You can watch the presser on KHOU.com if you are interested.  I like him.  I think he's an Astros fan and is going to be great for the team.

if you are talking about Reid, it is impossible to not like him. he has incredible people skills.

Agreed.  Also not really conducive to student attendance. 

students have never supported basketball or baseball in significant numbers, no matter where the arena is.

which part, Jim? All of the above?

last sentence

Houston Rangers, Jr.

not true.

Just thinking out loud; does that mean the old man's days in Arlington truly are numbered? Would it be some sort of conflict for each to be in the same division competing against each other? I would think so. At least some tense moments during family gatherings. There was rumors here in NoTx when all the Nolan drama was swirling that he was looking for a job within the Rangers for one if not both of the boys as part of his exit strategy.

untrue.

Exactly.

FTR, I do not believe the Astros' are mailing it in and, under normal circumstances, I would be watching them.  My boycott is in protest of MLB's - and that arsewhole Selig's - treatment of the Astros, and the new owner's complicity in same.

how tall is that windmill, Don?

congrats! good preview, too.

Mark and I still play catch. we have not this year yet, but my glove is at the ready.

I thought about you yesterday, Coach. I hope that you're doing well.

doing fine, Paul. thanks for asking.

Can't find anything to say they were exonerated by DNA evidence, just that other suspects' DNA didn't match.

they were not exonerated. the cases were dismissed to avoid the possibility of double jeopardy. Scoot and Springsteen were there, and nothing can convince me otherwise. maybe someone else was too, but they were there.

a karma bomb took out Maurice Pierce, who was the ringleader.

Do you agree with the jurors who would not have convicted had they known about the DNA evidence that didn't match up?

no. Michael Scott was there. there may have been a division of stormtroopers with DNA all around in there too, but Michael Scoot was there. I watched all 22 hours of his interviews with police.

For your sake, I hope "Yogurt Shop" isn't a euphemism.

not sure what you mean. that is an infamous crime in Austin.

I just lost my mom in January so this has been a more somber M-D for me. Fortunately, daughter is up from Austin to be with her mom and that makes it more joyous.
And, yes, happy M-D to any and all of you out there.

November for me. yesterday felt strange.

Completely unrelated, but yesterday I finished my first time on a criminal jury.

what kind of case? I have only been on one jury in my life, but it was a Yogurt Shop case.

Coach, who was that? Alkie? I don't remember.

not anyone here. it was a poster on a UT board.

another one of my favorites:

A chronology of events for Saturday, December 4, 1999, and the early morning
hours of Sunday, December 5, 1999: 

6:00 Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and Texas Fight at full-freaking  blast
 
6:20 Get in car, drive to New Braunfels
>>     
7:30 Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time of the morning)

8:50 Turn 9 (crack open first beer)
   
8:53 Crack open second beer
>>     
8:58 Crack open...(you get the idea)
>>     
10:30 Finish 18 (holes, as well as beers), sign scorecard for smoooooth 95
     
10:35 Headed for San Antonio
     
10:50 Buy three 18-packs for pre- and post-game festivities
>>     
11:10 We decide we don't have enough booze, so we double-back to a  liquor
store and buy the good ol' 750 ml plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam

11:50 Arrive at the tailgate spot. Awesome day. Not a single cloud in the
sky. About 70 degrees.
     
11:55 I decide that we're going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
>>     
11:56 I tell my first Nebraska fan to go fuck himself.
     
12:15 The UT band walks by on the way to the Alamodome. We're on the  second
floor of a two-story parking garage on the corner (a couple hundred of us).
We're hooting and hollering like wildmen. The band doubles back
to the street right below us and serenades us with Texas Fight and  The
Eyes  of Texas. AWESOME MOMENT.
     
