I Ate This for Lunch Today

And it, was, aweeeeesome.

What is it? It's called "Buffalo's Revenge," a dish from a place in NYC called SuperMac, which coincidentally was Bill's nickname in high school. All this place serves is Mac and Cheese dishes. And let me tell you -- you have to try it.

It's a little expensive, but it's worth it. The "Revenge" was so insanely good. It was the perfect mix of buffalo spices in the cheese, and it wasn't overly hot, either. It was perfect. A great way to head into a holiday weekend.

I feel horrible for the person next to me on the bus ride home. See you Tuesday, kids.

Seriously, the White Sox Have Won Eight in a Row

I just thought I'd point it out, as it's the longest win streak going, and if you read Deadspin, you might not know this. And believe you me, no one is more surprised by this than me. Since I'm not a guy who buries his mistakes, let's take a look at some highlights from my Chicago White Sox preview:

"Will the Sox be terrible again? Probably. I expect a 71-win year, and hopefully a firing of Ozzie Guillen come October."

"Did Javy Vazquez turn a corner? Even if he did, Nos. 4 and 5 are shakier than an epileptic during an earthquake."

As of right now, the White Sox are on pace for about 90 wins, and the No. 4 and 5 starters (John Danks and Gavin Floyd) have a combined 7-5 record and 2.94 ERA. There is medicine for epileptics, and I guess it works. You're not going to find an ERA that good from any 4-5 combo in baseball. Throw in the fact Jose Contreras has a 5-3 record and 3.17 ERA, and I'll have to quote Lou Brown and say, "We're contenders now."

And I emphasize now, because these eight wins a row have been mostly due to lights-out pitching (Three games against the Giants don't hurt, either), and there is no way in hell it lasts. And as my friends will tell you, I never rush to judgment and I am very patient, so the last thing I'm going to do is overreact to this*.

Still, of the six division leaders, the White Sox's 3.5-game lead is the biggest. The White Sox have the biggest division lead in baseball. The White Sox. The team that has inflatable sex dolls in the clubhouse.

This all comes on the heels of an Ozzie Guillen profanity-laced tirade too. Which means you can expect another one when the White Sox start slumping again. If the White Sox make the playoffs this year, you can pretty much consider Guillen a Teflon manager for a few more years.

But to be honest, I can't see this lasting. For proof, I traded Gavin Floyd in my baseball league. Carlos Quentin isn't hitting 40 homers and driving in 120 runs. You can't survive an entire season with Orlando Cabrera as your leadoff hitter. Baseball is all about the law of averages and percentages, and eventually those two things have to catch up with the White Sox, don't they?

Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the ride while it lasts. That's what she said.

* I live or die with every pitch in April and May.

** That's a photo of Bo Jackson and Carlton Fisk on motorcycles.

Movie Trivia, and Just Some Random Stuff

Question that leads: What is the odd movie connection between Ironman and Spiderman? Answer to follow!

Our building has a fire alarm test, no joke, about once a week. It's out of control. Do I feel safe? No, I feel annoyed. Do you know what it's like to have a man screaming into an intercom that I should ignore him? It's the equivalent of the I'm Not Touching You game you played as a kid.

My softball situation is quite laughable. I don't play on my work team. During my first week or so, this dude gave me and another new guy a rundown. The first practice e-mail had, literally, 51 names on it. Figure, generously, 30 of those people show up for games on average.

"Do we have two teams?"
"Nope, just the one."
"And it's co-ed?"
"Yep."
"So everyone plays an inning and sits around the rest of the time?"
"No, some people get two innings."
"Wow, that's great."
"Well, there are about three positions that are locked in already."
"There are 43 people on this team and we have three locked in spots?"
"Yeah, those guys play the whole game, basically."
"Are you kidding me?"

So clearly I didn't bother to waste my time. Unfortunately, I have to take part, as one guy on the team e-mails the entire company (not just the people on the team -- the entire company) about a 600-word "game story" along with a box score and season stats.

Oh yeah. They've been mercy-ruled (in co-ed softball!) three times in a row.

I guess those locked-in spots must be held by guys who signed huge contracts after career seasons.

