J-E-T-S SUCK SUCK SUCK

Sunday's epic confrontation between the Bolts and Gang Green set offensive football back a good twenty-five years. New York's entire game plan can be described as thus:

RUN-RUN-INCOMPLETE PASS-PUNT-HOPE FOR INTERCEPTION IN OPPONENT'S TERRITORY-RUN-RUN-REX RYAN EATS THREE BACON AND LARD PIES-INCOMPLETE PASS-FIELD GOAL-REPEAT

The Chargers, conversely, thought they could win simply by having head coach Norv Turner make constipated faces on the sideline. Somehow, that failed.

Which leads us to this coming Sunday's AFC Championship game between the Jets and the Colts. Normally, I'd pretend that this match up between my two least favorite teams simply didn't exist. But in this case...

...deep breath...

But in this case, I'm going to pull for...

...deep breath...

In this case, I'm going to pull for the Jets. The Colts DESERVE to lose. They're the reason this abortion of a team is in the playoffs in the first place. They completely rolled over at home against New York in Week 16, keeping the Jets' playoff hopes alive. This is their fault, and the Force will see to it that they get what they deserve.

I Stole Your Lunch maintains that going undefeated and winning the Super Bowl is more important than just winning the Super Bowl. Somebody wins the Super Bowl every year; that somebody is then forgotten within a few seasons. But go perfect, and everybody remembers who you were and when you did it. Who won the Super Bowl in 1971? Nobody gives a crap! But everybody knows the Miami Dolphins were perfect in '72.

This will be the only time I will root for the Jets unless they somehow end up playing a team entirely comprised of Mannings. Also, if the Saints fail to beat the Vikings, I'm going to pretend the Super Bowl was cancelled this year due to the field collapsing into a giant singularity of Favrian suck.

Vote Awesome; Vote Colby!

Few elections have cried out for a viable third candidate like this Tuesday's showdown between Martha Coakley and That Yuppie Dude for dearly departed Ted Kennedy's seat in the Senate. The Facepage and the Twatter have been abuzz lately with people who can't decide between the two. It's like picking between JD Drew and Jeremy Hermida; somebody's got to play right field, but neither option is particularly attractive, and both are apt to hit into a double play while sitting in the dugout. Part of that, I suspect, is the overall air of complete fakery surrounding each candidate. They couldn't be more contrived and manufactured if they were Backstreet Boys.

I'm kind of strange, so I like to pretend that both were injected with magic truth-and-candor dust and forced to film new commercials:

"Hi, I'm Martha Coakley. I'm that maybe-once-was-kind-of-attractive-if-it-was-dark-and-you-were-loaded woman running for State Senate. I enjoy pantsuits and getting my hair did and watching reruns of Golden Girls. I took my husband's manhood, but sometimes I give it back to him for an hour or two on the weekends. Even though I'm an overbearing shrew and I've crushed his spirit, when we're in public we love each other so very very much oh yes we do. I think my opponent is a moron for going out in the terrible cold to shake hands with the disgusting rabble. I'm a Democrat, so I'm directionless and out of touch with real Americans."

"Hi, I'm That Yuppie Guy. I work hard to be non-threatening in every possible way. I keep a touch of gray in my hair to leave my age ambiguous; I could be a wise, experienced old man, or I could be a rebellious free spirit whose slightly aged coiffure belies his youth and vigor. My fake smile was grown in a vat in California. Sometimes my wife gives me my manhood back on the weekend for an hour or two. I'm so white that even my dookies are pasty. I'm from Wrentham, but I don't shop there because I'm too good to wear the same sweater vests as the rest of the rabble. I'm a Republican, so I'm batshit insane and out of touch with real Americans."

Bleh. You know the drill. There's got to be a factory somewhere that churns out these cookie cutter politicians (they all fall apart at some point in their careers, so they must be made in China). They're all the same, and none of them is ever going to accomplish anything of consequence, and we vote for them because it's easier than looking for an alternative.

So instead of allowing you to sit on your butt and not look for an alternative, I'm going to hurl one at your face through the magic of the Interwebs. On Tuesday, vote awesome; vote Colby!

This wouldn't be possible if I were working alone. I've assembled the greatest campaign team known to man:

• Head Political Strategist Levi Johnston, who brings a wealth of campaign experience to the team.
• Chief Economist Bernie Madoff
  
• Military Advisor Sergeant Slaughter
• Director of Being Female So My Campaign Is Not Called Sexist the girl who's at the bus stop sometimes
  
• Special Enforcer Jose Offerman
  

As a United States Senator, I promise to...

• Finally wrest the Congressional Beer Pong Championship from John McCain.
• Commit a hilarious practical joke on my fellow legislators by shoving a bunch of pulled pork inside the pages of a bill.
• Prevent further economic chicanery on the part of the financial sector by implementing Bitchslap a Banker Day.
  
• Build a giant fence on the Somerville border.
  
