Which Speller Will Have The Best Chance At Bagging Erin Andrews?

In commemoration of the Scripps National Spelling Bee, A.J. Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker makes a brief return. Email him to let him know what you think.

Tomorrow the Scripps National Spelling Bee will give another group of spindly kids with Akeelah-like aspirations an opportunity to make use of their freakish memorization skills. This year, the kids are more aware of the ramifications and long-term career potential that comes with the national stage. Spell the words right, become a shooting star; fail and go back to the life of being an extraordinarily bright child with lots of tuba-playing friends. (Or, if they’re a home-schooled, back to being a socially-stunted shut-in whose only friends are the mailman and a rotting salamander carcass in a mason jar.)

Many of these kids are so absorbed and determined at developing their abnormally high IQs, they usually fall short on having a TV-ready appearance. But the more popular this event becomes, it’ll be even more crucial for producers to make sure their featured participants aren’t wearing their khakis on backwards or their glasses don’t cause potentially deadly refractions of the stage lighting. It’s the harsh reality of network ratings economics: If the final round is going to continue to garner a primetime slot, The Bee needs to get prettier in order to ensure long-term success.

And this year, spellers have added motivation to look less mousey, now that ESPN’s all-purpose reporting princess, Erin Andrews, is sidelining the Bee. Unlike the drooling moron nation that worships her from the safe confines of the internet, these poor girl-spooked geniuses will be forced to process Ms. Andrews’ striking beauty in person. One hair-flip and they’ll quickly learn that, no, she’s nothing like the girls in Latin club.

For male participants, this creates an even more daunting pressure-cooker atmosphere, as flubbing “quatorzain” in the first round will not only result in condescending snickers from their peers, but will also eliminate any chance of them professing their undying love to the tall, coconut-scented woman with the pretty teeth.

Among this year’s batch of 288 nerdsworths, there are a few who have the potential to make both their etymological and wet dreams come true.

So, today, I’m ignoring my throbbing odontalgia, taking antibiotics for my staphylococci and trying to avoid a vivisepulture as I place odds on some of the lads who have the best chance at vouchsafing the crap out of Erin Andrews this week.

Let’s go elucubrate after this jump. (Painting by the great Jim Cooke, of course.)

Smith Street (NSFW)

This is AJ Daulerio's final Cultural Oddsmaker for Deadspin. Email him to let him know what you think.

Congratulations to Isiah Thomas, Deadspin Sports Human of the Year. Too bad for Kige, who once again fell just a few clicks short of history. Now, he's relegated back to the moronic tedium of Speak-and-Spell YouTube sports reporting. He shouldn't drown his sorrows in Strawberry Quick for too long though, as some major media corporation will surely throw a six-figure contract at him very soon. Didn't you hear? Online sports personalities are hot properties. Everybody wants one. They're like the new Beanie Babies. But it takes a lot more than that to be Sports Human of the Year. Judging by the first two victors, it takes a supreme lack of self-awareness. Kige, for better or for worse, has entirely too much of that.

So this is actually the topic of this week's final Cultural Oddsmaker: Who will be the next Sports Human of the Year?

Humanity has been a cornerstone of this site since its inception. It's what helps the modern day fan build a stronger connection to the athletes have been our country's valiant robot warriors. It's so effortless for them that it's demoralizing to be in their presence. That's why it's so great when they get drunk. Or grab a tit in public. It's in these moments that we see little glimpses that they do indeed breathe the same air we do; they have the same faults, or startling lack of judgment. Sometimes it's drugs. Sometimes it's women. Sometimes it's hubris. Sometimes it's not being properly trained in machete self-defense techniques.

Along those same lines, we also live in an era where sports "personalities" are also just as vital to our fandom. And thanks to ESPN, the smarty-pants crew with their sharp ties and pop culture shout-outs are what is supposed to make our sports fandom more relevant — more now. We are all Judd Apatow sycophants and Coors Light commercials. Maybe we are? Maybe they're right.

