LEGENDS OF COVERS

    

'''''''''' FEAR AND LOATHING

 

       to who ever keeping this thread alive.....don't know what the fuck possessed me   heheh........oh yeah   COVERS.....

I love the self-policing that goes on around here.

Last night at halftime during the championship they had the Obama interview and i practically raced over to the computer to see just what kinda nutty  thread there would be. Sure enough there it was  "Obama"  and some eeejit mouthing off about the lousy president blah blah. The next poster just said simply  "Shaddup"    fucking classic.

could do a great one for doubleup4life dude who writes in huge font and chagnes the colors each paragraph gives me a fucking headache

love it

  Michfan........well i got some plans   always scheming around here....

  husker............

     College BB is over for the year but here's a oldie but goodie, the animation seems dated and does not in any way reflect racial sentiment    just a blast from the past.... turn it up...enjoy

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVogvCi4w4g

      

excerpt from ROLLING STONE  cover story  on newstands May 1

 

          KNOW WHEN TO HOLD EM:  THE STRANGE ODYSSEY OF A GAMBLER FROM MONEYLINES TO MEDIA STARDOM

By  Linda Ben- Fong Torretts

                      I am sitting in the parking lot of Dollar General, or maybe its a Family Dollar, or just a Dollar Store, I don't know I don't even care anymore. But i'm pretty sure its not a Wal-mart.  I am in L.A. to meet (name deleted)  a.k.a.  Rovin56 the latest sensation to come from internet land and this is where he told me to come: L.A.   I don't mean the city,  we're talkin Lower Alabama, Northwest Florida, where Rovin assured me if I took the wrong turn I may just end up on a dirt road which leads me through the largest Air Force reservation on the planet, a place where stuff is routinely blown to smithereens. or even worse into a remote warren of house trailers where the intrusion of strangers during the melting down of various Walgreen products might be met with even more  dire consequence if that is possible. Judging by the cars in the parking lot, one of which has no hood and a rag stuck in the gas-filler cap like a molotov cocktail waiting to be lit I wouldn't doubt it. Not one bit.Already I have seen enough Tom Thumbs and 13 year old girls with tatoos of cobras and panthers on the side of their necks to make me wish I was back in the Bay area.  Add to that Waffle House. My god.

       Finally I hear the roar of a motorcycle and see this lanky guy get off a black 1100 honda, removing his sunglasses. It is then i see what the New York Times Sunday magazine called "That irresistible animal magnetism  that makes men want to bet like him, women want to  f!#%^$@!%ck him  and dogs want to pee on his leg."  In just one week a post on the Covers Gambling Forum  has lead to interviews with Jim Rome, a brief romance with a rising young starlet, aka  Katniss form 'the Hunger Games" (they broke it off because Rovin needed to devote more time to capping the upcoming NBA playoffs)  and a  book deal to explore what he calls "the power of sexually explicit avatars  especially bouncing titties  hands slapping fannies and smoking cats to influence one's betting predilections"......

to read more please enter password at RollingStone.allthegoodmusicisold.com

 

THE REVIEWS ARE IN  FOR

         "LEGENDS OF COVERS"

Boston Globe---- "Brilliant...a one man tour de force...LOCK  LOCK LOCK!!!!!

THE LONDON TIMES---    "Egoistic...Boorish....Appalling...."the Queen mum's pudenda??!!!??"   my GAWD....should be hung from the nearest yard arm.. LOSER!!!!

Pensacola Daily ---   "For a damn Yankee to come down here and make fun of our tatooes, fire ants  and Dollar stores is reprehensible to say the least. Whats next??   attacking "cheese grits?"  "fried green tomatoes?"   phrases like "Bless his heart"  and  "I'm a bringin' the grand-yungins!!!" Go back to where you came from  and take your lousy 5 point teasers with you~!!"

Katniss---"For sure, like I have to say, even though he's older than my paw-paw, he's the one that got away."

10th Fighter wing 42nd Squadron Eglin Air Force Base:  "We have visual on target. Traveling south -bound on reservation territory. Black motorcycle. Civilian damage negligible. Awaiting "go"  orders. Over."

