Saturday Morning Hate Sex

I look forward to the day when no Saturday Morning Hate Sex post will be necessary. When every Lady’s team finds themselves on the shiny happy end of the scoreboard, and no one’s star quarterback weeps. On ESPN. In primetime. In HD. (Attention, Mister Tebow: I, too, hit the waterworks when the battle goes ill for my boys. I am, however, A Girl, and not a Division I blue-chipper. Take it like a man:  Bottle up your emotions until you snap years down the road in a series of unrelated incidents.)

*ahem*

Where was I? Right. In an orderly, usual season, we might have seen that day already. A day when the Ladies can kick back with a cocktail, bask in the glow of victory, and never once have to hiss, “Catch the GODDAMN BALL” at their television screens. But this is no kind of normal season, and it’s not even halfway over, and already we’re all carrying scars.

But no matter who prevails, we’re still coming out on top. Let’s get our healing on, after the jump.

For Whom The Babe Roots: ALCS

Step right up and strap on your fighting shoes. The other half of the Ladies will now argue for the men of the diamond who’ve captured their collective American League-loving hearts. The incomparable SA pleads for the Indians, with J-Money and Texas Gal wrapping things up with the case for the Red Sox. [Note: Trusty editor Holly, a near lifelong loather of all things base-ball, has been recently converted to the Red Sox; however, not knowing what a walk-off homer is and frankly being a little skittish in this big new pond she's splashing around in, she has recused herself from the discussion.]

Batter up! Take it away, SA.

I feel a little bad for the Cleveland Indians. Despite having tied for the best record in the American League, people (*Ahem ESPN*) still treats them as the second cousin once removed. Many picked the Yankees over them in the ALDS and I would venture a guess in those same people picking the Red Sox over them in the ALCS. Which means they need all the people on their bandwagon they can get. Here are 10 reasons why you should root for the Indians.

For Whom The Babe Roots: NLCS

A phenomenon known as “base-ball” has been making headlines around these parts since the inception of the site. The alleged “National League Championship Series” is upon us…time to pick a side or go home. In the red corner: TheStarterWife and Clare, freestylin’ for the Diamondbacks. In the purple corner: Lady Andrea, Metschick, and surprise special guest star tap the Rockies, if you know what I mean. (Don’t feel bad. There is no force in the universe that could have stopped me from making that joke.)

Leading off, the lovely TSW, with her plea for the boys of Arizona:

Why does Stephen Drew smile, other than the fact he is the talented Drew brother? Fucking hit .500 against the Cubbies with two homes and four RBIs, that’s why.

Sunday Supplication

Dear Football Jesus (there’s a separate one for football),

Kind of a rough week. Do you read the Indy Star?

“Strong-side linebacker Rob Morris underwent surgery on Tuesday to repair a torn tendon in his left knee and will miss the remainder of the season. Among players held out of this afternoon’s practice were wide receiver Marvin Harrison (bruised left knee), safety Bob Sanders (bruised ribs), running back Joseph Addai (bruised shoulder) and tight end Ben Utecht (concussion).”

I know you’re busy, Football Jesus. It is Sunday, after all. But if you could find a minute to see my boys in blue safely back on the field? That’d be swell. And if not, well, I have a couple things I can try on my own. Morris is done for the season, but the other four? They still have a shot. They’re the good guys, every one, and they play the game with a joy you have to see to believe.

Saturday Morning Hate Sex

Oh. Oh, last week sucked. (Hush your filthy mind; that’s after the jump.) Fifty percent of the Ladies saw their beloved college teams fall. Of course, we were in good company…everyone who’s anyone was on the losing end of the scoreboard. The top 25 is full of pretenders and upstarts. Chaos reigns, and I’m not just talking about my twisted sheets. I’ve been battling the nervous giggles of survivor’s guilt since Saturday night–my Vols had their usual bye date bumped up two weeks this year and I’m ridiculously grateful.

But it’s a new day. A new week. And if the college football gods are off their bender, a return to some semblance of order and right. Let’s take this morning to wipe the slate clean, and get down and dirty with our vanquishers. Join us, won’t you?

Saturday Morning Hate Sex

Can it be we’re a month into the season already? That’s a lot of ticks on the scoreboard. A lot of swigs from smuggled flasks. A lot of stolen kisses in the quad, and a lot of notches on our bedposts from our Saturday morning purge romps.

Most of the Ladies’ teams had good outings, but Andrea’s Iowa Hawkeyes fell in a tooth-and-nail slugfest to Wisconsin…and two weeks later, it’s time to move past Florida and the throttling they handed down to my Tennessee Vols. Get comfy, boys, I’ll want to be on top for this.