The softball team I play on (all dudes) sucks as well. We got mercy-ruled like 20-4 in our opener, which was three weeks ago. Since then, we've had a bye and had two rainouts, because apparently I live in the heart of Seattle now. Still, I'd rather go 2-for-3 and play shortstop on a crap team for seven innings than get one at-bat and play one of the three unprotected positions (catcher?) for a half-inning.

We had a little harassment training seminar conducted by a lawyer at work the other day. I used to think those things were pointless, but after 30 years on this planet, I've come to realize that there are people walking this planet who really do need to be told that saying, "I get what O.J. was thinking, because sometimes I want to slit a woman's throat," is wrong. That was a real example, by the way.

One of the final portions was e-mail conduct. One of the helpful tips was, "Be careful when sending e-mail, especially when it comes to tone and spelling."

I thought the spelling part was funny. It's pretty tough to harass a co-worker with bad spelling. I mean legally, anyway. I tried imagining a scenario where bad spelling can get someone fired. Maybe a female boss sends an e-mail to a male subordinate, "Meat me in my office so we can discuss your proposal package."

Or maybe just a really bad misspelling throughout an e-mail from a boss to an entire company about people getting to work on time. "People, we all have to abide by the cock. If you don't see 5 on the cock, you can't leave. Everyone -- including me -- has to punch the cock everyday, so let's pick it up around here. If the lateness continues, I'm going to put big cocks on your desk to remind you what time it is."

But here is the part where I felt like I was on my own. Like I said, on the slide, it said, "Be careful when sending e-mail, especially when it comes to tone and spelling." And I swear, on the very next line of the same slide, it read, "Sending an e-mail with a causal tone can get you in trouble."

Causal. Instead of casual. I literally LOL'd then caught myself. I honest-to-god thought the lawyer guy did that in the presentation to make a point or something, but he didn't. There were probably 60 people in the room with me, and I was the only person to find it funny.

To quote Todd Wilkinson, no sense of humor whatsoever.

Answer that follows: They banged in Wonder Boys.

My Stanley Cup Finals Prediction in Video Form

I don't mean this as a metaphor, either. This will actually happen during either Game 3 or 4.

OK, fine. Red Wings in five. Too much experience.

Joba Chamberlain Is the Answer to Your Problems

Remember when the Yankees were a machine in the late 1990s? Everything they touched turned to gold. They couldn't make a bad transaction. I heard in 1995, they hired a peanut vendor who was flawless in his running, jumping tosses to customers. In fact, he was so successful, they gave him a tryout, and he wound up making the team. That peanut vendor was Derek Jeter.

There's nothing wrong with putting Joba Chamberlain in the rotation at this point. The Yankees are desperate. But this idea that Chamberlain is going to be a cure-all is quite laughable. Is he better than Ian Kennedy? Hell, *I* am better than Ian Kennedy. But that's not going to be enough.

Chamberlain has never started a major-league game. Ever. He's never had to face a lineup twice. He's never pitched more than three innings. To think someone with so little experience and just two pitches (I know everyone says he has four, but I've never seen anything but a fastball and slider) is going to be able to get hitters out consistently is a little insane. As he gets more experience, sure, he can be great. But for 2008, he's not going to solidify anything.

Especially when Latroy Hawkins is pitching the eighth inning. Or Kyle Farnsworth. Or Edwar Ramirez. This is the equivalent of being a bald guy and shaving your leg hair and sprinkling it on your head, thinking it's going to solve your problem without anyone mocking your freakishly smooth legs.

I'm just saying. Unless the Yankees build a time machine and return to a time when Andy Pettitte was juicing and Mike Mussina's fastball was better than 84 mph, you might as well let a donkey join the Yankees rotation, like they did in that movie where the donkey kicked field goals. That donkey rocked.

Also, I pointed something out to Awful Announcing from last night's Yankees game, he uploaded the video, but now it's down. But I might as well direct you there in case it gets fixed, because AA is a little like Jesus. Well, he's nothing like Jesus, but I do hear he wears sandals all the time. Update: The video is here, and since I might want to explain what it is, it's cursing during the broadcast. I blame Michael Kay.