With that in mind, let's move along to this week's email. This wasn't actually sent to me, but to the floppy-haired Royal We from a prominent ESPN Sports Center host who's unfortunately been on the ass-end of many a joke here on Deadspin. It's not because he's a bad guy— it's because like many a Sports Center anchor at ESPN he's larger than life. He's also very kind to most of the people he's corresponded with on many occasions. But for the sake of bridge-burning, it's time to share this email that was sent to Deadspin on Feb. 1, 2007, during the apex of Super Bowl madness.

When Scott Van Pelt puts you on notice, you best better listen:

From: Van Pelt, Scott
To: Royal We
Subject: Man...

Scott Van Pelt wrote:
Your site is consistently funny and smart and this just seems so....weak.

Grown men in South Beach "hollering at the ladies" and your guy is like ...what...the fun police?

From: The Royal We
Sent: Thursday, February 01, 2007 4:24 PM
To: Van Pelt, Scott
Subject: Re: Man...

Oh, AJ ... I thought you were talking about the site. AJ just does his thing ... I never know what he's up to. But yeah: I think he's had enough hanging with ESPN people now; I think he just wanted to get his picture with Salisbury.

Subject: RE: Man...
Date: Thu, 1 Feb 2007 16:29:22 -0500
From: Van Pelt, Scott
To: Royal We

I think the ESPN people have had enough of him. You f*ck with people enough and eventually someone big, drunk guy acts like a big, drunk guy and knocks the moustache off your face.

THAT would be some fodder.

Yeah. It would. Another time, another place for everything.

So this week, I'm shutting off the lights, breaking out the Journey and placing odds on who the potential nominees for Sports Human of the Year 2008 will be.

Let's adieu.

Who's The Next Sex Tape Diva To Be Linked To A Professional Athlete?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker has just two columns left. This is one of them. Email him to let him know what you think.

Hola, putas. It's once again time for the A.J. Daulerio Deadspin Unraveling with your late Friday afternoon dash of tawdry goodness. As you can tell by the above photo, today we'll be discussing Kim Kardashian and her almost engagement to Subway pitchman and Sheldon Brown tackling dummy, Reggie Bush.

But first, a favorite email from the Oddsmaker experience. This one's from a proud mongoloid mother named Judie from Walnut Grove, California eager to preach the gospel about the fat-tongued heroes we all know and love :

I don't know what to make of your column. I've never read such an unflattering portrayal of people who have Trisomy 21/Down syndrome (not "Down syndrome people") but there's something honest about you. Maybe I saw something of myself in your reluctance to be exposed to children who have Down syndrome (not "Down syndrome children"). Until I had one of my own, that is. Now, 28 years later, I have accepted the fact that the gene for nose-picking must be on the 21st chromosome and I wish that's the worst I'd ever endured with my other so-called "normal" children.

Aw. It's getting dusty in here!

Onto sex tapes. It's still mind-boggling why anyone (especially a woman, semi-famous or not) would ever participate in such an activity if they had no desire for it to some day be viewed by a captive, unzipped audience. For those devoid of any discernible talent, it's an instant career injection. The second biggest? Dating an athlete. The third? Having a backside that could serve as a winter home for woodland creatures. The Kardashian deftly hits the trifecta. If she were to become engaged to Reggie Bush, it would at least give her some meaningful existence. It's much better than only being known as the dead O.J. lawyer's daughter who was backdoor-invaded by a lamprey-shlonged rap star on film.

Surely, there are more Kardashians out there searching for their own Reggie Bush.

So this week, I'm flicking my frenulum, opening a fresh bottle of Hawaiian Tropic, and placing odds on the next sex tape star to nab a professional athlete.

Move your monitors to an obstructed angle before you click this more.

Cultural Oddsmaker: III

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday ... well, the next two Fridays, anyway. Yes, after more than a year of goodness, Mr. Daulerio is retiring the Cultural Oddsmaker column at the beginning of 2008. There are now THREE left. Email him to let him know how much you'll miss him.
Happy Friday and holiday season to you all. All 12 of you still at work. As a gift to you hard-working Jews and heathens, here's one of my favorite songs to listen to while typing with my face :

a;lkdsfa;lfgkj;lsbkfj;lagijalksdjf.ad,vgmadljkal;kjasdlkadsfg;liafg;liulaadl;asdl;asd..ll;asd;lfl;adlaali;li;duli....

