dr. doooom's answering machine

Today is the 20th anniversary of the greatest play in football, if not sports, history, aptly called "The Play." For those not in the know, it was the kickoff return at the end of the Big Game in 1982. The Big Game is the annual Cal-Stanford football contest. After receiving the kickoff, the Cal players lateraled the ball to each other repeatedly as they ran down the field, culminating in a touchdown as the Stanford band had already started marching through the end zone in what looked like a victory for the Cardinal.

Ivan Maisel, a writer for ESPN and Stanford alum, was there that day, and he wrote an article today about it which you should definitely read. Here's an excerpt that really emphasizes how big this was:

"I have seen college football played indoors and out, in stadiums that no longer exist, in Honolulu and College Station and Blacksburg and Corvallis and points between. All of it amounts to a backyard game of touch compared to what I saw from the stands of Memorial Stadium in Strawberry Canyon twenty years ago today."

Mark Kreidler also wrote a nice little piece about the lives of the heroes of Cal lore who participated in those 5 fateful laterals, and how they are basically just normal people who once a year get a bunch of attention, but like true Golden Bears are well-rounded and not caught up in the hype.

So I'd like to recommend that everyone celebrate the 20th anniversary of the Play in the appropriate manner. For example I will be painting my body blue and gold and jogging through Waikiki naked except for some Oski underoos singing "We are Sons of California, fighting for the gold and Blue, la la la la la la la la la la la la la."

Why is it every time I feel the need to make a public statement it involves softcore theatrics? And what's my obsession with body painting? My therapist is at a loss, what say you dear reader?

Go Bears! Oh yeah and fuck John Elway! Peace! Love! Happiness! Squirrels with Submachine guns! Hamster Sodomy! It's all good in the hood here at UB. Outs…..

PS: an extra nugget of wisdom for you, the most loyal, the most high, the kriptonik booty shakers. What I want to talk about here in this 37th chamber is Justin Timberlake, and his "new sound." Uh, Justin, what you've found isn't a new sound, my curly haired mouseketeer, it just so happens to be Michael Jackson's nutsack. I know he's not using it for anything besides possibly disfiguring surgery (although I doubt that, I think the King of Pop is only concerned about the portions of his anatomy that people see, isn't it ironic, then, that those are the only portions spared his Dr. Frankenstein like manipulations? Isn't it just SO fukn ironic, hmmm?), but still Justin, I don't think your Justified (get it, huh, huh, gyeah, I am a fukn comedian, not the funny kind, you know, but the superhero watchman secret dirtbag kind, except I know the meaning of no, werd?) in jackin jack-o so blatantly and then trying to get your ghetto pass reinstated. Oh jeez and yesterday Ja Rule, if his descent into sell-out-ness had not been totally and completely ratified, on TRL he referred to that Justin Timberlake song as "his jam", he was like "oh, yeah, that's my jam, right there." Carson Daly was like, "yeah, you like that one, huh?" Now it's pretty damn sad when Carson Daly is clowning you on national TV and you don't even know it. Carson Daly, who's fukn name should have been Stanley he's such a goddamm tool. Ja Rule, why don't you go all the way and do a song with the Olsen Twins, I mean, what's next for this fukn R&B hooked out beyatch? OK super secret rant over. Consdider yourselves executive clubbed and make a like a tree and get out of here.