WDWGDAB: A Three-Year Retrospective

In the words of The Onion, Holy Fucking Shit. And in the voice of Jeremy Piven in Grosse Point Blank, three years! Three! YEARS! Jesus. Where does the time go, huh? Wormholes? To the place where thoughts come from? Maybe if I keep this blog going long enough, I will figure that out and then be able to go on journeys where my only guide is Al, a hologram from....wait, I'm off-track here.

Ahhh, yes. Three years. As monumental as it is sad. Don't most people quit or go on to bigger and better things by now? You know how many posts I have published? Guess. Go ahead, guess. It'll be fun. Nope. Guess again. You know what, I don't have all day. I'll just tell you. 1,302. If you look up the definition of excessive, there's a picture of me clicking "publish post" in my boxer shorts while I give a thumb's up.

Here are some more stats:

• Derek Jeter is mentioned in 107 posts.
• The Yankees are mentioned in 251 posts.
• My penis is mentioned in 176 posts.
• Fuck appears in 523 posts.
• The Inquisitor appears in 57 posts.
• Harris appears in 78 posts.
• Atlantic City appears in 60 posts.
• Poop appears in 56 posts.
• Anal appears in 40 posts.
• And most amazing to me, balls appears in 240 posts.

I do use balls the way people use other expletives, as in, "What? The White Sox re-signed Kenny Williams to an 11-year extension? Balls." But still, balls has come up almost as much as the Yankees, probably with the usage, "Everyone on the Yankees can lick my balls." I'm mature.

Besides the 1,302 published posts (this one is 1,303), I have 108 drafts, which are things I wrote then either bailed on or forgot about. Going through some of that old stuff is pretty funny. There really isn't much I looked through and thought, "Yeah, I wish I'd published this." However, this is something that never saw the light of day, something I wrote after Jerry's bachelor party in 2005. There was this trivia thing happening on a screen during our flight to Vegas. We were all tanked (at 9 a.m.), and this question appeared:

"Which of the following is not a color in a box of Crayola crayons?

Bamboo Shoot
Macaroni and Cheese
Razmatazz
Beaver

So, can you see where this is going? The answer was Bamboo Shoot. But they also let you know about the colors that do exist. This sentence actually appeared on the screen:

'Beaver first appeared in 1990' "

OK. So that's still funny. But I decided that there was no need to re-tell that story, so it remains in the draft to this day. And before you ask, I can't publish it anyway, because that's just about where I decided to keep that weekend between us guys and stopped writing.

Another gem I found in the draft was this response to my psycho ex-friend who believed I was obsessed with her. Which would've been true if she was dyslexic and got us mixed up. Isn't that what dyslexia is? Seeing things inversed? I'm not a doctor. But anyway, she used the idea that she might have cancer in an effort to see what I'd do. And after like five days, I did what I always do -- blog about it, without her name in it. But since she was under the impression every post with a female pronoun was about her and everyone reading it thought the same thing, she believed the entire world knew it was about her, and she left the most batshit comment ever. It's all still there for you to read.

But in an effort to get her to knock the shit off, I said I had a post in the reserve that she didn't want anyone reading in response to that comment, and that was that. I totally forgot about until I started writing this and was stumbling through my archive to find the Jeremy Piven "10 Years!" bit from GPB, which is not on YouTube anymore. Anyway, my response post in reserve is pretty awesome still, so why should I let it go to waste?

OK, OK. I won't post the whole thing. But here's a great excerpt from it, in response to her self-confidence level:

"On self-esteem and/or self-confidence:
You are right. You're all confidence.

Your confidence is what led you to IM me all of these photos of your boyfriend's ex-girlfriend and tell me how she's prettier than you and how you think you are ugly. Everyone I know who has ever met you always remarks to me about how secure you are, too."

Those randomly bolded words were the links to all the photos she sent me, which still work. I'm a prick, not an asshole, so the last thing I need to do is send you all to those pictures. But man, that post in its entirety is so good. Maybe one day I'll hit publish on it, but I doubt it.

Which brings us back to today, where we are looking back on the highlights of an epic three-year run. And by "epic," I mean, "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Who?" Still, 1,302 posts, some of them have to be funny, right? At least one must be interesting, right?