YEAH!

Odds and ends and other things after this little gray hyper-linked word...

Who'll Be The Next Playmate Of The Year?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday ... well, that next four Fridays, anyway. Yes, after more than a year of goodness, Mr. Daulerio is retiring the Cultural Oddsmaker column at the beginning of 2008. There are now FOUR left. Email him to let him know how much you'll miss him.

Greetings. It's week two of the great Cultural Oddsmaker countdown, and this will once again not attempt in any way shape or form hold up a mirror to professional sports culture. This is simply a venue for me to expose my id in three-dimensional high-def for all the world to see. And, of course, showcase my favorite emails. This week's selection comes courtesy of the CO spelling bee column, which resulted in a couple spirited missives like this:

Richa Gupta getrich87@xxxx.net wrote:

You're a jackass who's just jealous that these kids are about 1000 times as smart as you are. Your descriptions are unwarranted and your attempt at mockery is just sick. Find another outlet to express your excessive loathing for thirteen year old kids, and get a fucking life.

Guptas. So sensitive.

Anyway, this week's Oddsmaker will focus on Playboy magazine's "Playmate of the Year" coronation. If you haven't heard, the magazine is currently in the middle of its selection process to crown this year's Bunny queen. This is somewhat sports-related because, as we all know, professional athletes have a tendency to end up in relationships with these bouncy bundles of dim-witted fun. In addition to the odds on their POY-dom, I'll also include which athlete their destined to end up with, and, for added color and depth, the odds on their favorite sexual position.

So, this week, I'm injecting my urethra with Deca-Durabolin, learning how to skin a rabbit (It is what it is — bunny-lovers beware), and calculating odds on the 2007 Playmate of the Year.

Pictures of almost naked young ladies, after this brief commercial break:

....

VAMANOS!

Which Sports-Related Person Would Engage In A 2Girls1Cup-Type Video?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday ... well, that next five Fridays, anyway. Yes, after more than a year of goodness, Mr. Daulerio is retiring the Cultural Oddsmaker column at the beginning of 2008. There are now FIVE left. Email him to let him know how much you'll miss him.

So I'm thinking about how to end this column, all of the possibilities and subject areas that could be covered and how to make these last few weeks memorable: Should I steal Stuart Scott's eyeball? Should I break into Robert Weintraub's house and leave a knife on his bed? Should I borrow a red swimsuit and giant sunglasses to pose on a rooftop in Manhattan with the editor of n +1? No, I don't need the self-indulgent histrionics — nor the yeast infection. But, to commemorate this historic passing, there should some sort of tribute.

Well, here's something: Starting today, each week, I'll share some of my favorite emails I've received in response to some of my work on Deadspin.

Our first entry:

SUBJECT: Are you kidding me?
From:
If anyone looks gay it's you. That picture of you looks extremely feminine! Pedro has been my best friend for over thirty years. He is happily married with three great kids. In over 22 years of reporting he has won numerous awards and is one of the most respected reporters among the players. I guess any idiot can write a column these days on the internet!

Armando Hernandez

From: AJ Daulerio
Pedro who? What are you talking about?

From: miamiarh@xxx.net
Pedro Gomez, ESPN

What else to expect over the next five weeks? I don't know. Most of the time there needs to be something relevant or newsy in the world of sports for these things to actually work. However, these are unique, evolutionary times, and apparently some writers need to pump up the page view count to continue to work here or else they're marched up to a sacrificial altar, painted blue and shown their still-beating hearts before their inevitable beheading.

But, I assure you, that is not the reason for this column ending. Deadspin, HQ Gawker managers and floppy-haired hero Will Leitch have always treated me extremely well. I highly doubt there will ever be another employer who would let me expense illegal drugs during Super Bowl week, especially since my accounts were frozen by the IRS due to unpaid 2005 taxes. (Long story.)