Jerusalem Bugle------"Meh. 

the girl on the Progressive Insurance ads:  ''I'd hit it!!"

 

HOW COOL IS THIS???>>>>>

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9muYlfWi1rQ&feature=related

 

DIG IT

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifp_SVrlurY&feature=related

Petrino-Dorrell Text Messages Released Under Freedom of Information Act

On April 2, 2012  the following texts were shared between Bobby Petrino ( herein specified as "B.P.") and Allison Durrell (specified as "A.D.") and consequently made available to the Little Rock Inquisitor newspaper.

A.D. :  is what we did last night jungle love or what?

B.P. : risky for sure you little wench

A.D. : want to do it in your own bed..... again!!! mmmmm

B.P. : LOL  just lucky my wife is a sound sleeper

A.D : mind if i wrap my legs around you a little tighter?

B.P.:  bike not cornering well with you pressed in so tight

A.D. : shut up daddy    you luv it!!!

B.P. i do but.........

(no transmissions for 4 hours)

 

B.P. :  we are fucked good  now

A.D :  for sure   hope yer not mad   kiss

B.P. : dont make me laugh   my ribs hurt

Ozzie Guillen's Apology to Miami's Cuban Populace (translated from Spanish)

 

"First of all I would fucking like to greet all you fucking whiners like this: WHY doan chew zAY HELLO  do my LEETLE FRIENDS!!!!   (holds up middle finger of both hands, waves them around then points them like guns and starts mock shooting)

  Okay now we got that straight  you pussies  let me tell you something else.  NONE of you maricones are fit to lick the combat boots of an hombre like Fidel. Hell most of your fuckers grandfathers  got the fuck out of Cuba with all the loot they could  steal the minute the revolution took out Batista. The rest of you were shipped over from fucking prison. Aieeeee Quit your fucking whining. You had your chance at the Bay of Pigs, and then all the assasination attempts. Sorry no fucking luck, now you sit around and MAKE UP  stories about Fidel and my Hugo Chavez  when none of you pussies are man enough to challenge a GOVERNMENT  let alone a scalper hassling your kid on the way to a HEAT game.  Fidel Castro came over from Mexico in 1958 in  like a dingy made for 10 people crammed with nearly 100 or so and when he landed almost immediately came under attack. He fought the fucking Batista regime with Che and god knows who else and he could a been killed any day during the 2 years it fucking took to get to Havana and overthrow a dictator who was absolutely selling out his country to U.S.  business interests  as well as torturing his people in jails, more people than you want to think about ok??    Have any of you done ANYTHING FUCKING MORE than cash  in a  20 dollar lottery ticket , scarf down a cuban sandwich or apply for social security lately? Didnt fucking think so . Shut the FUCK UP  thank you and regards,"

 

Ozzie

and finally       a gift from the gods......

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FwgIn3vobag&NR=1&feature=fvwp

One of the best and funniest posts in Cover's history...wish there were more like this...

you should do a combination NBA, NFL are fixed post...

Was so close on that round robin

Pitchblack , Train, Reignman.....good to see you, would have replied earlier but am in London. Yeah the Olympics. Its a long story but quit the construction gig and hopped on a plane with Jim Rome to do an article for Playboy. I know it sounds crazy but I will print my first installment here within hours....

          I SEE LONDON, I SEE FRANCE...THE SUN NEVER SETS ON OLYMPIC 2012 DEBAUCHERY  By Rovin56  (first installment  to Playboy magazine)

               "Two more weeks of this" I sigh wearily as my roomate in the Olympic Village, a diminutive French cyclist named Ariste, pounds out the last few dozen grace notes on a poor pre-pubescent Lithuanian gymnast, a sassy thing we had met earlier in the cafeteria. Over raw beef and some chalky milkshake thing that tasted like watered down sheetrock she bobbed her little pony-tail up and down as Ariste described his ridiculous training regimen  with gay arm and hand movements and the girl finally spat out as if it was the only thing in English she knew how to say "I RIDE YOU LIKE POMMELL HORSIE!!"  So there we were hours away from the iconic opening ceremony and here I thought the French were only good for Jaqueline Bisset and the discovery that mustard goes good on fench fries and I had slept 3 hours, 2 of which vaguely aware of the cell phone ringing and not answering it because I knew it had to be that cretin, Rome.

