, sputter, and moan. It’s not for those of you who have put up with this rambling monologue and are actually still reading, or for me. Because we watch the game to feel something, whether it’s misery or exultation. We futilely scream and convulse in the stands while our extremities go numb from the cold because it often gives us a better high than sex or dope. And we root for our teams, year after year, pain upon pain, with the occasional joy teasing our sorrow just enough to ensure our return, because everything else in life is far more complicated, tedious, and disappointing.
As if I needed one more reason to loathe Sarah Palin, here’s another: she likened the Republican presidential ticket to the Tampa Bay Rays today in Jacksonville, FL, saying in her distinctive Alaskanasal, “The people in this area know a little something about turning an underdog into a victor, and we’re counting on you to help us do that November 4.”
(The Rays–who dropped the “Devil” from their name this year–had their first winning season in their eleven-year history in ’08 and are moving on to the American League Championship Series to face my Sox, last year’s World Series champs.)
But, you know, sports allegiances aside, Palin may have a point. Tampa Bay has the second-lowest payroll in Major League Baseball, and the other teams remaining in the playoffs have spent two to three times the money that they have. And they’ve only ever finished out of last place twice in team history. So they are underdogs. And, like Palin, the Rays are young, as a franchise and in terms of the average age of their starting line-up.
Although I wonder if Palin would be so quick to compare her ticket and its supporters to the Tampa Bay Rays and their fans if someone had actually briefed her on the fact that THE RAYS HAVE THE SHITTIEST FANS IN BASEBALL. Last month, when Tampa Bay held the best record in the bigs, their fans turned out in record-low numbers. Typically, there are as many fans rooting for the opposing team at Tropicana Field as there are fans root-root-rooting for the home team. And that’s when there are fans attending at all; the Rays rank a dismal 26th among 30 teams in fan attendance, averaging crowds of 21,459 in a 36,048-seat stadium. As a point of comparison, the Red Sox have sold out every home game since 2003 and Fenway is already sold out for next season.
So, if this is the kind of support Palin is “counting on” to make her and McCain “victors” in November, all I can say is, Bless her stupid heart.
Filed under: Alaskanasal, ALCS, Bad Parallels, Baseball, Bless Her Heart, Boston Red Sox, Fenway Park, John McCain, Losers, Mrs. October, Sarah Palin, Sarah Palin VP, Shitty Fans, Tampa Bay Rays, Vice President
No Fail Mode is the name of an emo band. They aren’t very good, but what they lack in musicianship and good lyrics, they make up for with earnestness and eyeliner. They wouldn’t be caught dead in anything other than skinny jeans, and they are not above nicking your hair product.
No Fail Mode is the name of a nu metal band. Their idols are System of a Down. They like wearing a lot of black, because they’re serious, and they sing about political issues like fighting the power and whatnot. They are not afraid to hug each other and talk things out, something they learned by watching that Metallica documentary. Hugging can be hardcore, too.
No Fail Mode is the name of a Christian hard rock group. Their name vaguely references Isaiah 42:4: “He shall not fail nor be discouraged, till he have set judgment in the earth.” They think tattoos, piercings, smoking, and gays are things that God is okay with. When they pray together before shows, they not only pray for lost souls but for the crossover potential of Creed.
No Fail Mode is the opposite of You Fail It and does not do anything for the lulz.
No Fail Mode is also a Rock Band 2 option (under “EXTRAS” in the Main Menu). No matter how hard you suck, unlike in regular mode, you won’t fail and get booed off the stage. It is for gamers who don’t really want to game. It is for people at parties who want to rock out on plastic instruments without looking bad and are weirdly unaware that that is a built-in impossibility. (Do you realize that that thing’s plastic and has unicorn stickers all over it because I have a sticker fetish? Play “Shackler’s Revenge” already and embrace the inherent inanity, for fuck’s sake.) It is for people who think Rock Band is “just a game.” It is for those who believe Rock Band is “social.” It is for your agent, the idiot kid you babysat for who cried when you didn’t let him win, somebody’s mom (not ours though–they’re competitive as shit). It is for people who are allergic to failure but too lazy or inept to prevent it from happening themselves.
No Fail Mode, in other words, is for pussies. We do not approve.
Filed under: Allergic to Failure, Emo, Failure Is Not an Option That's Why You Should Work Harder, Game Settings, Losers, No Fail Mode, Pussy, Rock Band, Sounding Like My Hardass Asian Parents, You Fail It
We’d kinda assumed that six-time winner Takeru Kobayashi’s dismal loss to Corey Chestnut in last year’s Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest was a fluke.
In our collective imaginasian, Kobayashi walked away from that humiliating loss with a Batman-like commitment: to do everything he could, even if it meant killing himself trying, to make his next contest a victorious one. Not one to settle for #2 twice, he surely ran-not-walked directly home and checked himself into an intense 364-day training camp: 25-dog Tuesdays (for speed training), 75-dog Wednesdays (for endurance), soy-dog Wednesdays (for variety), three hours of morning stomach stretches, 32,000 calories-worth of daily cardio, evening shove-and-swallow drills, and a nightly regimen of anti-cholesterol pills. He didn’t talk to friends or family in all of that time. He barely saw daylight and spent his free time in a dark retreat, decorated only with abstract art depictions of hot dogs, buns, and condiments.
The newly-improved Kobayashi that would step on the stage on July 4, 2008–a year later, a world wiser–would be a changed man, a superman possibly, one whose stomach was more flexible than a Romanian gymnast and jaw looser than a sorority girl in San Diego.