• Only screw around with good looking interns.
• Refrain from use of tobacco products when screwing around with interns to avoid giving impressionable children the wrong idea.
• Take money from lobbyists, not vote the way they want me to, then laugh in their faces.
• Implement EVERYBODY FLIES NAKED plan to secure our skies (see previous post for details.
• Give tax breaks to people who take their money out of the banks and out of the stock market and bury it in a coffee can in the backyard.

In short, my platform can be summed up in two words: High Life.

"But you're not qualified to represent my beloved commonwealth in the Senate!" I hear some of you moaning. "We need someone who really understands the plight of the average Massachusettsian." Luckily, I was prepared for you peons.

Scott Colby's Qualifications to Represent the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in the Senate

• Can consistently name all members of the Red Sox starting rotation.
• Knows all the words to several Dropkick Murphys songs, including "Shipping Up to Boston."
• Enjoys grinders and frappes.
• Went to Revere Beach once. Survived.
• Supports the local economy by choosing Dunkin' Donuts over Starbucks.
• Watched that "Schoolhouse Rock" show about "I'm Just a Bill" once, maybe twice.
  
• Probably won't do a worse job than the posers already there.
  

I think that about says it all. You can tell I'm serious about this because I used three seperate bulleted lists. Vote awesome; vote Colby!

And if you don't, the last words you'll hear as you exit the voting booth will be "Jose, bateador arriba..."

Undie Bomber

I know the topic's a bit passe (stupid Blogger won't let me put an accent over the e), but few things gave me more joy during the holiday season than this idiot. Like any sane person, I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter when I first heard the news. I laughed even harder at the ensuing brouhaha about security and it all being Obama's fault and such. I mean, really, people: Al Qaeda's master plan was to stick a bunch of firecrackers in some moron's underwear and try to blow up a plane heading for Detroit. Really? You're concerned by this? This is "the greatest threat currently facing our nation?"

I've always been of the opinion that the best way to eliminate unwanted behavior is to ridicule it. After all, it was ridicule that ended my love of jean shorts and will hopefully some day curtail my my music-fueled transformation into a black clad emo girl with two tramp stamps and a pierced left butt cheek. I firmly believe that if Obama sent Bin Laden a letter telling him how much of a dumb ass he is every time Al Qaeda pulls one of these ridiculous stunts he'd shave, take a shower, put on some respectable looking clothes, and get a real job, potentially replacing the dearly departed Billy Mayes as the king of infomercials.

But instead, everybody's in a giant tizzy about this reject and his tighty whities. Earth to America: this is essentially the plot to a terrible SyFy channel movie called "Fruit-of-the-Booms: Terror in the Skies" featuring Lou Diamond Phillips, but with worse special effects. It wouldn't fluster LDP. It shouldn't fluster you.

So now we get to have a "national conversation" about how to improve airline security in response to this new threat. Seems to me the existing "If you see a Middle Eastern looking dude holding a match and laughing maniacally, punch him in the face" rule worked pretty well. Which leads me to an extremely important question that no one in what passes for the media elite bothered to ask: why did this genius try to light his thong-th-thong-thong-bomb in the cabin instead of in the privacy of the bathroom? Idiot.

But if the powers that be insist on taking this crap seriously, there's only one real option: EVERYBODY FLIES NAKED. Do not allow any clothing within a one mile radius of any airport. This will stop known threats like shoe bombs and C4-strings as well as theoretical threats like manssiere machine guns, adult diaper land mines, and laser-equipped chastity belts. It's the only way we can be truly safe when we fly, although I suspect it will lead to a greatly increased use of barf bags.

Time for football. Saints-Cardinals looks like it should be a great game, but it's been made even better by a reported wager between Kurt Warner and Reggie Bush. If the Cardinals win, Tony Siragusa eats Kim Kardashian; if the Saints win, the Goose eats Mrs. Warner and whatever crazy hairdo she's sporting this year. Family fun for all.

This is all your fault, J$

I know what you're thinking. "Oh, not this again. I was hoping we'd get to skip the Forty-Sixth Annual Relaunch of I Stole Your Lunch this year. This is a worse tease than my hot neighbor who always remembers to close the shades AFTER she's undone a few buttons. How is this time going to be different?"

It probably won't be. There's a good chance I'll keep up with this for a few weeks then completely forget about it; there's an even better chance that this will be the only update you get for the next year and a half. There's a possibility that the Interwebs, already stacked to the gills with retarded crap, will finally reach the point where it can't possibly contain another word of bullshit and regurgitate I Stole Your Lunch all over your keyboard. There's a possibility that I'll finally drink enough to actually lobotomize myself and wind up posting an update that consists of "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaajlkjflkajsflkfjalksfjlakjsfldkjaoieja crowofoiwhfuwehauhtoqhoqhohvoahvohauhvdnvwqnvcgwbe Keira Knightley." Whatever happens, I promise one thing: something's going to happen, and it's going to be about as pretty as that thing you took home from Ai Tain after your seventeeth dollar Miller Lite.

