For those neither living in nor descended from the holy six that is New England, Bill Belichik is some kid of monster. A loathsome ruthless win machine, desecrating the shield in a cold-blooded quest to squeeze any last possible competitive advantage out of an otherwise noble game. Man you effing hate that guy.

Unless, of course, you’re a Pats fan, in which case Bill Belichick is the Brawny Man studmuffin hero of all your athletic wants, hopes and dreams, a guy who may have long ago stopped being polite but started getting real real good at winning you football games. If he’s a total asshole, he’s our kind of total asshole.

Nancy Pelosi is the same dude, just a chick who does politics.

When your political instincts run counter to her ambitions, she’s a brutal botoxed witch, hell-bent on greedily violating the very fabric of American human existence. Ooohgrrr you hate her!

When she’s on your side, though, she’s queen Nancy the Hammer. For those pretty amped and excited over passage of health care reform, Pelosi today is basically Bill Belichick circa February 7th, 2005. You can’t get enough of that hooded sweatshirt tight skinned forehead and bad dye job.

UPDATE: Relatedly, I’m now hoping these two have an elicit, freewheeling, Woodsian affair. Pelosichick, maybe. Mmmm, wrinkly.

Its Public Enemy? Its Basquiat?

It’s a well-told story: On January 11th 1992, Nirvana Nevermind replaced Michael Jackson’s Dangerous as the number one album on the Billboard 200. In the previous year, that top spot had been held by the likes of Vanilla Ice, Michael Bolton, Paula Abdul and Van Halen. Kurt Cobain stomped that mess, albeit temporarily, with his cut jeans, dingy flannel and lady’s deodorant.

Men’s figure skating is in need of a similar figure. I love the sport, the athleticism, the artistry. But it’s been stuck in a stale sequined glamrocked routine for as long as I’ve known it. That same rote footwork, musty jazz hands, predictably unpredictable Vera Wang trimmed decadent on-ice outfits.

Maybe it’ll never break out of its mold; it’s a sport driven by tradition and elderly judges. There’s margins in playing it safe. But times should evolve. I’m waiting for a Brooklyn skater in high tops and a hoodie to throw down triple axels to DJ Logic. Less Vera Wang, more DIY Dapper Dan.

Alpine skiing has its Bode Miller. Snowboarding has its Shaun White (a guy so counter counter culture he’s made loving your country and respecting your parents cool again.) I love me some Evan Lysacek. But what’s next?

We are men! And so we value our tires more than our wives. We will put up with the pain of listening to their opinions so long as we can still drive our Dodge Chargers.

We will reveal them naked in the shower after finally developing the confidence to use soap to clean ourselves.

Yes, we are men. We will steal our wives’ beer and hijack their bookclubs with harassing sex jokes that make light of our illiteracy. We will pray they do not catch us cheating on them with our milkaholic baby mistresses.

We’ll take off our skirts! Which is to say, we’ll no longer attempt to spend time with our wives without ready access to a handheld television named after their periods.

We are men! We will rock blocking shots on guys with dreadlocks.

(That last one isn’t misogynistic, just amazing.)

A: In. My. Pants.

I was going to draw-up a bloggy Top 10 list of these strangely inspirational “Where Will Amazing Happen?” NBA ads (scope out all 17 here). But then I quickly realized the clear number one would be this ad of LeBron James completely schooling Paul Pierce and dunking KG’s brains out, like some sort of divinely chosen basketball grizzly bear hustling his way through a Man vs. Beast trout fishing event at Yellowstone.

As a diehard Cs fan, whose blood flows thick in green like the leprechaun’s gravy, that wouldn’t fly. But these ads are incredible, and LeBron James is a trout smashing beast:

Also notable: while both Celtics editions of this series are spectacular showcases of KG and Pierce’s championship-caliber dominance, Rondo pops out just as impressively, collecting the steal from Rodney Stuckey to start off the fast break for KG, and doing a little jibby jab to get Cleveland dancing enough to set up Pierce’s drive.

Where will Rondo’s “Where Will Amazing Happen” happen?

I’m a casual, predominately accidental viewer of Jim Rome is Burning, and I should admit I’ve never listened in on Rome’s radio show.

But I’m absolutely certain Jim Rome himself wrote this Craigslist ad:

The Jim Rome Show and Jim Rome Is Burning are looking for a writer(s). Looking for someone who comes at it from different angles, knows sports thoroughly, and is hungry, competitive and driven. Must be willing to grind. Tremendous potential payoff and upside for the right candidate(s).

I am out.

Behold the Führer’s on-camera meltdown over the unlikely marriage between the Buffalo Bills and Terrell Owens:

“And you know what the worst part is? I just bought a James Hardy jersey. You can bet TO will steal his number 81.”

Count me as glad the rumors proved incorrect; Hitler simply isn’t a Pats fan.

I find it ironic that a league which has already integrated video technology into its everyday gameplay would tolerate spying and the stealing of signals when done using binoculars, polaroids and lip-readers, but not when using a video camera.

And not even just not when using a video camera but not when using a video camera in a location potentially accessible by coaching personnel during the game in order to gain an immediate competitive advantage. Filming signals from the stands and press box to be used ex post facto? Perfectly legal.

Philly columnist Rich Hoffman sums it up best:

Belichick did not do anything that lots and lots and lots of other coaches do – he just did it with a camera. He did not break some solemn code of integrity. What he did was violate a league directive that attempts to regulate the lack of integrity that has been a part of this sport forever.

The Patriots weren’t guilty of cheating so much as they were guilty of not cheating in the way the NFL rules and by-laws allow us to cheat. Seems to be a fine distinction.

With UNC’s victory over USC we now have a sweet sweet Elite 8: #1 vs. #2, #1 vs. #2, #1 vs. #2, #1 vs. #3. No Final Four has ever been made up of all #1s.

But this is the year, right? The first time in history it has a chance of happening, yes?

Blah blah blah. That gets said every season, and every season I’ve learned to ignore it. This is March MADNESS, baby! It’s crrrrrazy! A 64-team, one-win-you’re-out tourney! Anything can happen! Miracles! Mad Miracles of March! Lions roaring! Miracles marching down mountainous mad miles!

And yet, Out Like a Lamb, because, this year, it looks as though it could quite easily come down to four number 1s. And what does that mean? That means some lucky dude who doesn’t know jack ish about college basketball will likely win the big-money bracket challenges out there.

No one has all number 1s in the Final Four. No one! (No one other than John McCain). It would be stupid, a waste of ink and paper, a guaranteed embarrassment.

This is now the second year in a row the gods of March Madness have rewarded the weak and the ignorant. George Mason’s improbably run to the Final Four led to an entire legion of Mason alums winning office pools nationwide, not to mention one lucky guy who accidentally chose Mason after confusing them with George Washington. (!)

Oh, Aggies. You have let me down.