But I refuse to be nicknamed "Almost." So, over the next few weeks I will do my best to ensure maximum visibility for this here page. Or not. Shall we play a game?

So this week, I'm breaking out the scat mat, washing off my gag-finge, and placing odds on the first sports-related person to be featured in a 2girls1cup-style video. (Not safe for work unless you work at an S&M dungeon or a poop factory. But 99 percent of you probably know that already.)

Fuck it all and fuckin' no regrets

Who Will Tony Romo Date Next?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

2007 is turning out to be the year of the Romo. Just 10 months removed from single-handedly ruining the Cowboys playoff run, he's bounced back. Enormously. So far this year, he's ripped through a couple of nubile ladies (Sophia Bush, Carrie Underwood), put up monster numbers and earned respect around the league, and in between signed a $67.4 million contract based on half a season's work. To top it off, the guy could go 15-1 this season and skate into the playoffs. Look at the rest of the Cowboys schedule: they've got Detroit, who've reverted back to vintage ineptitude, and the Carolina Panthers, who've somehow become a first-year expansion team again. The two toughest games they have left are with the Mighty Birds, who have been wildly inconsistent (or consistently mediocre) all year, and the Redskins, who even though are their most bitter rivals, now have a gaping hole in their ... strong safety.

[dodges pitchfork]

Moving on! Now, Romo's tapping Jessica Simpson, who unless is secretly moonlighting in Bolivian gang bang films, most likely still has a vagina that smells like a combination of "Very Vanilla" Little Tree car freshener and a baby's forehead. Sadly, this relationship is not going to last. Not that Romo's the second coming of Proust or anything, but regardless of how hot Simpson is, holding a conversation with her must be like talking to Gizmo : Oooh! Bright lights! Yum-Yum !

So, he's not into librarians? Not a problem. A definite deal-breaker to be a Romo Girl is just skank-out dirty. Romo doesn't want a lady with a sullied reputation, one marred by sex tape videos or a body damaged by belly-button mashing pregnancies. No, he likes his ladies clean, untarnished — we're talking PSA grade 9.5 and above. The only question left to answer is...who's next?

So this week, I'm putting on my hymen mask, readjusting my chastity belt, and placing odds on the next pretty pony to enter the Romo Corral.

Push the button.

What Group of People Will Phil Jackson Offend Next?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

Los Angeles Lakers coach Phil Jackson caused a mini-firestorm this week when in his attempt at post-game humor, inadvertently offended a handful of homosexuals. Jackson was quoted as saying the Lakers' loss to the San Antonio Spurs was called a "Brokeback Mountain" game because of all the "penetration" and "kickouts." The beat writers got a laugh out of it. Gays? Not so much.

Now, let me start by saying, I like the gays. I have one friend who's a full-blown gay, and plenty of friends I'm positive are repressed homos who I treat just like I would a real gay. For example, I wouldn't enter a communal shower with my buddy Carl without wearing an extra pair of underwear beneath my towel. That's why we call him "Princess Carl," "Cocklovin' Carl," "Captain Carl Rod-smoker," "Carl the Balloon Knot Inspector," among many other things. All in good fun, mind you. But this situation appears to be completely overblown. (No pun intended.)

The Zen-huffing coach made a great point about why the joke went over so poorly. He acknowledged that in his profession this type of humor is frowned upon, and he half-heartedly apologized for his verbal misstep. (He even apologized to horses, presumably both gay and straight ones.) Regardless, you got the sense that there was more eye-rolling from Jackson than sincerity. At the start of what appears to be a shitty season full of Kobe-induced headaches and unfulfilled expectations, Jackson is indicating that he doesn't have time to deal with the P.C. police on top of everything else. Given his outward impatience and indifference to this issue, it's clear that he's not going to rethink anything that comes out of his mouth for the rest of the year — this is only the beginning.

So, this week, I'm refreshing Towelroad every 10 minutes, spending $50 on a haircut, and placing odds on the next group of people Phil Jackson will offend this year.