To be honest, I have no idea what you all find funny or interesting, or on those rarest of occasions, both. To this day, it still boils down to what I find funny or interesting. Over my three years, I've been linked to from some sites that are far and away more popular than mine, clearly by people desperate for content on slow days. For instance:

Gawker
Deadspin
The Big Lead
SI.com
Sports by Brooks
Yahoo! Sports (Can't figure out that link)
NJ.com
Fleshbot
Awful Announcing

I still remember that first link from Gawker back when they linked to blogs they liked. I didn't even really know what Gawker was, or what was being gawked at. People were IMing me with congrats all day. You know why they linked to me? Because I changed my profile picture to a guy in a giant penis costume for Halloween.

These days, the two sites that link to me most in that group are SI.com and The Big Lead. Gawker has replaced Blogorrhea with an extra Julia Allison post a day while Deadspin would rather go down on Buzz Bissinger than ever link to me. And to this day, I have no clue what draws their interest in this site. I stopped trying to figure it out right around June 2006, I think.

Give or take, I probably get about 40,000 page views a month. Is that a lot? Not at all. It's enough to get some advertising, but I'm not exactly quitting my job off that revenue. But lately, it's got me thinking.

Maybe it's the 9-5 world I've existed in for the last four months or so, but I'm getting a little burnt out on the daily blogging thing. I mean, nothing interesting is happening to me for the most part. And those times when interesting things happen, I'm all, "Christ, I guess I need to blog about it."

It's not that I don't like doing this, it's that I don't like doing it as much I used to. It's almost like work. It's getting forced. Heck, after three years, it's probably been forced for longer than I realize, but now I'm actually realizing it, and I'm thinking of a little change of direction.

Part of me wants to turn this into a sports blog. Part of me just wants to pontificate on the daily happenings of the sports world, because god knows I'm a funny writer and god knows I'm smarter than about 95 percent of the people I engage in sports conversations or read on the Internet or in newspapers. After all, I'm not even trying to be a sports blog, and I have the 98th best one on the tubes. Why not just go totally commercial?

I'll tell you why. Because it's hard. Full-time blogging is nearly impossible when you're full-time jobbing, especially from 9-5. During my mini-stint over at Sports By Brooks, I was utterly amazed at how hard it was to find interesting stories to turn around for the site. True, it was a weekend, but there is no way in hell I could manage this site if I was doing eight posts a day while trying to do my real job effectively.

But then I think I don't need to do eight posts a day to be a good sports blog. After all, when you break down the magnates like Deadspin and The Big Lead, you can basically eliminate everything they do in the morning. I don't even visit those guys until noon anymore, because the morning is filled with nothing but roundups from last night's games, and to be honest, that's not why I read sports blogs.

Even still, let's say I do three or four posts a day of varying lengths. Can I really find three or four things I find worthy of talking about? I don't know. I'm just thinking out loud. My life is only so interesting to so many people, you know? "Wow, Dave bought bagels today. How exciting."

Anyway, that's where my head is at after three years of this crap. But let's retrospect some more, shall we?

On the right there, you can see my best of. I don't think I've added to it in about a year, maybe more. Some of you are probably saying, "that's probably because you haven't done anything good in 18 months." That's because you guys are dicks.

So in an effort to take a stroll down memory lane, I dug through the past three years so we can all have a nice laugh and remember those rare occasions I was worth reading and catch you up on all you missed. Which wasn't much, really.

*********

There's of course, my very first post. You never forget your first. Except with the first blog post, I didn't have to pay for it, it wasn't in an alley next to a bar, and the post didn't turn out to be a dude.

Then there was that time I encountered a smoking hot chick with one arm in a pizza place. It was so much easier to blog about my life when things like that would occur.

Did you know my blog used to be called Timing Plays? I decided after like three weeks that it was stupid and held a contest to rename it. But since my blog was three weeks old, no one read it and no one entered, so I had to come up with the current title, which has been called by one large Peruvian man, "So money."

In what was easily my first post that anyone found interesting, I told the story of a Mets game that ended with me being threatened with a knife.

Blogging was so easy in 2005 when gay Asian men asked me to play kickball.

When I turned 28, I set up some goals. I haven't achieved any of them.

I used to work with an awful human being, and I told his tale here. That resulted in someone anonymously responding to that post in another post five days later that had nothing to do with that original post. Considering my blog's minuscule popularity at that point, it could've only been three people. I offered to meet with whoever it was to discuss it, but they of course never showed.