Hump Day Hottie: Brandon Stokley

You have only to look at my PEYTON MANNING IS A GOD THAT WALKS ON EARTH posts to know where my NFL loyalties lie, but on Sundays when it’s time to suit up, the royal blue jersey I’m rocking isn’t his. Or Marvin Harrison’s. Or Reggie Wayne’s, or Vinatiereireiri’s. It’s number 83, and the guy who used to wear it is a quiet, unassuming slot receiver named Brandon Stokley.

“The Pet Rose of Football.”

FanHouse‘s whirlpool of news is an essential daily stop for a sports fan. Michael David Smith is a particular favorite of mine, and I followed his coverage of the Patriots’ scandal with interest. And because this is the internets, and because drama brings out the crazypants, it’s time once again for AOL Comment Thread Poetry Slam. (Previous episodes can be found here and here.)

As always, I swear, I did not make any of these up. Original spelling, grammar, and punctuation have been preserved. All [sic]s implied. Also, a couple of the stanzas rhyme, but that’s a total accident.

More Saturday Morning Hate Sex

Last week SA’s Wolverines and J-Money’s Demon Deacons were vanquished by Oregon and Nebraska.

But it’s a new week. A new slate of games. Time to conclude the healing process by vanquishing a few Ducks and Huskers of their own.

(Hey, Nike, all those Oregon uniforms you’re churning out? Any of them include tearaway pants? Because, um, it might help them break a few more tackles. Yup. That’s why. What?)

More hailing to the victors, after this.

Bringing the Heat: Colorado Rockies

Texas Gal may have turned me on to Papyboo and his thousand-yard stares (I’m only human, y’all), but in my heart there’s only one baseball boyfriend: Rockies first baseman and good ol’ Tennessee boy Todd Helton, who just became the first player to hit 35 doubles in ten consecutive seasons.

More Rockies for you to tap (sorry) after the jump.

Hot Hot Hits

Any girl who says barfights are anything but a) hilarious or b) hilariously awesome is a) a liar, or b) not someone I want to be friends with. We’re not waving our hands and yelling “STOOOOOOPPIT BOYS” to affect the action; it’s kind of a war cry and mating call. We’re declaring that THAT IS OUR MAN OUT THERE BY GOD LOOK AT HIM GO. This is all by way of saying: Nothing gets me hot and bothered like a football rival getting his ass leveled.

I give you Rico McCoy, via preeminent Tennessee blog Rocky Top Talk. Is it hot in here, or is it just Jeremy Young’s jersey melted to his back?

It’s like a palate cleanser, but it’ll get you dirty.

Last week Holly’s Vawls, SA’s Wolverines, and J-Money’s Demon Deacons were dealt body blows by Cal, Appalachian State, and Boston College. But that’s yesterday’s news. Let us move on, brothers and sisters. Let us celebrate week two of the season, beginning in just a few hours. Let us heal. And what heals like a little morning hate sex? Nothing, that’s what.

Join us after the jump for a little “Hail to the Victors”, if you know what I mean.

Let There Be Footbawl.

Blood season begins in earnest tonight. Last weekend was glorious, but without a lazy NFL Sunday of lolling and snacking to follow Saturday’s CFB whirlwind, it’s just not the same. In a few hours, the WORLD CHAMPION Indianapolis Colts welcome the New Orleans Saints to the RCA.

For me, this means four hours of screaming my lungs to shreds and basking in the reflected glory of one Mister Peyton Manning (time to reference that disclaimer again, I suppose). For the rest of you, well, this is Ladies, and I know why you’re here. It’s a marquee night; let’s have a look at some marquee manflesh:

I Was There (And It Hurt): Tennessee-Cal

I was thrilled to my orange-painted toes to learn my beloved Vawls were playing Cal for their season opener. Since they had come all the way to the west coast (like they were coming just to see me!), I thought the least I could do was make the trip up to Berkeley to meet them.

Hot Hot Hits

Any girl who says barfights are anything but a) hilarious or b) hilariously awesome is a) a liar, or b) not someone I want to be friends with. We’re not waving our hands and yelling “STOOOOOOPPIT BOYS” to affect the action; it’s kind of a war cry and mating call. We’re declaring that THAT IS OUR MAN OUT THERE BY GOD LOOK AT HIM GO. This is all by way of saying: Nothing gets me hot and bothered like a football rival getting his ass leveled. Expect a lot of material about jacked-up guys in tight pants getting (sorry) jacked up once the season really gets underway. To whet your appetite, here’s the greatest hits of seasons past, via the incomparable (and handsome!) Sunday Morning Quarterback:

Blood Makes The Grass Grow

I have a kind of tunnel vision when it comes to sports, and I wear it proudly. I have mountains to fling myself down in the spring and tennis to occupy me in the summer, but there’s nothing gets my blood going like the divine brutality that is football season. (What? Our god is a vengeful one. Look it up.)