But potential carnage be damned, my legions of loyal blogonauts (on the Interwebs, three now constitutes legions) have spoken. They miss me, and they've cried themselves to sleep every night since last I posted, often huddled together in a tangled mass of vaguely cheese-scented manhood as they attempt to soothe each other's pain. At least bringing that to an end will accomplish something positive.

A lot has changed; a lot has stayed the same. And the only way to properly examine both a lots is with a pair of bulleted lists.

The Same

• I Stole Your Lunch maintains that the MBTA could get itself out of debt in two weeks if it charged by the pound.
• Lard asses need to learn how to walk.
• My grammar and spelling are both better than yours and I will judge you harshly because of it.
• The yacht of any potential betrothal must measure at least 90 feet from bow to stern and feature a bowling alley, a helipad, and a towering mast on which epic duels with pirate captains can be fought.
• You buy the booze, I'll write the blog.

Different

• The Foggy Goggle has been vanquished not by fire nor by exorcism but by an Irish-themed punk band with one big hit. Henceforth, the Official Slimy, Disgusting Watering Hole of I Stole Your Lunch is the Hong Kong in Harvard Square. The Golden Temple in Washington Square was a close second, but it's hard to beat three whole floors of skanktastic good times.
• I Stole Your Lunch Headquarters has relocated to a lovely Winter Hill. Rest assured that the local townies, intelligent and sophisticated as they are, will provide ample blog fodder.
• I'm not paying for hosting anymore. Blogger is good enough.
• Google Ads, which base themselves on the content of a given site, will soon provide hours of additional entertainment to my loyal blogonauts.

Stay tuned...

The Seven Wonders of the World

An online poll recently determined the new Seven Wonders of the World. The denizens of the Interweb picked a wall, a statue of Jesus, and several piles of rocks. Scott Colby is quite disappointed with these results, as he can see all these things if he peeks into his neighbor's yard.

Of course, Scott Colby must step forward and right this most heinous of wrongs. Here are his REAL Seven Wonders of the World:

• New York's Mother - Sister Patterson is three times holier than any Jesus statue and made of even harder stone. If she called for fire and brimstone to fall from the heavens, I'd dive under the nearest table, mostly because there's a pretty good chance her terrible bellow would bring the ceiling crashing down upon my head. Sister Patterson holds two distinctions not likely to be matched anytime soon: she's the only man on record as having given birth, and she's the only human being who can take a crowbar to the face without blinking. I suspect she's Chuck Norris's evil twin sister.
• The Woot-Off - A website that sells one product until that product is sold out? When will the current piece of crap go away? What's coming next? How many times is this damn website going to try to convince me I want a Leak Frog or $5000 projector? Hours of fun at work, school, and/or funerals.
• The Milky Way Lounge - 80's night, karaoke, $2 Brubakers, bowling, pool, and cracked out Jamaica Plain people. Hot damn.
• J-Rags in a suave hat - Check out Justin's new Facebook picture in the top right of this post. The entire city of Boston demands that he wear that fedora everywhere he goes, and that he tuck three Cuban cigars into his chest pocket as an added accent. The perfect look for ghost riding the whip or screaming at the migrant workers to pick oranges faster. Also, Al Gore would be extremely proud of Justin, as he's not drinking wine straight from the bottle just to be a trashy wine-o, but rather to save the water it would take to wash a glass.
  
• Scott Colby's alien blasting abilities - Seriously, those fuckers don't stand a chance. And when planet earth is finally invaded for real, one man will stand alone and send those bastard E.T.'s packing back to Uranus.
• The Worcester Palladium - Built from the bones of several million homeless culled from the streets of the The Woo, the Palladium is a true marvel of modern engineering. Paint based on slime collected from the city streets amplifies the acoustics of the main theater to generate perfect sound. Many fine community college graduates have been conceived in these hallowed halls.
  
• Yuppies - Recently confirmed to produce asexually, yuppies nonetheless travel in packs typically consisting of up to five slightly paunchy men in striped button down shirts and up to four conservatively dressed women who appear attractive after five drinks but are too annoying to actually converse with until you've had seven or eight. Yuppies are known to enjoy Volkswagons and GAP commercials and can often be found nesting under piles of IKEA furniture. By day, these creatures frequent Starbucks and snooty cafes. Their animalistic side comes out at night when they travel to overpriced tourist bars to dine on Bud Light, Cosmopolitans, and the occasional Kamikaze shot. Beware the popped collar, as it is a sure sign that a yuppie is about to spontaneously give birth, a process which releases a noxious gas known to drive typically sane individuals to shop in J. Crew and Pink. In their larval stage, yuppies often serve as hall monitors and student council representatives, while the more adventurous among them join the theater club. From what vile pit of hell did these creatures first spawn? Are they really as better than you as their disdainful stares imply? Will science ever find a means of translating their imperious language into something you and I can listen to without wanting to bash our skulls in with the nearest blunt object? Will Josh Moody and his ragtag band of freedom fighters ever free us from the secret society of Yuppie overlords that secretly controls the planet? There are some mysteries the human race just may not be intended to unravel.