Let's go blow some sacred cows, after this page-view increasing click-through.

Who Will Be Playboy's Sexiest Sportscaster In 2008?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Feel free to email him your thoughts.

Ladies who someday wish to grace the sidelines of a major sporting event, take heed: Your knowledge is primary, of course, but you'll also have to be somewhat attractive. This is not breaking news, mind you, but each year it seems more and more women are realizing that just because they know how to read box scores or can talk intelligently about a game, they're still required to be completely boneable to the drooling masses.

Take Playboy's America's Sexiest Sportscaster award. Granted, it might be an honor that many female sportscasters don't necessarily aspire towards, but consider this: Playboy has no repeat nominees. So, each year, Hefner and company has to find a new batch of lady jock-yappers to be scrutinized by discerningPlayboy readers.

One person who's obviously gotten the memo? Linda Cohn. In the last month, she's started blowing out her hair and finally seeing results from her Pilates classes. She's gone from looking like an elementary school special needs teacher to a substantially hotter elementary school special needs teacher. So, if you spot Cohn exiting the Bristol offices and a pack of screaming, limping kids wearing biking helmets are following her, don't' be alarmed: She's not being chased by zombies; she's just wearing Spanx.

I am probably one of the last men on earth under the age of 50 who still has a Playboy subscription, so that's the only reason I'm aware of this contest. I still read the joke page even though I heard most of them when I was seven, and still look forward to each month's pseudo-celebrity photo spread. Take this month, where the holy haunches of Kim Kardashian are triumphantly unveiled. For the first time in a while, this is actually a photo spread that's worth the $8 newsstand charge. Those of you out there who are hiney-obsessed, you'll be overjoyed.

But until Ms. Kardashian's bulbous bottom starts interviewing athletes and coaches, she's not up for the award.

So this week, I'm cashing in my Sephora gift certificate, dusting off my inner-outer thigh machine and placing odds on some of the nominees for Playboy's Sexiest Sportscaster of 2008.

Let's deform my face, then shake my skull cap. MORE.

What Will Happen at the Next Pants Party?

Who Will Win People's "Sexiest Fan Alive?"

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

Many of you who've followed Fox' baseball coverage during the playoffs may have seen this People's "Sexiest Fan Alive" promotion infiltrating the between-innings chit-chat like a clumsy mule. Today, the the final votes will be tallied and some lucky, moderately attractive baseball-hat wearing "fan" will be crowned sexy king or queen in the upcoming "Sexiest Man Alive" issue. This marks a disturbing trend, not just for baseball, but for People magazine. At its best, People offers scintillating coverage of small-town miners trapped in caves and one-on-one interviews with Tracey Gold's skeleton. And, of course, its "Sexiest Man Alive" issue, the equivalent of the SI Swimsuit issue to women who spend too much time waiting in line at the supermarket. Now, since it added the ludicrous Sexiest Fan Alive category to broaden its demographic from fat mommy America and beauty salon owners to ... baseball fans. Everybody plays an inning in People magazine. Everybody's sexy. Even Joe Buck sounds like he's on the brink of stabbing somebody every time he's had to plug it: "Remember to vote for People's "Sexiest fan a—-yaaaaagghhhh KILL THE BABY." He always catches himself, though, because he's a pro, that jub-jub.

But People's attempt at ingratiating the common man persona to a mantle once reserved for you know, attractive celebrities is charming, but it also shows the magazine is becoming more and more inclusive with its choices. Sexy fans, sexy senior citizens, sexy single mothers, sexy dwarfs — soon, the magazine will be trotting out "Sexiest Burn Victim Alive" showing off a woman with cheekbones like melted candles and Scotch tape-lips seductively posing in a tube top. Yum.

So, congrats to these lucky individuals, who have to anxiously wait out the final few hours of voting to reveal their sexy fates. It is a monumental achievement. Once they're crowned "Sexiest Fan" they will be rewarded with exactly one more ounce of self-esteem for their victory and possibly become a tasty object of desire to Curves members all over across the country.