12:25 In the post-serenade serendipity, 50-100 grown men are bumping
chests with one another, each and every one of them now secure and
certain of the fact that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
     
1:00 The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the Alamodome. Again, we hoot
and holler like wildmen. Again, the band doubles  back  and stops
right below us to serenade us, this time, however, with the Nebraska
fight songs. Although somewhat impressed by their spirit and verve, we
remain convinced that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
     
1:30 I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow managing to stuff  the
"Traveler" and 11 cans of beer into my pants.
     
1:47 I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans. They are taunting  me. I am
taunting back, still certain that we are going to kick the shit out of
Nebraska. I decide to challenge a particularly vocal  Nebraska fan to play
what I now call and will forever be remembered as  "Cell-Phone Flop Out."
Remember flop out for a dollar? The rules are similar.
I tell this Nebraska jackass that if he's so confident in his team, he
should "flop out" his cell phone RIGHT NOW and make plane reservations to
Phoenix  for the Fiesta Bowl. And then I spoke these memorable words:
"And not those damn refundable tickets, either! You request those
non-refundable, non-transferrable sons-of-bitches!" He backs down. He is
unworthy.
I   call Southwest Airlines and buy two tickets to Phoenix, non-refundable
and non-transferrable.Price: $712. He is humbled. He lowers his head  in
shame.
   
I raise my cell phone in triumph to the cheers of hundreds of Texas fans.
I am KING and these are my subjects. I distribute the 11 beers in my pants
to  the cheering masses. I RULE the pre-game kingdom.
>>     
2:34 Kickoff. Brimming with confidence, I open the Traveler and pour my
first stiffy.
>>     
2:45 I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big. Nebraska is fast.
Nebraska is very pissed off at Texas.
>>     
3:01 The first quarter mercifully ends. 9 yards total offense for Texas.
Zero first downs for Texas. I'm still talking shit. I pour  another  stiffy
from the Traveler.
>>     
3:36 Four minutes to go in the first half: the Traveler is a dead  soldier.
I buy my first $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants. While I am standing in
line, a center snap nearly decapitates Major Applewhite and rolls out of
the end zone. Safety.
   
3:56 Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas 0. I wish I had another  Traveler.
>>     
4:11 While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the bathroom at  halftime, I
attempt to revive the classic Brice-ism from the South Bend  bathroom: "Hey,
buddy, niiiiiiiiice cock." He is unamused.
>>     
4:21 I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants. I
share my beer with two high school girls sitting behind me. Surprisingly,
they  are  equipped with a flask full of vodka. I send them off to purchase
$5 Sprites, so that we may consume their vodka. I have not lost  faith.
   
Nebraska is a bunch of pussies.
>>     
4:51 No more vodka. The girls sitting behind me have fled for  their lives.
I purchase two more $5 beers from the Alamodome merchants.
>>     
5:18 Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0. I am beginning to lose faith.  This
normally would trouble me, but I am too drunk to see the football field.

5:27 I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir. Those tickets  have  been
confirmed and are non-refundable and non-transferrable."
   
5:37 I try to start a fight with every person behind the  concession
counter.  As it turns out, the Alamodome has a policy that no beer can be
sold  when there is less than 10 minutes on the game clock. I am enraged by
this policy. I ask loudly: "Why the fuck didn't you announce last call  over
the fucking PA system??!!"
>>     
5:49 Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in defeat. All of a sudden,
the Texas crowd goes absolutely nuts. "Whazzis?,"
I mutter,  awaking from my coma, "Iz we winnig? Did wez scort?" Alas, the
answer is no, we were not winning and we did not score. The largest (by far)
cheer of the day from the Texas faithful occurred when the handlers were
walking back to the tunnel and  Bevo stopped to take a gargantuan shit all
over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in  the "Nebraska" spelled out in their
end zone. I cheer wildly. I pick up the empty Traveler bottle and stick my
tongue in it. I am thirsty.
   
6:16 Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back to the truck. I  would
taunt them with some off-color remarks about their parentage, but I am too
drunk to form complete sentences. With my last cognitive thought of the
evening, I take solace in the fact that if we had not beaten them in
October, they would be playing Florida State for the national championship.

