I can already hear you saying “Bee, this is the Advent Calendar of HOTNESS! Where is my well-chiseled bare chested hunk? Because…for gawd’s sake, did I really wait all day for TIM THOMAS?!!” Continue reading
As in, Group E. Oh, yes. It’s time for another installment of ‘Seriously, there’s a reason folks the world over love the World Cup, and it ain’t all about the footwork.’
But before we start with the glorious, glorious eye candy, we just have to ask, since this is going live before the (unholy early) 7 AM EST Korea Republic v. Greece match: Does anyone feel like, you know, winning a World Cup match? Just saying. Ties are like kissing your sister. Or, well, brother, in our case.
Anyway, the hotness.
The Netherlands own Robin Van Persie.
First and foremost, congrats to Phil Mickelson on his 3rd Masters win!!
Not to take away from that or anything, but as we watched the last few moments of the tournament, I couldn’t help but think: what’s a bored girl to do if she’s stuck watching golf? Yes, that competitive spirit can sink in just for a moment in the end, but otherwise it’s usually thought of as a great nap inducer (what with the lack of action and hushed voices and all). Usually GOLF and HOTNESS are not synonymous or even found in the same sentence. But as I shallowly searched through the photos of all Masters contestants, I was pleasantly surprised, and felt that many of these faces deserve my fellow golf loathers’ attention.
Heading to Miller Park for tonight’s Brewers/Cards game I was in a sports funk.
My Wisconsin Badgers had lost the hockey National Championship, the Bucks had lost to the Celtics – and I work with two obnoxious Boston fans, and the Brewers had lost two straight to division rivals the St. Louis Cardinals – the first on a blown Trevor Hoffman save and the second in embarassing 7-1 fashion to a rookie pitcher on Fox Saturday baseball.
To top it off, the Brewers are historically awful during nationally televised games and they were about to face Chris Carpenter.
If it weren’t for the bobblehead giveaway, I might not have gone to the game at all.
Follow the jump to find out why I’d have hated myself if I’d stayed home
Okay, we know we’re on vacation and everything, but sometimes something so unspeakably awesome happens that we just have to say something.
Today? Mick Foley happened.
Let’s catch up on Mick Foley, shall we? He’s gone by ‘Mankind’ and ‘Cactus Jack’ and ‘Dude Love’. He’s wrestled using a baseball bat covered in barbed wire and once lost two thirds of his ear in the ropes. Oh, and his finisher before he retired from the WWE was Mr. Socko: a dirty sweatsock shoved into the mouths of his opponents. We are not making that up.
But that’s Mick Foley the performer. Mick Foley the wrestler. Mick Foley the showman.
Mick Foley the person?
Oh, and he’s volunteering his time to work as an online counselor for RAINN’s support line.
We ladies may ogle, and we may joke, but in the end, we are a bunch of women writing about sports. We’re women.
We may not ever write about wrestling ever again, but we’re women. And as women, we salute Mick Foley.
And now we’re back on vacation.
So if you’re following me on Twitter, you’ve discovered that I have a bit of an unhealthy obsession with figure skating. (Okay, okay, that’s like saying John Mayer has an obsession with saying spectacularly stupid things in public.)
Given that I hate most girly aspects of sports (pink anything and everything, Ladies Nights, and the existence of Alyssa Milano’s Touch line, to start) like burning, some of the other Ladies…were mildly confused when I started shrieking about toe loops and salchows. I mean, it’s figure skating, right? I should like manly things, like the biathlon and moguls. I should frown on feathers and sequins and Dick Button.
But here’s the thing. I love figure skating. I loooooooove figure skating.
Say it ain’t so, Sabretooth!
In all seriousness, I’m well aware that I’m known for whining just a bit. Can’t help it, all of my teams are, well, cursed you could say. So when one of them starts doing well, I get a little excited and decide after a holiday and birthday hiatus to dedicate an entire post to how hot my beloved Buffalo Sabres are, but never fear: I never count my chickens…