I knew Vince Young would suck in January 2006.

I had the shits for four days once.

I started tackling religion in March 2006.

The time I met Uncle Junior still kills me.

If you give me five bucks, there's a good chance I'll make out with you.

I will never understand how a woman in her athletic prime beating a man who was 55 years old was such a big deal.

I still agree with everything I said about the movie United 93, except for maybe how it needed more stars.

The day the New York Rangers officially became a second-class team is still one that lives in infamy.

I once got so drunk that...well, I don't want to ruin the punch line if you haven't heard this story.

I completely forgot that I was nearly a character on The Colbert Report. Man, I'm a little depressed now thinking about how it didn't happen.

Easily the post I'm most known for, which is also sad and awesome, the guide for taking a poop.

This is the beginning of my campaign to have Barbaro die.

Then I started really trying to kill Barbaro.

Right after the campaign, we were in Kansas City for our baseball trip where we met Michelle Kwan. That is both awesome and sad as well, because while I was there for that weekend, a radio station wanted to interview me about Barbaro. Makes me realize why I called my blog Timing Plays at first. Because timing is everything in life.

Most racist Daily News headline ever. I knew I was making my impact felt in the world when a Daily News copy editor told me this post was hung up in the newsroom as a reminder not to call Asian people Zippers.

This was part of my campaign to keep Derek Jeter from winning the MVP in 2006, which he so didn't deserve. That was actually posted on Deadspin, and with the voting as close as it was, if I just convinced three people not to vote for Jeter, I kept it from him.

Remember that time Rex Lee (Lloyd from Entourage) started commenting on my blog? Those were hilarious times. You were there. I don't think he likes me, but I hope he still reads. Hey, Rex!

My closer music still cracks me up.

Then there was that time a genuine monster tried putting her hands down my pants in a bar.

Since I'm all about full disclosure, my thoughts on Tom Coughlin in November 2006.

I still think these are the four biggest sports lies of all-time.

In December 2006, I discovered Zach Braff had a blog, and began my campaign to get my nine bucks for Garden State back.

Easily my favorite Barbaro post, and it was inspired by William Shatner.

Martin Brodeur was really exposed as a system goalie with the new NHL rules and lack of Hall of Fame defensemen, huh?

A night out with Jesus to celebrate his birthday.

As we finally get to 2007 on this journey, I discover most men would do Jack Bauer.

Barbaro dies! Everyone celebrates!

I told you in February 2007 that Evgeni Malkin was going to eventually surpass Sidney Crosby.

To this day, no one has given me a good reason why two guys would sleep over each other's places five nights a week for anything other than sex.

Just put your ass in the sink.

Some dude in England stole from me once.

Despite help from Gawker, I couldn't get Carlos Mencia fired.

A real interview with Carl Pavano's ex-girlfriend. We did it.

To kick off Year 3, girl crashes into wall, cries like a girl.

A post that gets me laid and makes me friends to this day -- the GSF.

Feist is a complete idiot, so I offered help with her counting. This was right around the time Riese discovered me and fell for me, leading to a torrid sexual affair that involved lots of leather and physical pain.

I invent Lozoball, which by the way, I'm winning right now.

I stand by the title of this post, although, I'm not sure what it has to do with this psycho I met on MySpace.

Pink and Rihanna, two chicks who need to meet my fists. No, not like that.

There's a reason why we don't want to see chubby girls in their underwear.

I hope Minnesota this year is half as good as Milwaukee was last year.

If I do build a time machine, five chicks from the past I'd do.

I still don't like the dog in the Bush's baked beans commercials.

Nail polish. I still don't get it.

There are no black people on HBO.

I'd still like to see him fired for the good of mankind, but thanks to the baseball package, I don't have to listen to Michael Kay anymore.

It's probably a good that I don't have a vagina, despite what the rumors say.

It's amazing that a show based around a George Costanza lie only lasted one season.

This post leads to my other post about magical disappearing genitals.

Tearing a ligament in my finger was awful, but it did lead to the Riese and Haviland vlogs.

In October 2007, I did an expose on something that has been haunting America for years -- fat girls with big boobs.

A PSA about the karate chop.