So, this week I'm putting on my Mark Harmon mask, finishing off a crossword puzzle in under 24 seconds and placing odds on the winner of People magazine's "Sexiest Fan Alive" contest.

Bring your daughter to the slaughter, after this MORE.

Who's The Next Person To Get Banned From Monday Night Football

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

Dumpy talk show host Jimmy Kimmel's banning from Monday Night Football based on what MNF producer Jay Rothman called his "classless" and "disappointing" comments is quite a monumental achievement, especially since it appeared he had a cozy, collegial relationship with the WWL. Whether it was ESPY-hosting gigs or his consistent shout-outs from the Sports Feller, Kimmel appeared to be on the network's good people-list. That is until Monday Night Football, when he playfully tweaked Joe Theismann and made some Brady-model-impregnation joke. Faster than you could say "Tirico Tits!", Kimmel was vanquished.

I understand that in life and especially in work there are lines that needn't be crossed (really, I do), but this seems excessive — even coming from a company who doesn't allow its employees to take home up-rooted trees to be re-planted. But a banning a comedian who works at your own network, who gets paid (essentially) by the same employer, is harsh. I have experienced the humiliation from an utterly dumbfounding banning.

Here's the situation: I was hanging out at my friend Rich's house with a couple other friends. His parents weren't home. We were watching the videotape of "Fanny Hill," a low-budget porno that someone had secretly taped the night before off cable. I went into his bathroom to go piss, but realized that I was still sporting an erection that can only occur when an 11-year-old just watched a grainy porno featuring an ample-chested redheaded woman getting boinked in a haystack for the first time in his life. The sucker wouldn't go down, yet the urine was coming. I did not have time to take the requisite three steps back nor control the trajectory of the stream. I hit the top of the toilet. The walls. The rug. Underneath the bowl. By time this unholy yellow geyser had dissipated, the bathroom was ruined. I couldn't have made a more disgusting mess had I walked in there blindfolded and hurled a pee-filled water balloon.

Apparently, my clean-up abilities were also a bit off. And apparently, the purple hand-towels with the flowers were not to be used to sop-up such dreadful things and, if they were used for that purpose, they were not to be sloppily re-hung on the wall while still damp. Rich's mother came home later that evening, long after I'd left, and, terrified, yelled to her son "Who Pissed All Over The Bathroom?" It didn't take long to figure out that I was the culprit, being that I had nervously left his house in a panic soon after the incriminating accidental explosion. The next day my mom received a phone call from Rich's mother. Between the afternoon of conspicuous "Fanny Hill"-watching (she found out about that as well after the tape was left in the VCR), her urine-soaked guest bathroom and ruined hand-towels, she relayed to my mother that I was no longer a welcome as a guest in their home. I was a reckless savage. In fact, one could probably categorize these actions as a little disappointing and classless.

But Jimmy Kimmel? Not so much. But his predicament sends a strict message to all future guests stepping foot inside that hallowed booth: compose yourselves accordingly or risk permanent banishment.

So this week, I'm flicking Joe Theismann's inflamed prostate, pissing all over Jay Rothman's hand towels and placing odds on the next guest to be permanently booted from Monday Night Football this year.

Vas Deferens!

What's Stu Scott's Next Poetry Jam?

What Are Matt Leinart's Other Drinks Of Choice?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

Everybody's got a no-no drink in their arsenal. Some people take a whiff of tequila and start gagging. Others can have one sip of gin and start fending off imaginary crocodiles with a bar stool. For me? It's scotch. Every time I've attempted to take part in "grown-up drinking," it's ended with me urinating in my pants. Literally. The three times in my life I've drank scotch, I've completely pissed myself. This is not while I'm sleeping, mind you. It's usually on the walk home from the bar. For whatever reason, scotch disrupts the brain-to-bladder communication mechanism, and I usually end up in a frantic sprint to either find a dark alley or get to the bathroom before I explode. Three times, I've lost and ended up taking a miserable walk home with a crotch area that resembled a Rorshach Test.