During the offseason I spent an inordinate amount of time composing lists of ways to make baseball more compelling (“Article I: Infielders can tackle baserunners. Article II: But that’s fine and dandy, since the baserunners can take their bats with them.”), but not even Bacon Pants could ease the pain of the waiting game for me. Maybe if he’d taken a swing at the catcher’s dome.

So welcome back, fall. Welcome back, sunburn and frostbite and concussion hits. Welcome back, tailgating and GameDay and Coach O. Welcome back, blood season. Welcome back, football.

And, because this is Ladies…, after all, in honor of tonight’s SEC kickoff, look after the jump for some current and former LSU hotties in those tight yellow pants we so adore. Oh, and there’s a tiger. Rrrrrowwwr.

We’re This Many!!

Friends, we can hardly believe it ourselves:
Ladies… celebrates its six month anniversary today.

(Artwork, as ever, courtesy of our incomparable Lady J-Money)

And what a ride. We’ve traveled into enemy territory, back to our alma maters, cross country to spring training, back home for Opening Day, seen legendary parks up close and raced to the bottom of too many pint glasses.

We’ve nursed all manner of inexplicable crushes in hilarious fashion.

We’ve taken to the streets and done a little spokesmodeling (step aside, Danbury Mint, and move over, Milano).

We’ve brought in guest stars from time to time, made ourselves at home elsewhere, and even gotten our parents in on the action.

We’ve seen grandiose plans exceed our highest expectations (this happened, right?) and crash in flames (let us never speak of this again).

And we’ve made it our mission to showcase the finest in baseball ass (and forearms!) from across the land, and to see that excellence is duly rewarded.

If you’re feeling indulgent (and who wouldn’t, after that cupcake?), join us after the jump for a highlight reel:

No, really, it is still football.

 To their surprise, the boys over at It’s Still Football recently found themselves holding press passes for the Arena Bowl.  To our surprise, TC and Joe agreed to photograph the prettiest players for our viewing enjoyment.  Take it away, guys…

Brett Deitz has already been mentioned as a possible Ladies… favorite [despite his wonky eye seen here...--ed.]. He’s the co-ROY, plays for Tampa Bay, and he brought Tampa Bay from a shitty team to a playoff contender.

 

Bring ‘em out, bring ‘em out…

Rocking the Plate started out as a little lark of a post, just something we threw up for our own entertainment, and gave way to one of our most memorable comment threads. Summer being the time for reruns, we’ve posted the best of those propositions after the jump, along with responses we received from the blogosphere’s finest.

What Not To Wear: Los Angeles Dodgers

Dear Dodger Fandom:

I live among you now, and in an effort to assimilate myself and learn your ways, I tagged along to one of your base-ball games last week.

I was hoping things would be different, Dodger Fandom. I really want us to be friends. The problem is that most of you were dressed like this:

Men In Suits!

Chelsea and Armani…two great tastes that taste great together:

The team will be equipped with a single-breasted, two-button navy blue crease resistant lightweight wool gabardine suit, with flat-front, straight-legged trousers and a fitted jacket with pronounced ‘Roman’ shoulder line.

These will be worn with pale blue cotton shirts from the Armani Napoli range.

Players will also get a new club tie, a navy blue polo shirt which can be worn as an alternative to shirt and tie, a dark brown mock croc belt and brown suede half boots.

What does this mean to the sporting world? Not a whole lot. To us, however, this development is of crucial importance for one reason: An excuse to post a shot of a bunch of hot athletes in suits.

(HT to our darling kleph for the story, and additional article with a bunch of Spanish words and a naked dude holding a soccer ball.)

Bringing the Heat (because I Was There): San Diego Padres

I made my first trip down to glorious San Diego with some girlfriends over Memorial Day weekend. Nice place y’all got here. Imagine my pouting, though, when I was informed I had to spend Saturday night at something called a base-ball game.

I was digging in my heels and pouting something fierce, but I have to tell you, once I got a few pints in me and laid eyes on this fellow right here, all was forgiven:

Tennis, anyone?

Another year, another Wimbledon, another two straight weeks of staring at the calves and forearms of men we’ve never heard of.

oh, my.

Mother’s Day Potpourri – Momma Magnolia

I grew up in one of those houses where complaints of a headache were met with “Here, sugar, have half a Xanax.” As you might imagine, we watched a lot of tennis. My mother’s touring Europe this summer, and is making me teach her German phrases to employ in case she encounters Boris Becker poolside somewhere on The Continent. Now, I love my mother, but we have what you’d charitably call a Complicated Relationship, so understand that when she turns out to have asked her idol to remove the axe from her head when she thought she was asking to buy him a drink, I misled her out of love. And spite. But mostly love.