This might've been the first post I did that SI.com linked to.

It's the post I received by far the most comments on, and it's only a paragraph.

My poker club gets busted at the end of last year, and it's based on all lies.

I closed 2007 with a post about Sean Taylor that still makes me giggle.

A tasteless Heath Ledger joke.

My all-out assault on Zach Braff's commenters.

Giants win the Super Bowl, I get drunk. How drunk? I literally puked blood the next morning.

CNN would have you believe blogging -- BLOGGING! -- will help you lose weight.

If you had tried a little harder, you might've gotten to see my penis.

My interview with Will Ferrell.

*********

Phew. That's quite the look back. The goal there is for anyone who showed up recently to get a feel for what it's been like here. You know. A general clusterfuck. Not that you couldn't figure that out on your own.

High school and college makes me look at my life in four-year intervals. This is Year 4 of my blog. And just like when I think back to the beginning and end of high school and college, I definitely feel changed and different. Is it evident in the writing? I can't tell. I'm too close to it.

I don't know what his blog has in store in the future, as previously mentioned about 40,000 words ago, but we'll see. It's not like we won't be having fun on the way there. I wouldn't change the last three years of blogging at all. Maybe less typos.

You Didn't Expect Me to Work Today, Did You?

I didn't think so.

If You're a Yankee Hater, Tonight, Was Aweeesome

When us Yankee haters get together at our monthly meetings, held in the basement of Stan the Man's on the second Tuesday of each month, we have what is called our Dream Session, in which we discuss what would be the greatest game possible for the Yankees to lose.

We go over all the great contingencies. Mariano Rivera delivers a pitch in a tie game in the bottom of the ninth, it gets hit between third and short, Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez collide, only to remain tangled on the dirt as Jeter and enters Rodriguez from behind as the winning run scores, both metaphorically and literally. It is later discovered Rivera tore his rotator cuff on the pitch.

However, tonight's game might go down as the wettest wet dream a Yankee hater can have. To recap:

• Mike Mussina, easily one of the biggest dicks (not literal) there is, doesn't get out of the first inning. Why?
• Because an error by Derek Jeter with two outs kept the inning going long enough for the Orioles -- the Orioles! -- to score seven runs. Seven runs!
• Later in the game, Jeter, notorious for diving out over the plate, is drilled with a fastball in the hand and has to leave the game with an injury. Only an MRI will show how awesome that is.
• And of course, the cherry on top, Alex Rodriguez launches one of his patented two-run homers with the Yankees down 10-0. TEN NOTHING! OMG!

Tonight was easily one of the greatest nights in Yankee hater history. It's probably second to Game 6 of the 2001 World Series.

Enjoy it, people. The Yankees are missing the playoffs in 2008. Soak it all in.

Things I Like: Bad Journalism

More accurately, I enjoy the picking apart of bad journalism in a surgical fashion. For instance, this story in the Detroit Free Press about how bad the Tigers are. Nothing wrong with that. The Tigers are terrible, as I said they would be, and you're a Detroit paper, so yeah, you have to go there at this point.

But of all the hundreds upon hundreds of examples of how you can point out how and why the Tigers are failing, USA Today/Free Press writer Bob Nightengale, who clearly needs to be nursed back to health, cited this:

"It is two hours before game time against the Arizona Diamondbacks, and video is being shown of Dan Haren, the opposing pitcher. No one is watching. (Miguel) Cabrera, who had never faced (Dan) Haren, is asleep in a chair. Magglio Ordonez has his back turned to the TV and is reading a magazine. A handful are playing cards."

In this game, which the Tigers lost 4-3 to one of the best pitchers in baseball, Cabrera hit a two-run homer off Haren, and Ordonez had three hits.

I'm just saying, of the AL-leading 27 losses the Tigers have this year, you choose this one as the "snapshot of the year?" What about the game where the Gavin Floyd nearly no-hit the Tigers? The White Sox won 7-0, Justin Verlander got rocked, and the Tigers bats were non-existent. Isn't that the microcosm game?

But I guess Bob wasn't in the clubhouse that day to see Carlos Guillen on his cell phone as Jim Leyland gave his all-encompassing lesson on how to hit Floyd, or Verlander playing hopscotch in the underground batting cages with Ivan Rodriguez.