For Arizona Cardinals quarterback Matt Leinart, "sauvignon blanc" appears to be his no-no drink. Hopefully, it took more than one glass for him to open up to Yahoo football writer Michael Silver and bitch about his split-time quarterback situation. But what does Matt Leinart's admission that he wants be front-seat driver really tell us? It's more telling that Mr. Leinart is obviously not that much of a drinker. If I were a beat-reporter covering the Cardinals, I'd make sure to sign Leinart up for a booze of the month club ASAP. And when that happens, he shall spill.

So this week, I'm putting on my drinking pants, bad-touching a sommelier in the desert and placing odds on the other drinks that'll make Arizona's crestfallen quarterback say stupid shit.

Let's go pound some sediment, after this more.

Who Will Be The Next Athlete To Have A Kinky Sex Fetish Revealed?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

There's something about guys dressing in drag that, for whatever reason, is frowned upon. Oscar De La Hoya could've easily played his kinky fishnet outfit off as a mere lark: he's just a puppy-faced fellow, who after a flight of tequila shots, has no problem dressing up in a giant hairnet and heels. No big deal, really. Everyone's done it before. Sometimes, even the most virile of men cannot resist the temptation to squeeze into something spicy.

The difference between Oscar De La Hoya and most other recreational transsexuals is that they don't deny it. If it's an isolated incident, it's something that's laughed about later and forgotten about quickly. But, De La Hoya's staunch denial about the incident, plus all of those rumored intimidating phone calls to the dim-witted Scores dancer who gave the photos up and the legal threats, suggest that he's hiding a very, very dark secret.

This is where it gets interesting. We all know athletes become much more appealing if they have a little stink on them. Beneath all of that skill, money, fame, it's nice to know there runs a current of torment, a greasy underbelly that has to be concealed for presentation purposes.

There are so many who fit the profile.

So this week, I'm polishing up my ben-wah balls, purchasing a one way ticket to Taiwan and the Mets fucking suck.

Line drive hit to left field...here comes Iguchi!

Who's The Next To Be Taken Down By Karma?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

I've never been much of a superstitious person. A troop of black cats could march in front of me while I smash mirrors under a ladder, and I wouldn't feel the least bit doomed. Yet, I'm a huge karma person. Each week, I do a mental grocery list to make sure I'm on the right side of the universe and try to make up for some of my missteps. Granted, I don't donate enormous amounts of money to charity to counteract them, but I do what I can: The urine-seeping homeless guy may get a pocketful of change shoved in his hand. I'll dole out cigarettes to everyone who asks. I'll stop and patiently listen to the bespectacled young do-gooder with the clipboard as he tries to sell me on financially adopting a dirty child with flies in its eyes.

Finally, O.J. Simpson and his not-so tortured soul is getting absolutely thonked with a karmic boomerang right now. We're talking monkey kid from the Road Warrior-like velocity, here, as he's seemingly headed to the slammer for his Nordbergian Las Vegas robbery attempt of some of his own memorabilia. It's a fitting end to his whole disturbingly wacky life post-murder acquittal. Most of us remember back to that day during America's Trial when the jurors read aloud that mind-numbing verdict. Remember where you were. If you were in college, like me, you may have also had the uncomfortable circumstances of living next to some of the basketball team and listening to them yelp, bang the walls and throw an impromptu party to celebrate. Needless to say, even though I got along with those guys next door, I wasn't about to rush over to hang out on their couch that day to introduce them to my questionable musical tastes as I sometimes would. Rusted Root was not a welcome topic that day.

But it isn't just O.J. who's been shit-winded by karmic justice. In the last few months, there have been plenty of sports figures with shady circumstances surrounding them who've had their own come-uppance: Vick, Belichick, Floyd Landis, Serena Wiliams' ass...

So, this week I'm inserting my plastic Thom Yorke eye, walking my pet chameleon and placing odds on the next athlete to get what's coming to them.

This is what you get...