6:30 Back in the car. On the way back to Austin for the 8:00 Texas-Arizona
tip off. We can still salvage the day! I crack open a beer. It is warm.  I
don't care.

7:12 We have stopped for gas. I am hungry. I go inside the store.  I walk
past the beer frig. I notice a Zima. I've never had a Zima. I  wonder if
it's any good. I pull a Zima from the frig. I twist the top off and drink
the Zima in three swallows. Zima sucks. I replace the empty bottle in the
fridge.
     
7:17 There is a Blimpie Subs in the store. I walk to where the ingredients
are, where the person usually makes the sub. There is no one there. I lean
over the counter and scoop out half a bucket of black olives. I  eat them.
I am still hungry. I lean further over the counter and grab approximately
two pounds of Pastrami. I walk out of the store grunting and eating
Pastrami.The patrons in the store fear me. I don't care.
>>     
8:01 We are in South Austin. I have been drinking warm beer and singing
Brooks and Dunn tunes for over an hour. My truck-mate is tired of my
singing. He suggests that perhaps Brooks and Dunn have written other good
songs besides "You're Going to Miss Me When I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and
that maybe listening to only those two songs, ten times each was a bit
excessive. Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the CD play on its own. I
tell him to fuck off and restart "Neon Moon."

8:30 We arrive at the Erwin Center. My truckmate, against my loud and
profane protestations, parks on the top floor of a nearby parking garage.
I tell him he's an idiot. I tell him we will never get out. I tell him we
may as well pitch a fucking tent here. He ignores me. I think he's still
pissed about the Brooks and Dunn tunes. I whistle "Neon Moon" loudly.
>>     
8:47 I am rallying. I have 4 warm beers stuffed in my pants. We're going
to kick the shit out of Arizona.
   
9:11 Halftime score: Texas 31, Arizona 29. I am pleased. I go to the
bathroom to pee for the 67th time today. I giggle to myself  because
of  the new opportunity to do "the bathroom Brice." There are no Arizona
fans in the bathroom. I am disappointed. I tell myself (out loud) that I
have a "Niiiiiice cock." No one is amused but me.
>>     
9:41 I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light out of a can.Needless
to say, they do not sell beer at the Erwin Center, much less Bud Light out
of a can. I am stopped by an usher: "Where did you get that, sir?" I tell
him (no shit): "Oh, the cheerleaders were throwing them up with those
little plastic footballs. Would you mind throwing this away for me?"  I
take the last swig and hand it to him. He is confused. I pretend I'm going
to the bathroom, but I run away giggling instead. I duck into some entrance
to avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me. I sneak into a large group of
people and sit down. The usher walks by harmlessly. I am giggling like a
little girl. I crack open another can of Bud Light.
>>     
9:52 I am lost. In my haste to avoid the usher, I have lost my bearings. I
have no ticket stub. I cannot find my seats. Texas is losing.

10:09 Texas is being screwed by the refs. I am enraged. I have cleared out
the seats around me because I keep removing my hat and beating the
surrounding chairs with it. A concerned fan asks if I'm OK and perhaps I
shouldn't take it so seriously. I tell him to fuck off.
>>     
10:15 After the fourth consecutive "worst fucking call I have EVER  seen,"I
attempt to remove my hat again to begin beating inanimate objects.  However,
on this occasion I miscalculate and I thumbnail myself in my left eyelid,
leaving a one-quarter inch gash over my eye. I am now bleeding into my left
eye and all over my shirt. "Perhaps," I think to myself, "I'm taking this a
bit seriously."
>>     
10:22 I am standing in the bathroom peeing. I'm so drunk I am swaying and
grunting. I have a bloody napkin pressed on my left eye. My pants are
bloody. I have my (formerly) white shirt wrapped around my waist. I look
like I should be in an episode of Cops.
     