Happy Mothers’ Day, Momma.

The Hot Blogger Bracket: A call to arms. And abs.

Bracket season has come and gone. The draft was ten years ago in internets time. What’s a number-crunching sports fan to do?

Never fear. The Ladies… proudly present: The 2007 Hot Blogger Bracket!

How This Will Work:

1. You have to be a guy. (Sorry, girls; for objectification of the fairer sex we direct you to the majority of our compatriots in the sidebar.)

2. You have to run or contribute substantially to a sports blog. (Exactly what constitutes “substantial” will be determined on a case-by-case basis by the Ladies…, and not open to appeals.)

3. You will submit one (1) recent photo, of you, in focus, that gives a good look at your face and any other assets you wish to emphasize, and one (1) link to a post you feel best represents your superiority as a writer.

4. The Ladies… will spend what’s sure to be a delightful few days judging your sweet asses, and come up with a field, the size of which will be a multiple of four and determined by the quantity and quality of entries.

5. We’ll post our choices in bracket form, and here’s where the real fun begins. Voting for each round will take a couple days. Cheating, shenanigans, and ballot-stuffing are encouraged, especially if they’re undertaken in a blatant and hilarious manner. We remind all entrants that we are susceptible to flattery.

6. Repeat as needed until the champion emerges, to be showered with florid prose (by us) and mocked roundly (by the losers) until next year. Given proper incentive, we may even scare up a couple prizes.

And that’s it. Please direct all submissions to ladiesdotdotdot@gmail.com. You have until 11:59 PM PDT, Friday, May 11.

Go.

*(subject to change without notice at our whim. girls are fickle. affirmed.)

Draft Day, Baby!

Thank Football Jesus (there’s a separate one for football), IT’S HERE.

As Draft Day dawns in America (be sure to check the actual picks against our wildly inaccurate but funnier ones over at Awful Announcing’s mock draft), the Ladies… would like to take this moment to kick back and fantasize about whom we’d like to see roaming our sidelines next season. (Of our teams. We meant the sidelines of our teams. Like, on the field where they play football. Naughty.) Join us, won’t you?

Indianapolis Colts – Holly Dallas Cowboys – Texas Gal Pittsburgh Steelers – TheStarterWife New York Jets – Metschick Philadelphia Eagles – Clare Carolina Panthers – SA Chicago Bears – Lady Andrea St. Louis Rams – J-Money

March Madness with the KSK Mafia: What a lovely party.

Well, that happened.

Thanks to everyone who came out today to watch the carnage unfold at Kissing Suzy Kolber. Thanks also to our mostly gracious hosts, who, it can truly be said, took their defeat like men. We’re particularly obliged to Monday Morning Punter for his part in the plotting of this whole ordeal, and most especially to flubby, who maintained uncanny patience today when dealing with Holly and her incompatible stylesheet-manglings. Boys, you truly put the bop in the bop-shoo-bop-shoo-bop…or, should we say, the ram in the rama-lama-ding-dong?

For our part, it’s been a blast. Hope y’all enjoyed the show as much as we loved putting it on.

March Madness with the KSK Mafia: The calm before the takedown.

Once upon a time, we made a friendly little wager with the lads of KSK. We stumbled, sobbed incoherently, giggled hysterically, and bit our nails in a most unattractive manner for three weeks. In a juju Hail Mary, we even aligned our fortunes with Buckeye Nation.

And Basketball Jesus (there’s a separate one for basketball), in his infinite wisdom, bestowed victory on the worthier party.

And there was much rejoicing.

[I'm going to try my best to get through the rest of this post without referencing Bill Pullman's speech to the pilots in the American cinema classic Independence Day, but it is absolutely killing me. --Ed.]

Tomorrow is zero hour, where “zero” implies “vajayjay”. As agreed, the Ladies… will have the run of Kissing Suzy Kolber for one glorious day. A day of bunnies. A day of Bedazzlers. A day of kittens and puppies and rainbow sunsets and unicorns fucking in grassy fields. The KSK Mafia are doing their best to put on brave faces. Fear not, boyos. Our mission statement promises we don’t kiss nice, but we won’t leave any marks on your back that aren’t purely recreational.

AsshatWatch: The Big Lead Returns

The boys of TBL respond. They link here and here at the end; both are good reads (don’t skip the lists of post titles), as is EDSBS’ reaction.

Welcome back, boys.

Heat on the Ice: NHL Pacific Division

I confess, I’m getting a complex–these hockey hotties are prettier than me!