What Will Roger Goodell Do Next?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

If the last year didn't already prove it, the NFL is turning into the Eastside High School of professional sports. Roger Goodell's latest smackdown on the Patriots proves he's in Crazy Joe Clark-mode permanently. But after inheriting a league in dire need of an image makeover, there needed to be a new HNIC to get things straightened out.

His first order of duty? Clean up the riff-raff.

"I want all of you to take a good look at these people on the risers behind me...(Pac Man, Odell, Tank, Michael)..."

And since none of them were going to graduate anyway, they've all been expurgated. If Pac-Man tries sniveling back again, begging for a second chance because his mom's gonna kill him, he'll need to get marched up to the rooftop of Goodell's office for a proper reality check." You smoke crack doncha? Jump. Gaw head, jump!"

With the latest scandal, Bill Belichick plays the role of the mouthy music teacher, only concerned with getting his kids to the national chorus championships every year, rolling his eyes at all this rah-rah discipline. Well, a $500,000 fine and an executed draft pick(s) later should keep him on point. The undermining of authority will not be tolerated. Now, go wash your hoodie and stop spying.

Is this punishment excessive? Possibly. However, it manages to keep Goodell's message: No more shenanigans! (As does, you know, dispatching NFL security to make house calls because some idiot decides to ask questions about dog fighting to the wrong PR flack.)

This is a new league, and here's Roger Goodell with a megaphone and a baseball bat. We're only one more character smudge away from him having to put chains on the inside of the doors.

So, this week, I'm dressing up like Kid Ray, impregnating Kaneesha and placing odds on the next heavy-handed discipline Roger Goodell will hand down.

Let's help him carry on, after this MORE.

What Kind Of Sports Bar Societal Dregs Will You Encounter During Week 1?

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

The sparkling new NFL season is upon us, spit out from the slimy womb of NBC with all the glitzy showmanship of the VMA Awards. That is, if the VMA's target audience were Midwestern suburban zombies. (Faith Hill? The artist formerly known as John Cougar?) Last night's rousing start also included Rich Eisen doing his best Ryan Seacrest impersonation and Al Michaels being waaay too excited for a possible season-ending injury to happen on the first play. Luckily, Joseph Addai does not believe in miracles.

But Sunday, Sunday SUNDAY! is when the real season starts for everybody who doesn't have Ben Utecht on their fantasy team. And the all day celebrants will pile in to their local chug-and-wing hole at 11 a.m. to sidle up to televisions that give them the best vantage point for their rooting interest. When I lived in New York, my first couple years of football Sundays were spent at East Village puke castle called Bar None, a dingy, black-painted hovel known for its spotty service, free hot wings and obnoxious collection of Minnesota Vikings fans. Bar None wasn't a place you attended other than to watch football, unless of course you favored Sit Next to an Angry Plumber's Union Guy Tuesdays or the always popular Hunter College Date Rape Thursdays.

Bar None Sundays, however, had its appeal for Brooklyn Lager-drinking aristocrats. I'd attend, as would Spinhead General Will Leitch, who would usually arrive at 10:30 a.m. with seven newspapers, four magazines, print outs of matchups for each of his fantasy leagues, a beat-up briefcase, an even more beat-up black leather jacket, and sometimes wearing his ex-girlfriend's jeans. We'd stay for both the early and late games, with him perched next to the only television that would be playing the Arizona Cardinals game — usually the 9-inch one crammed up near the heating ducts right above the pool table. Excelsior, Buzzsaw.

The first Sunday of the year always brought the biggest crowds, as even the most casual football fan would decide that this is the year they'll make a habit of watching football every weekend. It's the usually the same people you'll see clumsily clomping on treadmills at gyms across the country on January 2. You can pick out who's really committed, and who'll return to smoking cigarettes and ordering The #2 with a Diet Coke by Martin Luther King's birthday.

So, this week, I'm slipping into my gray drawstring sweatpants, scooping nachos off the DirectTV dish, and placing odds on the types of people you'll find at your local sports bars this weekend.

Let's go salsa dancing with John Facenda's corpse, after this MORE.