     Jim Rome and I had become friends if you will as much over a mutual obsession with gambling  as an overweening desire for the seductive  girl I was seeing, Katniss from "The Hunger Games" a friend of his wife. (see Covers gambling forum post LEGEND OF COVERS by author) ,,,,, He invited me to Malibu and wondered at my ability to maintain the interest of a girl clearly 30 years younger than myself often alluding to the fact I must be snorting some of that "new coke they are brewing up in Montreal.  The crazy shit.You ARE, aren't you you bastard??!!?"

     He had become fairly insufferable on that late spring trip always finding an excuse to wander by "mistake" into the hot tub area around midnight when we were just getting busy and then lingering long enough to get a good eyeful of Katniss' perfect tits. Finally he proposed a trip, just me and him as it was obvious he was getting hornier by the day. "I told the girls we were headed to Santa Barbara  but its TI-A-JUANA baby!!!"  he bleated into a ripe waft of southern California  smog-pestilence apocalyptic in and of itself blowing through what was left of his self respect and over the top of his silver convertible BMW. "Gimme some of that blow, NOW!!!"  He had pulled over a few miles before the border risking both our lives and sweating maniacally while emitting a stream of ruthless obscene farts which smelled worse than the stench squirrels give off after a few weeks of being dead behind the finished walls of your bedroom. In July.  He looked at me quizzically and then his eyes squinted demon like as he figured it out. "So, I like chili-dogs. Fuckin shoot me. You fuck younger women. But none younger than the ones you are going to see tonight my friend. Break out the blow NOW BY GOD!!!!"

    Now its dark and I feel a bit like George Clooney with a crazed Taraantino in tow as we head into the city. Rome wastes no time in finding his brothel of choice and in a flash disappears with a shy Costa Rican girl into the shadows giving me a wink and chirping sarcastically over his shoulder with an evil leer  "Now this isn't something you see on Sportscenter every day, IS it buddy!!"

        Hours later I find myself lugging Rome out of some bar where all the locals have been shooting him full of the local pulque and  tequila boilermakers and demanding a spot on his show. It got ugly when Rome blurted out "What the FUCK am i gonna ask a bunch of wet-backs on my show anyways, whether they are great at sports because they can run and jump ands swim bettern than anybody else??" He was like lugging a brontasauras, reeling in a tarpon,   all fleshy and dead weight and I could still smell the reek of chil-dog refuse on him as I flung him into the BMer. I had a brief vision of driving him across the Sonoran desert and depositing him in some working class neighborhood of Ciudad Juarez. He would be picked clean by daylight and the cartels would do the rest. But somehow I got him home and then two weeks later safely back in Florida I got the phone call. One word is all he says, one word after snorting 3 thousand bucks worth of my coke (my Red Sox winnings before they turned completely belly up). "GONNA -FUCKING-RREAH.!!!"

Now its my turn to start laughing. "So, uh, you mean Rome is Burning?" I say. What followed was a baragain of sorts. I gave him a home remedy to keep him out of the spotlight and he pulled a few strings to land me the Playboy gig. Olympics 2012. God help us all.

  So a week before the games I am sharing an aisle seat with what looks to be James Harden but I can't tell because half his beard is covered with the delecatable mid section of a buxom American water polo babette. This is gonna be heaven or hell I say to myself. Depending on your point of view....... (to be continued)

   

     

