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Posts Tagged ‘poor role models’

Li-Lo -- courtesy of wikipedia

By now, I’m sure y’all have heard about Lindsay Lohan’s recent setback. Scant weeks removed from a two-week stint in the poky, the troubled starlet suddenly finds herself dangerously close to being locked up yet again after violating her probation by testing positive for cocaine and amphetamines.

(Psst. Lindsay. When you’re on probation, you’re subject to random drug tests and most of ’em screen for stuff like blow.)

She’ll learn her fate on Friday when Judge Eldon Fox will decide whether or not to incarcerate Lohan until her probation violation hearing, which could mean up to thirty days behind bars.

And I for one, have had it. Does she deserve jail time?

um, word? samantha ronson -- courtesy of wikipedia

NO QUESTION. But more for cinematic atrocities such as Herbie: Fully Loaded than for being pathologically vapid. More for publicly flaunting her sexually ambiguous relationship with super-troll Samantha Ronson than for being tragically mis-wired. (By the way, is it just me, or does Samantha look like the illegitimate love child of Julie Andrews and Screech from Saved by the Bell? Hmm. I feel a Fuzzy Math post coming on.)

Besides, as we’ve already seen, jail sentences aren’t effective in rehabilitating Li-Lo. But I think I know something that would be.

A work release program. And I’ve got just the employer. Lovie and me. That’s right. It’s a match made in heaven. Check it out.

We’ve recently parted ways with Miss B, the woman who used to provide full time assistance with the terrible trio. Lovie and I figured that with Monstor, Biggs, and Peanut at preschool two days a week, we’d be good to go. But the road’s been a lot tougher than we had thought, and quite frankly, we could really use the help.

And what better way for someone as lost as Lindsay to get back in touch with the things that matter most than by spending quality time with three adorable toddlers?

Just think of all the fun they could have together. The triplets are learning all the different shapes. Think they wouldn’t love using Lindsay’s ankle monitor to trace circles? I bet she knows how to take it off. If not, they could still draw on it. Just like a cast! A cast for criminals! So neat. And if that got old, they could always play “connect the dots” with Li-Lo’s face freckles. (Hear that, Lindsay? No makeup, girl! Yikes!!)

You know what else the triplets love? NUMBERS! That’s right, they’re starting to count. And I bet ol’ Lindsay could teach them all kinds of numbers by simply reviewing the results of her various breathalyzer tests. Lotta integers contained in those bad boys.

But it’s not just numbers the triplets adore. They really like their letters, too. And they’re starting to learn their ABCs. I bet the field-sobriety-test veteran could lend a helping hand. When it comes to saying ’em backwards, that is!

I know what you’re thinking. So far this sounds like a great deal for the triplets. But what about Lindsay? Don’t worry. I’ve got that covered. In Monster, Biggs, and Peanut, she’ll find friends for life. After all, she’s got tons in common with them. For example, the triplets love to jump. And Lohan loves to (bar) hop. Perfect!

Also, the triplets are fascinated with straws, whether they are part of a fancy sippy cup, or the kind that come with a juice box. I hear Lindsay likes straws, too. Word on the street is she always keeps one in her purse. (The preceding paragraph was inspired by Weasel Momma’s comment.)

And, as Lindsay proved the last time she was in court, she cries whenever she gets in trouble. So do the triplets! I mean seriously, what are the odds? The triplets are only two, and she’s a grown woman!

And it doesn’t matter whether the camera’s rolling or not. Lindsay’s all about the drama, which is funny, because our little guys are pretty dramatic, too. Lot’s of screaming, fussing, crying, and even some biting. And from what I gather, that’s eerily similar to the stuff that goes down during one of Lindsay’s average nights on the town.

And, I suppose, if I’m being completely honest, there is one more thing that they have in common. Both Lindsay and the triplets have dads who ain’t right. But I digress.

Because the focus here shouldn’t be on Li-Lo’s dad, or me for that matter. But rather on her, and more specifically her well being. And I put all kidding aside when I say that spending thirty days with our triplets would do wonders for her. Because I can assure you that if she knew such a fate awaited her the next time she stepped out of line?

There’d be no next time. Because the triplets are tough y’all. Lovie left me all alone with them tonight and they pretty much kicked my ass.

And I’m a trained professional.

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(To the rhyme of eeny, meeny, miny, mo.)

What you hear just isn’t so:
Catch a tiger by its toe?
You see, that method’s bound to fail.
You catch a Tiger chasing tail.

My mother said to pick the very best one and HE is not it.

Sorry. I tried. I really did. To give Tiger a second chance, that is.  But as the Masters wore on, he wore out his welcome with me. The golfer told the world in a pre-tournament press conference that we’d see a different Tiger on the course. And we did. For the first couple of days, that is–when things were going his way. But on Sunday, when he got off to that shaky start, he was back to the old Tiger as evidenced by the following outbursts:

“Tiger, you suck.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“God damn it.”

And that was just what they caught on tape.

The gig’s up. The questionable things we used to chalk up to his fiery and competitive nature–the attitude, the language, the condescension– are now nothing more than garden-variety attributes of the jerk we know him to be. Woods may go down as the greatest golfer of all time, but unless the “new Tiger” looks a lot different than the one I saw at Augusta, he’ll be equally remembered for being a bad dude.

That’s why he should listen to me. After all, I’m no stranger to helping fallen sports heroes rebuild their image. Just ask Ben Roethlisberger.  And I’ve got the perfect idea for Tiger.

He should marry Kate Gosselin. That’s right. The one with all the kids. It’s widely reported that Woods and Elin are headed for divorce, so he’ll soon be a free man. And Kate’s the perfect mulligan.