Dumb Things I See Every Morning in NYC

I know, I know. Don't forget to mention your face when you look in the mirror! Zing! Hey-oh! You are so clever. How's that working out for you? Good? Well keep it up then. Keep it right up.

Let's start off at the world's most famous homeless shelter with the strange butter popcorn smell on the second floor -- Port Authority. The first dumb thing I see, as previously mentioned, is the electronic sign with the typo on the second floor. We're closing in on the two-month anniversary of NJ Transiv being the way to go, and I for one am excited to see how long that sign stays like that.

But the real dumb thing is actually outside Port Authority. Let me point it out to you using high-tech graphics.

See those things there? I'm not even sure what to call them. Well, I know what I call them -- motherf'ing obstructions. They are lined all along the sidewalk right outside the exit/entrance to the building.

Now imagine it's either 9 a.m. or 5 p.m. Thousands upon thousands of people are descending upon Port Authority to either go home or go to work. Hmmmm, what can we do to make an already-insane mob scene even more ludicrous? I know! Let's set up giant obstructions and squeeze off the available sidewalk space even more! Yeah! Someone high-five me!

The motherf'ing obstructions are at their best during the 5 p.m. rush as you cross 42nd Street, because they are strategically placed near the corner so all those people coming in opposite directions bottleneck. The motherf'ing obstructions are actually even better at the same time during rainy days. Hundreds of jackasses with umbrellas putting each other's eyes out as they cram into a two-foot wide walkway. Genius.

I'd show a close-up of those MFOs if I could, but I can't. They each have the tiniest of plants growing in them. It's like someone buried a Chia Pet in the MFOs so only their backs are sticking out of them. The true function of the MFOs, besides the aesthetic beauty they bring to Port Authority, is to serve as a place to put your finished cigarettes and used condoms. I'll take a picture at some point.

The next stupid thing I pass in the morning is the Good Morning America studio. It's an absolute study in human stupidity and dentistry, as hundreds of toothless jackasses from the Midwest and third-world countries press their faces against the glass in an effort to get a better look at some chick who finished fourth on American Idol in 2004.

Listen. Tourists. I get them. I accept it now. But Jesus. Does anyone really know what a celebrity is anymore?

Let's say I've walked past the GMA studio 100 times. I'm going to say I've seen three true celebrities at the time I was there -- Mariah Carey, Charlize Theron and Dennis Quaid. The other 97 times, it's been someone voted off an island, or fired, or someone else who really isn't famous in the true sense. It's not exciting at all.

Yet these c-bags are all over the place. The exit/entrance is littered with idiots waiting to snap a picture of Tony Danza. Tony Danza! You're in New York City! Gawker spots better celebrities on a daily basis. Well, for the most part. The Gawker Stalker seems to be a great way to find out where Moby and Seth Green are, but that's neither here nor there.

The final stupid thing I pass is the theater district, and let me tell you why the theater district is stupid -- the shows. I know, I know. That's like saying hockey is stupid because of the pucks. Hear me out.

What percentage of Broadway shows can you honestly say you know? That is, can you tell me what Passing Strange is about? I've been walking past it for months, and I have no clue.

Broadway shows need trailers. They need commercials. If you're Les Miserables, you obviously don't need an advertisement, because everyone knows it's a story of the trying time of Leslie Miserables, a guy forced to live with a girl's name, causing him to become miserable. But Passing Strange? It could be the story of my walk through Times Square every day.

Based on the signs outside the theater, Passing Strange is the "freshest" and "extremely hip." Listen to me, Passing Strange PR people. It's 2008. Maybe if it was 1987, and you were either DJ Jazzy Jeff or the Fresh Prince, yes, using words like fresh and hip would be a great way to convey how awesome you are. But since we're not in parachute pants, we're not saying things like, "Read WDWGDAB, it's the dopest!" Just because a 65-year-old newspaper guy said your play is the freshest, doesn't mean you have to hang it outside your theater.

And even still, what is that really telling me? Nothing. And I don't trust you theater types and your artsy ways. I don't want to plop down 100 bucks, only to find out this "play" is just a dude on stage on a treadmill, walking past strange-looking people, like circus freaks, for two hours.