     Somewhere in the middle of the sprawling, hideous, farcical and for many of us in attendance potentially life-threatening (and I'm not talking about the Elton John etc. tributes)  build- up to the "parade of nations" where I followed a striking green-eyed Irish journalist named Oona as she pulled me by the hand down to the rail so to speak so as to get a good look at the youthful meat-market and prideful yet meaningless nationalism which passes as Olympic sport, I cast a brief glance up to the giant telly-screen and caught sight of the Queen Mum. She looked like a glum Michael Caine disguised in a white wig, one part opiate- eater,  another part calculating grifter overseeing the potent flow of pounds as they floated in with the tide to Olde London Towne's exchequer. Fuck you you Spanish slackers!. The Greeks can eat me. Russian barbarians!! Rule Brittania!!! As if she had required a briskly administered taser shot to get her off the couch and  out of the Palace amongst her people and was still feeling the aftershocks and was none too pleased although the Harry Potter interlude seemed to perk her up some. God, to imagine THAT derivative, cartoonish drivel has made "reading cool again for an entire generation of English children" is enough reason to stick a fork in ANY English cultural rebound within a century or 2 IMO.  I noted to Oona that by contrast Kate Middleton looked edible head to toe if a little miffed at all this commotion. Oona with her sexy County Clare brogue which along with a short black leather skirt and tight white halter top underneath which her pert avacado-shaped breasts cavorted, blissfully unhindered by anything made by man,  Oona  who was etch-a-sketching micro-neurons into my psycho-sexual subconscious, remarked that the night before at a party for American media types a broadcaster had offered the princess a "free mustache ride" which may have disgruntled her. I thought to myself   "Fucking Rome!!"

   I had made a point to avoid seeing Rome since the United flight  321 over the pond a week ago during which he had interrupted a perfectly good session of cunnilingis by none other than an NBA superstar on a rather grateful and large chested water polo babe, it was mammal to mammal, no holds barred, by declaring he needed to talk to me. NOW.

 "Look man, my old lady is headed for Baja with the kids. My lawyer is sending me cryptic texts. Somethings brewing I can feel it. C'mon I need a friend." I.E. super-human coke concocted in the bowels of Montreal by uncannily crafty alchemists which he craved to ease the pain.

   Quite frankly Jim Rome had always struck me as the kind of bullying, know-it-all,   frat-boy windbag who I secretly longed to run across on one of those grainy hand held You-Tube videos getting his ankle chewed off by a  crocodile while chipping onto the green from the edge of a south Florida par 4 bordering a marsh area. In those videos its really the screams that get to you the most.

    At one point I regarded him as sort of the Bill O'Reilly of the sports world I lived and gambled in, noxious, immature, and repetitive as if he was teaching you over and over again how to breathe fucking air. Like. This. Now I took pity on him and handed over the goods. Since then I hadn't seen him but had heard the rumors. Ping-pong players from Singapore,an Icelandic equestrian, a red-headed Albanian sprinter. None of it was good.

Now Oona was urging me on, knowing I couldn't keep my eyes off a tall Dominican beauty. "You want her. Admit it, go on now!!"

The truth is I wanted her, Oona. The pain of desire was somehow palpable and I was transferring it onto the long legged gaits of scores of young women now that the smell of sulfur had finally subsided and the  ghastly bloated image of Paul MaCartney's dessicated image was gradually receding, as they sauntered by in cowboy hats  turbans, blue suede boots and finally the US TEAM dressed like ARMY cadets. hmmmm  private benjamin, one after another like a Hooter's pageant on SPIKE TV...and then my phone rang.

    It was my sister in Maine. "Alex just put the kids down. No I don't mean like sick animals  you idiot. Wanted to tell you about the American broadcast. Its too fuckin' funny. First of all Meredith whatever and i think that Lauer guy treated the first part like it was the MACYS PARADE. Like 'and here come the children of the British health care system  and oh my there's theres PETER PAN!!!' Oh my god then Bob Costas as each country marches by he tries to give a thumnail fucking HISTORY of each one  like ' and here we have the former russian republic of Geogia, they recently had a sort of revolution, oh and here's Poland  remember the warsaw ghetto??? and who can forget Panama?  Grenada?   Vietnam, they have an awfully good skeet shooting team..' Alex I hope you are having fun. Just stay away from that Rome guy ok?"

"Yup. Look I gotta go. My friend Oona is taking me to the Ameican Disco in the Olympic Village, Should be interesting. My roomate is taking the night off from banging the eastern european gymnastics team as he's got to race tomorrow."

"Well call me tomorrow and by the way  did you hear about the Michael Phelps over under? It's 15. No not medals. Sex. Not partners you idiot. Age. Yeah. ok  good night..."