Think about it. What better way for Tiger to rehabilitate his image than by proving he really is a family man, in spite of the nationwide, sexual buffet he so slothfully feasted on for the past several years? (There’s a Perkins joke in there somewhere that I wasn’t clever enough to pull off.)

And what better way to prove he’s a family man than by bunking up with a woman whose uterus was once larger than a downtown loft?

But the benefits of marrying Kate go well beyond image rehabilitation. Tiger and Kate would actually make a great couple. For dozens of reasons. Here are the top ten.

10. Tiger would be an excellent step-dad to Kate’s eight kids. Most men would have a hard time keeping up with all the names, but juggling eight names ain’t nothing for Tiger.

9. I’m no wildlife expert, but I’m near certain that a beaten-down tiger would get along pretty darn well with a nipped and tucked cougar.

8. If Tiger ever gets fed up with all the racket that comes with eight kids, he could always just pop one of his Ambien.

7. Kate’s on “Dancing with the Stars,” and word on the street is that Tiger likes dancers. A LOT.

6. Tiger could close his eyes each and every night knowing there’s a fighting chance that he’s sleeping next to someone whom people dislike even more than him.

5. Kate could close her eyes each and every night knowing there’s a fighting chance that she’s sleeping next to someone whom people dislike even more than her.

4. With the time commitment a new relationship requires, Tiger would be too busy to film any more creepy-ass commercials staring his dead dad.

3. Not that they don’t do a good job already, but together? Boy, oh boy, could they ever drive home that “sense of entitlement” concept to their kids.

2. Unlike Elin, Kate’ll think twice before taking a driver to Tiger should the cat ever decide to prowl. After all, with eight kids, there’s bound to be a witness.

1. And the number one reason Tiger should marry Kate Gosselin? They could have a reality show and call it “Tiger and Kate plus Eight,” where, depending on how the marriage goes, the “Eight” would refer to the number of children in their household, or the number of girlies Tiger cages on an average week.

So there you have it. I rest my case. Tiger should marry Kate as soon as his divorce is final.

I just hope they invite to the wedding. ‘Cause I’ve got a toast I’d like to give them.

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Dear Ben Roethlisberger,

Phew. You dodged another bullet, brother. Good thing you’re a football player, because if baseball were your sport, you’d have struck out by now.

Strike one? Mere months after you won the first of your two Super Bowl rings, you had a serious motorcycle accident, only a year removed from fellow NFL-er Kellen Winslow Jr’s career-threatening motorcycle accident.

In the wake of Winslow’s mishap, Coach Bill Cowher lectured you about motorcycle safety, desperately hoping you’d not be the next NFL guy to find yourself in the same situation. But that’s exactly what happened. And you weren’t wearing a helmet. Which would have come in handy when your head shattered the windshield of a car. Which necessitated a seven-hour surgery. You were lucky it wasn’t worse.

Strike two? Your 2009 run in with a young lady in Lake Tahoe who accused you of sexual assault. Though details would ultimately emerge which called the accuser’s motives into question, and though you never faced any criminal charges stemming from the incident, you still found yourself in a bad position–one which could have easily been avoided if you had made better decisions.

Strike three occurred on March 5, 2010. After a long night of partying in Milledgeville, GA (really, Ben? Milledgeville?), you were accused of sexual assault yet again, this time by a twenty-year old women whom you followed into the dingy bathroom of a local bar. The dingy women’s bathroom of a local bar.

Unlike the last time, this claim seemed to have teeth. Just like last time, you exercised incredibly poor judgment.

A Latin proverb tells us that a smart man learns from his mistakes, but a wise man learns from the mistakes of others.

You do neither.

Which makes you a fool.

But good fortune does not discriminate against the dim-witted. On April 12  the alleged victim announced she no longer wished to pursue criminal charges, thanks to the circus of media attention she wished to avoid.

You’re a very lucky and impossibly dumb man, Ben. Yet just when I thought you couldn’t do anything to lower my estimation of your IQ, you show up at a press conference to read a one-minute apology looking like this:

image courtesy of CNN

Listen, Ben, I’m no PR expert, but it seems to me that the last thing a guy accused of sexual assault for the second time would want to do is show up at press conference looking exactly like Jesse James. You know who I’m talking about, don’t you? He’s the motorcycle guy (hey, you two should ride together sometime) who left his (pregnant) porn-star girlfriend when Sandra Bullock came calling only to cheat on the Hollywood A-lister with a woman whose tattoos make Allen Iverson’s look like they came from a box of Cracker Jacks.

If I had just been accused of forcing myself on a twenty-year old girl in the women’s bathroom of a seedy bar after a six-hour bender in Milledgeville, GA mere months after my last brush with sexual assault? I probably would’ve lost the greasy mullet and dialed up an Opie Taylor look.

And what’s with your disco shirt, Ben? I mean, seriously, is it the same one you wore clubbing in M-town that night? What? Is your “Long Live Ted Bundy” tee dirty or something? At least you didn’t wear this one:

image courtesy of scrapetv.com. or a frat house. not sure which.

Consider a suit next time. Or at least a button down.

Sorry for writing you out of the blue, but I wanted to reach out and offer you my two cents because you’re clearly floundering, big fella. Feel free to take my advice, or blow it off, whichever suits you.

OH. And just one more thing. If you ever do find yourself publicly apologizing for being involved in similar matters, would you mind reading your statement in front of someone else’s locker?

Because when trying to eradicate the imagery of sexual assault, it’s probably best to distance yourself from the word “Colon,” even if it is nothing more than a teammate’s last name printed neatly on a sign above his locker. Given the circumstances, it’s just too visceral.

But look on the bright side. At least his number isn’t 69.

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