KOBAYASHI WOULD NOT LOSE AGAIN. KOBAYASHI WOULD PROVE TO THE WORLD THAT HE WAS, IS, AND ALWAYS SHALL BE A WEINER WINNER.
But, every once in a rare while, we’re not right about these things–Kobayashi lost the battle for the second year in a row (to his credit, he did so in a five-dog OT). He did not, as we had hoped, “crush Joey’s chestnuts”… but he tried his hardest. He tried his fucking hardest and we truly, truly believe that.
Unfortunately, we’re Asian, and don’t give two shits about “trying.” We’re totally ashamed of him and think he’s a LOSER!
MIRKA: O-kay. Time to regroup.
GAVIN: Bummer. I can’t believe my boy lost.
GWEN: Dude. I thought Roger was supposed to be, like, hella good.
MIRKA: There’s always the U.S. Open. No need to panic. (beat) Fuck. I need a donut.
GAVIN: Hey, look! Messages on my BlackBerry! I wonder who called. This could be exciting.
GWEN: Oh shit, I feel a fart coming on.
MIRKA: The ship’s not sinking. It feels like it’s sinking, but it’s not sinking. (beat) I want two donuts. One glazed, one with sprinkles.
GAVIN: (checking phone) It was just the nanny. Balls. It’s always the nanny. (beat) It’s so weird that no one’s called to get Bush back together again. I mean, we personified the mid-90′s. It was all about O.J., the Rachel haircut, and us, man.
GWEN: I wonder if anyone smelled that.
MIRKA: After I have a dozen donuts, I’ll feel much better. Then I’ll go shopping for diamonds. Then I’ll withhold sex from Roger until he shapes the fuck up. Then I’ll buy more designer sweatsuits. Maybe another ostrich handbag, too. Then I’ll walk on the treadmill for two minutes, and then I’ll have a couple more donuts. Then…dinner!
GAVIN: We could reunite at Coachella, like the Pixies. I mean, we’re just as good and we were way huger. We could start touring again, and go back in the studio, and I could write songs, and grow my hair out and make it wicked greazy like it used to be, and…you know, I wonder what it would be like to work for a living again. It’s been a while. (beat) Oh god. The thought is just too weird. Like, working every day? Sheesh! It sounds so…hard.
GWEN: I can’t believe Roger lost to that Spanish dude with the big ass. I didn’t come here to watch my so-called friend blow Wimble-ton. This is so freakin’ lame. Can I get outta here without anyone seeing me? Where are my big-ass sunglasses? I hope no one recognizes me, because that would be so humiliating. (beat) God, I hate losers.
PerezHilton.com just reported that Heidi Montag, who will turn 22 this year, joined her douchebag boyfriend Spencer Pratt at the DMV… and finally registered to vote! Wow! We’re so impressed we could justzzZZZzZzZzzzz…
zzzZzzZZzzurpOH! Um. Good… job? Sure, you should have done this four years ago, but who’s counting?
Why? Because we’d like to stay friends 4 eva. But since we’re both Asian, we’re both REALLY good at games. And we REALLY like winning. We need to win. We always win.
If we play against each other, one of us doesn’t win. This is simply unacceptable. Frienship-killing, even. So we play together and beat all of the other losers out there, keeping both our galpalship and our desire to win firmly intact.
Winning, however, must be done fairly and squarely to matter so much. We’ll cut you out if you cheat to get a Scrabble bingo, or recruit a professional to help you face off with us on Rock Band. We have a hard time looking at the New England Pats with respect after they got so publicly busted for videotaping their opponents’ signs (guess Super Bowl karma’s a bitch, eh?). We shake our heads at the memorable disgrace of the game-throwing Black Sox, the juiced up home runs of Barry Bonds, the pathetic game betting of Pete Rose.
What’s the point of winning if everyone isn’t playing it straight and doing their best? We don’t think those wins are worth shit. They’re not good for anybody involved.
So we are pretty much horrified that in order to win (important), a South Korean badminton team (cool) employed a strategy to throw their most recent game (wack) against England in order to guarantee themselves an easier track to the Badminton World Federation final.
We know winning is everything, but there’s gotta be a more noble way to do it.
Everybody deserves better.
When I first saw the above picture of Dina Lohan receiving an Outstanding Mother of the Year award this week, I immediately thought:
Are they a collection of beautiful Chinese women that get together to play Mahjong, sing songs, and compare expensive leather bags and children? Do they dine on rice and complain about how their sons can’t decide between going to Harvard Med or Yale Law? Do they get microdermabrasian together? Do they go for steams together?
Of course, a moment later I realized that “Mingling Moms” is just a small, Long Island, NY-based groups of baby mamas that pretty much like hanging out and having lunch and stuff.
…Which is, of course, why Dina Lohan truly is an outstanding role model! She’s very good at hanging out and having lunch and stuff!
Y’know, if there did happen to be an organizasian called The Ming Ling Moms, I doubt very much they would be willing to honor anyone with acrylic tips as an Outstanding mother. Perhaps, instead, they might issue a statement like this:
“We do not approve of children that do not go to university, do drugs, drink, go to jail, and show private parts to public. The only explanation for this is that mother is failure. Maybe mother should go back to school and show daughter how to succeed in life, by working hard and making good food at home.”
…but maybe not a fancy, expensive plaque worthy of Lohan’s tips.