Features Editor

PLAYBOY MAGAZINE

 

                          Mr. (name deleted),

      Received first installment of your spec piece and not all that pleased with it. Not sure if your mentioning Mr. Rome by name may not be litiginous. That means whether or not we might get sued. By the way you or Mr. Rome perhaps are equally responsible for the damage done to your room in the mansion prior to your departure. Mr Hefner asked me personally to broach the subject. He and Miss June have feelings for each other and the fact that she was involved in the destruction of property willfully or not upsets him. He has a bad heart. But a good one. Work some more sex into the story ok???

 

To the features editor Playboy magazine,

 

     Will use the bulk of my advance to repair the wreckage of our mansion room. A futures bet of 2 grand on the men's 800 meter relay medley should take care of the rest. To be honest though those girls are pretty damn frisky but the greased  pole dancing on the columns was admittedly a direct result result of Mr. Rome's frantic pleadings,

     yours sincerely,    Rovin56

ps  attached is the second installment or third  can't really remember.....

    It was after midnite and the first official ominous day of these summer Olympics had arrived by the time Oona and I had fled the chaotic mess of the opening ceremonies for the safety of a Village disco, the soot- covered unpaid extras shuffling off to the ignomy of local pubs and bleak row houses ostensibly to receive the scorn of their neighbors for offering up a vision of England somehow mixed up with James Bond and the Spice girls and the faded wasp nest snapshot of a puckered Queen Mum to a billion strong world audience rubbing their hands together with glee and the high rollers sped back to their high rise hotel rooms with either Swedish rowers or Soho working girls in tow, it was getting hard to tell the difference.

    'The Boys are Back in Town" blared from the "American Discoteque" and Oona the Irish siren who I finally had pegged around 30, her  pale but glowing white skin and brown freckled cheeks and sensibly cut dark bangs somehow conjuring up the actress Zooey Duschanel immediately declared with delight and in that sharp brittle accent that never fails to make me swoon "Ah Tin Lizzy it is!!!"  That started a conversation over a few beers about Thin Lizzy's late great guitar player Gary Moore who I told her had made some of the most soulful blues records in later life. She asked me then about my love for music, for guitar and especially blues guitar and I asked her about growing up in Lisdoonvarna in the shadow of the Cliffs of Moher, and the bleak expanse of  The Burren  where centuries before maurauding Brit Oliver Cromwell had complained while slaughtering Irish rebels "There is no water in which to drown a man, no tree from which to hang him and no dirt to bury him under". We talked about the basic human condition and agreed it was based on several imperatives: sex for the body (and food), drugs for the mind, music for the soul and regrettably but inevitably, violence. We weren't sure what that was for but it probably included all of the above. "I would chastise you Americans for your fascination with weapons but my great uncle was IRA. He died in 1981 along with Bobby Sands and the other H-Block hunger strikers." She pronounced 'other'    "awwwthurr"  and 'hunger"  'hoonger'  and it made me wince with desire.

 She asked about Katniss. "Why do you call her that anyways, its not her real name"  and "No offense but why would a girl so young not fall for  well.."  and she waved her bare adorable white arms vaguely at the dance floor taking in the chiseled athletes all so confident handsome strong,   "one of them."  Under the the blinking lights the  dancers were now showering themselves with packaged condoms which seemed to rain from the ceiling like confetti. Then she gently nudged me with her foot under the table and  her foot massaged my leg. "Never mind. Its really sensitivity, a bit of humor and intelligence we women look for, some confidence perhaps, the rest  well the rest can be overlooked. For awhile anyways." she taunted wickedly and then sprang up to join the Danes on the dance floor  while I tried to hold off frantic texts from Jim Rome who claimed to be trapped in the  Czech wrestling dormitory. The female dormitory.  I also checked my gambling site to examine the gambling opportunities presented ny these Olympics but found myself losing interest in that adrenal rush as I made flirtatious eye contact with Oona in the circle of dancers her breasts bobbing like perfect red delicious apples to the driving beat of 'Taking Care of Business". I am a goner I said to myself and reached for my pocket stash. Gone. That FUCKER Rome.