From the insane amount of “Riley Skinner” searches over the past couple 
of days, it’s obvious what you want: uncensored naked pictures of the Skinner flute. Unfortunately, we can’t find them, despite spending approximately seven hours googling him (not a euphemism).
But because we love you the mostestest, we’re offering you the next best thing: the chance to make your own with our official Ladies… Build-A-Skinner.
Print out the template after the jump and draw your own, um, little Deacon. Or big Deacon. Or an “I promise, this hasn’t ever happened before. I guess he’s just shy.” Deacon. Your call. Continue reading
So I took a break from my thrillicious morning (read: applying for middle management jobs at Tire Kingdom) to check out the The Game Plan, the latest escapee from the Disney DVD vault, starring The “Dwayne Johnson” Rock. Mr. Rock plays Joe Kingman, the QB of the Boston Rebels who loves himself, football, and Elvis—in that order—although his Elvis worship is perhaps based on their mutual nickname, “The King”. The Rebels have plowed through their opponents to reach the playoffs of the Unnamed-For-Copyright-Reasons football league and Joe is a big part of their success, mainly because he refuses to pass to his teammates in favor of running in all of the touchdowns himself.*
the DVD case, and we can surmise that things are going to change for Joe**, that he won’t be spending many more evenings alone, watching and re-watching Sportcenter segments about himself (which is how I imagine Terrell Owens spends his free time).
Even though he broke my heart, broke my crock pot, and eventually left me for a woman who wears slouch socks, my last boyfriend gave me something that I’ll cherish forever: bitterness. Bitterness and the opportunity to see my beloved Red Sox win the 2004 World Series.
When I was in the eighth grade, my family took a trip to Baltimore which I was, honestly, not looking forward to. It was one of those vacations disguised as a learning experience which, when you’re a kid, is the only thing more disappointing than watching a cartoon and realizing that there is a thinly-veiled religious message and that the talking zucchini may, in fact, be Jesus. My parents selected Baltimore as our destination because it is a city rich in American history, literature, and homicide. Actually, the latter was less a selling point and more an excuse to make me wear one of those child leashes in the rare case that there was an unhinged individual in our Fort McHenry tour group who would’ve flown into a rage at the sight of my crimped hair and pleated Duckhead shorts.
the outfield that year, the hotness that was Brady Anderson. Those sideburns. Those biceps. The lack of tuberculosis (which made him infinitely more attractive than my previous Baltimore crush–Edgar Allen Poe–who admittedly should’ve been less desirable since he potentially had rabies. Oh, and was dead). Anyway, that day I fell hard for Brady, a man so hot he made my braces sweat. After the game, I immediately bought a #9 t-shirt and couldn’t wait to write “Dr. & Mrs. Brady Anderson” on my Trapper Keeper, because I was sure that he would attend classes at night and eventually become the best-hitting neurosurgeon in his practice group. 
Take, for example, the 
Animal Planet.
Wrapping up (for now) our joint series on bangin’ the baller fans in your lives…it’s been a hell of a ride, y’all. We’d like to thank the incomparable Orson Swindle of 
Ladies’ favorite David Wright came in as a pinch-hitter and left with an RBI during the Met’s amazin’ 5-run ninth inning as 
From the “Hot Body, Goofy Head” File: Spaniard Rafael Nadal 
Last weekend I pinned a number to my shirt and ran the Charlotte Racefest Half-Marathon with 2,400 other idiots who decided it was a fair trade to run thirteen miles in exchange for arthritis and a hideous t-shirt that will look awesome on a rack at Goodwill. Thirty minutes before the start, we began filing into place behind the elite competitors, the singlet-clad 83-pound runners who shun iPods in favor of keeping pace with the rhythm of their own breathing. That, and the fact that the added weight of a Nano could tear one of their tiny arms out of the sockets.
OK, first, I didn’t go to Michigan State. But I would rather eat a bag of aquarium gravel than cheer for UNC, so yesterday I was all “Go Green! Go White!” all the time, even though my entire family was decked out in a shade of blue that they call “Carolina ” while I defer to J.Crew’s description of “Rich Peri” in a sad attempt to feel better about the tees I just ordered.
There were about 10,000 other unique snowflakes rocking the light blue, since the game was in Winston-Salem which is only about five Cracker Barrels away from Chapel Hill. From all the seersucker, the Topsiders, and men named Worthington Fenimore Tartarcontrol “Whitey” Textilemill, it was obviously a Tarheel crowd.
Deacons walk-on 
According to their website, UNCC was named one of two North Carolina universities where students can get an Ivy League education at a state university price”. The site also notes that the majority of campus buildings are now air-conditioned, that the campus has sidewalks, and that the new phone books are here. Suck it, Dartmouth.
Ladies... 