Is it a story about the death of former major league pitcher Doug Strange? The tale of a car ride that goes past Strange Creek, W. Va.? I don't know, because you haven't told me.

Balls. You know the scene at the end of that Brittany Murphy movie where she says, "I'll never tell," and she's all weird yet do-able and Sean Bean is trapped in a giant grave and the barriers break and he tries to outrun all the avalanching dirt but can't and ends up being buried? I am Sean Bean, and the dirt is stupidity. I can't run anymore.

Oh. Doug Strange is not dead.

Things I Like: Knocked Up

Funny movie. Paul Rudd is a hilarious human being. My thought:

If that's not the textbook situation for an abortion, what is? A single woman in her early-20s who has a job in the entertainment field, so looks are important, can't afford her own place so she's living with her sister and her husband, bangs a dude on a one-night stand, and the dude is a complete loser who is stoned at all times and is so in debt that he can't afford a phone. I'm assuming the script-writer has some sort of anti-abortion stance thing happening.

Also, I was a little shocked to see a fantasy baseball draft where Carlos Delgado went before Hideki Matsui, but I forgot about what a monster Delgado was in 2005, which is probably the season they were drafting off in the movie.

I Challenge Any WNBA Player to a Game to 11

I remember like it was yesterday. I was in eighth grade, a decent athlete. The place to go to play basketball in my hometown was "the courts," which was odd because there was only one basketball court there. But that's where kids of all ages would come and play pickup basketball till the sun went down.

I was always good. I never played for my high school because, well, the coach was an idiot. I remember showing up for tryouts as a freshman. On Day 1, the coach divided about 20 of us into two groups without having ever seen us play. We ended up scrimmaging against each other, and it didn't take long for me to realize that the other team of 10 was way better than my team of 10. This guy, who looked like Kevin Arnold's dad on The Wonder Years, had made up his mind who was starting before we ran our first suicide, and after two games of sitting on the bench and watching us get us our asses kicked, I quit.

But that was high school. I'm talking eighth grade here. And at the courts, it was mostly high school kids, boys and some girls on occasion. I remember on one particular day, members of our high school girls basketball team were there. They were good. At girls basketball, anyway. In this game, my job was to cover this girl who was a senior at the time and easily the best player on the girls team.

This girl was about the same height as me, and I remember two distinct things about the evening. One, whenever she boxed me out or tried to post up on me, she rubbed against me in a way that only an eighth grade boy can remember. And two, I utterly dominated her on both sides of the court.

Here's the thing -- girls aren't as good as boys at sports. It's science, and I don't mean that in a Ron Burgundy sort of way. Everyone knows that if the top 10 women in basketball played the top 10 men in basketball, the men would win by 100. It's science.

But with women's basketball, I hold zero respect for the ladies. I see these commercials with Diana Taurasi and Sue Bird, and I think to myself, "Please." I would bet any amount of money that I could beat either of them in a game of one-on-one, and I'm an old man who rarely plays baksetball these days. Women are slower than men, and they have the vertical leap of a fat man in cement shoes.

Besides all that, the most damning and embarrassing thing about the women's game is the fact they have to use a smaller ball. "Oh, look, my tiny, tiny hands can't handle a man's ball! Please! Please! Give us a smaller ball so we can play too!" It'd be like women's tennis players having to use a wider court, or women's soccer players demanding a smaller field, because their delicate feet can't handle covering that entire field.

The smaller ball in women's hoops is a joke. How does no one ever mention this? Give me a half-court and a men's ball and Taurasi in a game to 11, and I'd win, say, 11-4. I'm sure she'd hit a few jumpers, but the weight of the men's ball would probably tire out her flimsy arms.

In all of the stories you've heard of some woman dunking a ball (and not for nothing, when does that stop being a story?) no one ever points out that she did it with what amounts to a mini-ball. I used to dunk all the time in my younger days with the smaller ball, yet I never considered building an entire league around the concept.

So Ms. Taurasi, or any girl for that matter who considers herself a real basketball player in the WNBA, I'm laying down the challenge. Beat a 30-year-old dude who never really played high school ball in a game of one-on-one and shut me up. Prove me wrong. Get yourself some credibility. We have to use a real ball, though. But we can paint it pink to make you feel better.