10:43 Texas has lost. I put my bloody white shirt back on my body and make
my way for the exits. I am stopped every 20 seconds by a good
samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me why I am covered in blood,  but I
merely grunt incoherently and keep moving.
>>     
10:59 With my one good eye, I have located the parking garage. I walk up
six flights of stairs, promise that when I see my friend I will punch him
in the face for making me walk up six flights of stairs, find the truck, and
collapse in a heap in the bed of the truck. I look around and  notice that
traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights,  and
no one is moving. I take a nap.
>>     
11:17 I awake from my nap. I see my friend in the driver's seat. Ilift  my
head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up
all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I am
too tired to punch my friend. I call my friend a  "Stupid cocksucker."
>>     
11:58 I am jostled. The truck is moving. I lift my head to look out the
bed of the truck and notice that traffic is beginning to move on the second
floor. I jump out of the truck, walk to the edge of the parking facility,
and pee off the sixth floor onto the street below. My friend looks at me
like I just anally violated his minor sister. I turn around and pee on the
front of his truck while singing the lyrics to "Neon Moon."
>>     
12:11 We are moving. We are out of beer. I jump from the truck and go from
vehicle to vehicle until someone gives me two beers. I am happy. I  return
to my vehicle.
>>     
12:26 We have emerged from the parking facility. We make our way to my
apartment and find Ed sitting on the couch with a freshly opened bottle of
Glenlivet on the coffee table in front of him. We are all going to die
tonight.
>>     
>>>>
12:59 We have finished three-quarters of the bottle of Glenlivet.  We
decide it would be a wonderful idea to go dancing at PollyEsther's. Ed  has
to pee.He walks down the hall to our apartment and directly into the full
length mirror at the end of the hall, smashing it into hundreds of  pieces.
We giggle uncontrollably and leave for pollyEsther's.
>>     
1:17 The PollyEsther's doorman laughs uncontrollably at our efforts to
enter his club. "Fellas," he says in between his fits of spastic  laughter,
"I've been working this door for almost a year. I've been working doors in
this town for almost 5 years. And I can honestly say that I  ain't  never
seen three drunker mother fuckers than you three. Sorry, can't let  you in."
We attempt to reason with him. He laughs harder.
>>     
1:44 We find a bar that lets us in. We take two steps in the door and hear
"Last call for alcohol!" I turn to the group and mutter: "See, dat  wasn't
that fuckin' hard. Day don't fuckin' do that at the Awamo...the awaom...the
alab...fuck it, that stadium we was at today..." We order 6
shots of tequila and three beers.
>>     
2:15 Back on the street. We need food. We hail a cab to take us the two
and one half blocks to Katz's. The cab fare is $1.60. We give him $10 and
tell him to keep it.
>>     
2:17 There is a 20 minute wait. We give the hostess $50. We are seated
immediately.

2:25 We order two orders of fried pickles, a Cobb salad, a bowl of soup,
two orders of Blueberry blintzes, two Reuben sandwiches, a hamburger,  two
cheese stuffed potatoes, an order of fries, and an order of onion
rings.   
>>>>
2:39 The food arrives. We are all asleep with our heads on the table. The
waiter wakes us up. We eat every fucking bit of our food. Most of  the
restaurant patrons around us are disgusted. We don't give a fuck.  The  tab
is $112 with tip.
>>     
2:46 I'm sleepy.
>>     
9:12 I wake up next to a strange woman. She is the bartender at Katz's.
She is not pretty.

My favorite was Pointe du Hoc where Rudder's Rangers scaled the cliff to take out the artillery battery at great cost, only to find the position abandoned.

it was closed when I was there, which was a disappointment. the cliff has been stabilized now, I think, and it is open. the bomb craters up there were impressive.

Nice reset of a legendary site post.

by far, one of the funniest things I have ever read.

