Cockbag Of The Week: Jeff Suppan

I took a trip with two co-workers to New York a couple summers ago to catch the Jays at old Yankee Stadium. Naturally I wore my black Jays jersey in the left-field bleachers (which nearly got us killed) with Suppa 55 on the back (yeah I know, having your own name on a jersey is lame, fuck off, it was a gift!)

The two memorable jeers from that day: one guy yelling incredulously, "Who the fuck is Suppa?" and "Hey, Jeff Suppan plays for Milwaukee, you fucking idiot!"

While I was impressed by the fan's extensive knowledge of mediocre pitchers, it got me thinking: Jeff Suppan is a disgrace to 5/6ths of my last name.

Last night against the Phillies, Suppan continued to shame the name, giving up 8 runs on 12 hits in under 5 innings of work, good enough for his 11th loss of the year and a cascade of boos from the Milwaukee faithful as he was yanked.

Suppan has pitched for 15 years in the majors, and has been serviceable but not spectacular. His best year was probably 2005 with St. Louis; Cards pitching coach/sprinkler of fairy dust Dave Duncan was able to magically get 16 wins and an ERA near 3.50 out of him.

Suppan's three years with the Brewers have been pretty terrible, and the lowlights this season have been particularly dim: an ERA over 5, nearly as many walks (72) as strikeouts (76), and in just four of his 28 starts did he strike out at least five batters.

Suppan opened the year with two stinkbombs against the Giants and Cubs and never really recovered; in late July he surrendered 10 (!) runs to the fucking Nationals.

Oh yeah, his salary this season? Somewhere in the neighbourhood of 10 million bucks.

So fuck you, Jeff Suppan, for embarrassing 83% of our shared surname and for making more money than I will ever see in a lifetime for being a shitty pitcher.

Cockbag Of The Week: The West Virginia Mountaineers

Thanks to you clowns, I lost an Elite 8 team on Day 2.


That's right, hide your face in shame. Fuckos.

Cockbag Of The Week: A.J. Smith

What would a Chargers offseason be without a little controversy?

And as usual, it's cockbag GM A.J. Smith running his mouth, but this time he may have gone too far.

He openly mocked LaDainian Tomlinson's statements that he has no intentions of leaving San Diego, mimicking his quote like an 8-year-old girl.

Everyone is ready to write off LT because he's approaching 30, the running back best-before date, but if he can be convinced to take a pay cut, you gotta believe he's got another year in him, at the very least to prove all his doubters wrong.

But with the way Smith is cutting him down, it's getting harder by the day to think LT is gonna come back to San Diego, which leaves the RB situation cloudy at best.

Darren "Tiny Jesus" Sproles is a superball but there are concerns he may not be able to carry the load full time. Plus he's likely to get big-money offers elsewhere, and might not want to stick around given what's happening with LT. And Jacob Hester may not be ready to step into the super backup role that Sproles and Michael Turner occupied previously.

You have to remember, LaDainian Tomlinson is the best thing to ever happen to the San Diego Chargers franchise. He is the face of the team, and is maybe the best back of his generation.

So for Smith to treat him like he's expired meat is both unfair and extremely unwise.

Eventually Smith's douchebaggery will get the best of him, and you have to wonder if the Chargers hadn't made a late-season surge to make the playoffs, maybe the blame would be falling elsewhere.

One way or another, Smith will get his comeuppance. And if it takes a 1500 yard season from LT in another uniform, then so be it.

Cockbag of the Week: Pot Of Gold Excellence

Getting a box of Pot of Gold chocolates has been a Christmas tradition in the Suppa household for many years. Even after I moved out, I could always count on seeing the P.O.G sticking out of my stocking every Christmas.

But on the night of Christmas Eve, my cheatin' chocolate heart got the best of me.

My mother had received a box of Pot of Gold Excellence from one of her kindergarten students, and years of receiving such choco-based gifts has removed any and all of her interest in them. So I figured, she won't miss this box one bit, knowing full well that I had my very own box waiting for me upstairs.

I took the box downstairs, where I stayed up till the wee hours of Christmas morning eating from the tree of forbidden chocolate knowledge and watching the movie Gia.

A few hours later, our family sat around the tree to open presents, and sure enough, a brand new box of Pot of Gold Excellence was there in my stocking to greet me.

And that is when things went terribly wrong.

After my new tradition of taking a nap while the rest of the family goes to church, I awoke with a terrible case of the runs, which carried over through all of Christmas Day, rendering me unable to enjoy the night's meat-and-pasta-laden dinner.

Sure it could have been the half bag of BBQ Ruffles potato chips I was also eating with the chocolates, or the traditional Italian seven-fish Christmas Eve dinner, or the three bottles of Chinotto that accompanied said dinner.

But I know in my heart of hearts that it was the box of Pot of Gold Excellence, jealous that I had an affair with the other box, that did me in.

It's still sealed in my bedroom, and it will be many days before I can muster the courage to crack it open.

So a warning to my fellow Christmas-time chocoholics: never take on a choco-mistress, for your sins will be discovered, and hell hath no fury like a Pot of Gold scorned.

Cockbag of the Week: David Garrard

Everyone who's played fantasy football has that team (or that guy) who loves to do the exact opposite of what you want them (or him) to do. For me, that team is the Minnesota Vikings: every time I pick them to win, they lose, and vice-versa.

Every. Goddamn. Time.

David Garrard might not be on the Vikings, but I know that deep down he's a Purple People Eater.

Garrard was drafted as my #1 QB in both my leagues, but after maddeningly inconsistent outputs, the likes of Kyle Orton, Trent Edwards, and eventually Tyler Thigpen and Matt Ryan supplanted him for the stretch run. Despite his asshattery, I managed to reach the finals in both leagues.

And then a funny thing happened: Garrard decided to be awesome. #9 totalled 40 fantasy points whilst on my bench in the last two weeks.

Even worse, he vultured my boy Maurice Jones-Drew's goal-line touchdown on Thursday, with an agonizingly slow plunge into the end zone on 3rd and 2. His first rushing TD since Week 4, incidentally. My co-worker and I, both MoJo owners, cursed Garrard's ill-timed score.

If either Thigpen or Ryan shit the bed, the fantasy anchor known as David Garrard will have finally brought down the good ship Suppachargers.

I would suggest you die in a fire, DG, but it seems your never-ending supply of dude sweat would douse the flames.

So I'll have to take a page from one Les Grossman, tell you to take a step back (preferably out of the end zone) and literally FUCK YOUR OWN FACE.