My victories tend to be either pyrrhic or imaginary

"Now, pretend this disproportionately large 20-oz Pepsi bottle is Eli..." (photo courtesy of Casey D)

Last week, I was all set to write this whiny post bitching about how I have been shut out of Gawker comments for no good reason. It wasn't like I'd written anything remotely offensive, like the comment that got copyranter banned (wait, this is offensive? I'm pretty sure "Who gives a flying shitass fuck at a fucking jerkass rolling fucking fuckwad donut?" is an actual headline about some press release from some publisher or restaurant. But I digress). Hell, I hadn't been commenting that much, but when I did, my contributions tended to be clever, witty, and dare I say, earth-shattering.

It was early December that I tried to comment again but for whatever reason, my comments wouldn't publish. I tried all the standard troubleshooting methods - clearing cookies and the cache, resetting my password, buying a new computer, but none would work. As I often do when the going gets rough, I quit. I mean, I would've complained to tech support, but Gawker Media seems not to have one.

A month passed, and I thought a nice way to get back into the blogging game was to establish myself as the outsider, the Bonnie Prince Charlie of the blogosphere, if you will, and what better way to do it than to show that I am persona non grata at in the House of Oxfeld & Coen. Because they're afraid, dammit.

So I went over to the 'Ker to post a throwaway comment just so I can take a screenshot of the error message and what happens? The fucking thing goes through.
A better question is, what the fuck am I doing up before 7 in the morning?
Don't you hate that? Like, you call the super and the toilet magically starts flushing? You bring the tech support guy to your desk to show how the computer's been spazzing out and it works perfectly? And now, I feel like Cindy Sheehan getting a text message from George Bush saying "Why don't you come over for dinner so we can put this behind us?" This is like Darth Vader telling Luke, "I don't agree with your politics but you really make me proud to be your father." Or K-Fed announcing, "I really like this Arctic Monkeys album."

And like that, my whiny post is gone. How can I whine about the bourgeois if I am one of them, and I can drink from the same water fountains that they drink from?

Oh, wait a minute, this is a whiny post. Mission accomplished, then.

But here's the thing about commenting on Gawker - it's a lot like asking the cute girl who sits two rows down from you in Econ 10 out for drinks and, for reasons unknown to man, she says yes. What do you talk about? Do you have anything in common with her? Did she even know you were in the same class as her? And once you're at the bar, questions run through your mind - "Did I pick the right kind of bar? Did she just look at her watch? Is my zipper down?" You are unable to enjoy yourself and she has a terrible time because you're a nervous wreck.

The whole thing is a disaster, so much so that you don't call her again, and you move your seat to the other side of the lecture hall so you don't have to see her for the rest of the semester. Which is to say, I don't plan on commenting on Gawker that much.


I couldn't find a pic of Steve Smith doing his galloping-horse TD celebration, so this will have to do.

How was my NFL Wildcard weekend? My rooting interests went 2-0, with Carolina executing the "Stop Tiki and wait for Elijah's passes" strategy to perfection while the Skins live to see another Clinton Portis media appearance, Southeast Jerome willing.

My predictions? 3-1 straight up, 2-2 against the spread. Although I didn't count on Carson Palmer tearing both his ACL and MCL, I felt pretty good until I realized that I had forgotten to account for Jon Kitna's fondness for FieldTurf. And I really should've had more faith in Belichick and God QB, and Byron Leftwich's ankle, less so.

Not that I gamble or anything. The last time I gambled real money was when I was 11-years-old, I spent the entire ferry ride from Calais to Dover throwing One Pound coins into the slot machine. After 2 hours of winning some and losing more, I was down 16 pounds, which was a lot of money to me back then (and still is, to be honest). I disembarked the boat thinking, "What the hell is wrong with me?" Which is why I have been secretly avoiding trips to Vegas or Atlantic City to this day.

tags: gawker NFL playoffs steve smith julius peppers carolina panthers gambling