FINEST ALTERNATIVE SPORTS TAKE, AND WHAT THE HELL …
 TAKE OF THE YEAR (2001)
 Curly

This one occurred mere days after the 2000 HOF Spectacular, when all the rage was the addition of Dennis Miller to the MNF booth. Curly’s unexpected, unassailable masterpiece lit TZ like a Christmas tree before taking the country’s e-mail boxes by storm and eventually earning a slot at ilovebacon.com…
 
“What are viewers in for with Dennis Miller in the Monday Night Football booth? You have no idea, cha-cha.
 
AL MICHAELS: Hello and welcome to another edition of ABC’s Monday Night Football, tonight broadcasting from beautiful Fed Ex Field in Washington, D.C. I’m Al Michaels, and joining me in the booth are two new members of the ABC family, Dennis Miller and Dan Fouts.
 
DENNIS MILLER: Wow, Monday Night Football. I don’t want to appear nervous, but I’m under more strain right now than Linda Tripp’s Capri pants. I have to tell you, I’m conflicted about this. I usually like to be the outsider, the rabble-rouser, the iconoclast, but I also like a nice seat at a sporting event. And this seat is as nice as they get – except I think I took one of Boomer’s old squeak toys up the ass when I sat down.
 
DAN FOUTS: I was a quarterback.
 
MILLER: Thanks for that insight, Mr. Peabody. Dan Fouts, everyone. I’m looking over here, and he’s giving me that same blank stare I see when I put my dog on the phone. Hey, this isn’t the Senior Tour, Chi Chi. Try to keep up.
 
MICHAELS: Tonight the New England Patriots will try to get started on the right foot after a disappointing 8-8 showing last season. They take on the Washington Redskins, whose owner, Daniel Snyder, has paid out $65 million in free agent salaries and bonus payments in the off-season and is looking for results.
 
MILLER: Snyder is throwing around cash like a screech monkey playing with a pop-up Kleenex dispenser. But he’s a real hard-ass – it must be great to coach this team. Norv Turner comes to work every day, hands his balls to Gus, the 80-year-old equipment guy, who puts them in a footlocker behind the Stairmaster until the end of the game. Did you catch that one ass-chewing Turner received last season? Lee Harvey Oswald got off easier in that little room at the Dallas P.D. And when Turner finally got out of there you could tell he was looking around, desperately praying for Jack Ruby to show up and end his fucking misery.
 
MICHAELS: The teams are on the field, and we’re almost set for the kickoff.
 
FOUTS: I was the quarterback. I didn’t go on the field for the kickoff.
 
MILLER: Jesus, Shaggy, saunter on back to the Mystery Machine and take a breather, OK? Why don’t you pick up your brain off that pile of papers it’s holding down and see what happens when you plug it in? The game’s starting, and I feel like Corporal Agarn trying to explain supply and demand to the fucking Hakowis.
 
MICHAELS: As always, the Fuji Blimp makes its annual appearance at Monday Night Football. Glad to have you back, gentlemen.
 
MILLER: It is balloooooooooon! (High-pitched cackle).
 
MICHAELS: Starting at quarterback for the Redskins will be Jeff George, whom I guess one could call a journeyman at this point in his career.
 
MILLER: I have to admit, when I saw George on the roster I thought he had as much chance of making the team as Linda Hunt on the set of Baywatch. This guy’s been around – he’s called a lot of plays under a lot of centers. He’s seen more giant asses than a guest chair on the Jerry Springer Show.
 
MICHAELS: Snyder spent plenty in the offseason to sign star players such as Deion Sanders and Darrell Green on defense.
 
MILLER: Yeah, but look at that Fantasia broom army of social misfits the Redskins call an offensive line. I have a feeling that George’s appearance tonight is going to be shorter than Mini-Me stooping over to pick up one of Dr. Evil’s monocles.
 
MICHAELS: George drops back to pass, moves out of the pocket and finds the veteran Michael Westbrook, who is tackled after an 11-yard gain.
 
MILLER: Look, I’m new, I don’t know that much about defensive schemes. But it seems to me right there that the middle was as vacant as an interview with Posh Spice.
 
FOUTS: I was in a Miller beer commercial, and your last name is Miller.
 
MILLER: Hey, Aristotle, save some of the probing insight for the rest of us, OK? How come I’m getting the funny feeling that this is an episode of The Munsters, and I’m Marian, the normal one? Now, I don’t want to get off on a rant here, but the useful comments coming from your side of the booth could be counted on the one hand of a bad wood shop teacher. I can still see the jelly on your forehead where the electroshock terminals were attached. When I took this job, they didn’t tell me that I would be teamed with Pepe the Human Hamster on one side, and on the other a broken-down ex-quarterback who makes Jethro Bodine look like David Niven. I want to find the psychotic network programmers who thought up this train wreck and point out that this shit has to be harder to watch than a sausage being made.
 
FOUTS: I like sausage.
 
MILLER: Ah fuck it, where’s my propeller hat?
 
MICHAELS: The handoff is to Stephen Davis, who is tackled at the 39-yard line by defensive tackle Henry Thomas. But there’s a flag on the play.
 
MILLER: I’d have to say that was the poorest result since O.J. took the lie-detector test. And look at that ref, will ya? He’s got more nervous tics than a Belfast valet.
 
MICHAELS: That play will be brought back, making it first and 20 from the 49-yard line.
 
MILLER: Hey, who took my Raisinettes? Damn you, Roone Arledge! Damn you to hell!
 
MICHAELS: George back to pass … and the throw to Westbrook falls incomplete. Ty Law covering on the play.
 
MILLER: I don’t want to be a downer here, but how about throwin’ the freakin’ ball to the other side of the field, you know, cha-cha? You’ve got Westbrook drawing a bigger crowd than Anna Kournikova at the maximum-security lockdown at Rikers, while meanwhile the kid on the other side is lonelier than a hooker at a Star Trek convention.
 
MICHAELS: To be fair, there have only been four plays so far.
 
MILLER: Come on Al, you missing link. That receiver is being shunned like an Amish kid with a nipple ring. The left side of the field is to George as a shower is to the French. You’ve got a better shot at hearing Charlie Sheen give the keynote address at a Promise Keepers rally than you do of ever -
 
MICHAELS: Sorry to break in on you, Dennis, but Washington is guilty of a false start, and that will set them back another five yards.
 
MILLER: The ref is whipping out that flag like it’s the only lighter at a crack house.
 Later that evening:
 
MICHAELS: So your final score is Washington 17, New England 10. We’re headed off to San Francisco for our next Monday night broadcast, hope to see you there.
 
MILLER: I may be late; I don’t fly. It’ll be me in my Chevy Nova playing Mad Max with the Madden Cruiser all the way down Route 66, and you’ll know I’m winning when Pavorotti starts hurling six-legged turkeys out the skylight for ballast.
 
MICHAELS: What will you be doing with your remaining time in Washington, D.C.?
 
FOUTS: Doing a little sightseeing.
 
MILLER: I’ll be back at the hotel, masturbating like a red-assed monkey watching the Banana Channel.
 
MICHAELS: So from all of us here at Monday Night Football, see you next week.”
 
Viva Curly.
 
(Editor’s Note: to experience the maximum impact of the following dramatic announcement, please conjure image of the 68-year old, mini-skirted Tina Turner crooning “Simply The Best”)
 
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I have been to Normandy, and it was a wonderful experience. the American Cemetery is beautiful.

Thanks Coach. I recently told someone that I was bi-literate. They looked at me strangely and I said "I'm serious". Ha!

one of my favorite WWII stories!

Halladay to the DL, and he's going to see a specialist about his shoulder discomfort.

in pitcherspeak, "shoulder discomfort" means "Cut the damn arm off, Doc! It is of no use to me!"