We’re Missing the Best Part of the Matt Adams Fan Shove Video

This trending clip shows St. Louis Cardinals first baseman Matt Adams giving a little glove shove to a Cincinnati Reds fan who caught an up-for-grabs foul ball. The reaction and analysis overblows the incident, surprising in this time of measured, thoughtful commentary delivered through restricted media channels.

What’s the big deal? Adams gets mildly frustrated and taps the guy with his glove. The guy gets the satisfaction of both catching the foul ball and becoming a two-day celebrity by flipping Adams off. Big deal, play ball.

But we’re overlooking the best part: Watch the girl next to bird fan prove that Cincinnati fans are class squared by calling Adams a “pussy.” Ah, I love when the spring winds signal the return of our beloved national pastime.

Dear CNN: Rodman Doesn’t Count as an Exclusive if No One Else Wants Him On

CNN delivers again with this hard-hitting exclusive top story. The Peabody folks are actually starting to take back previous awards from CNN. The worst thing is that this has become standard for the editorial culture there. No one even recognizes how embarrassing it is.


Non-Meth, Celebrity-Endorsed Options for Losing That Extra Holiday Weight

I managed to get myself in great shape by Thanksgiving this past year, then spent the month of December washing down sticks of butter with wine. It’s like someone pulled a ripcord and I inflated into Val Kilmer.

Val Kilmer magic trick turns Andy Ritcher into a pyramid of donuts backstage at Conan

I’m coming for you, ham!

So how to shake the sloth and lose those holiday pounds? I find that when I’m really unmotivated, I’ll alleviate the guilt by attributing fitness benefits to everyday activities. “You know, I bet we’ve walked three-quarters of a mile in this mall today. And we really picked up the pace by those perfume people in Macy’s.”

Or maybe, “Hey, this bowling ball weighs 13 pounds. If I pick it up and swing it down this lane 30 times, that’s gotta work the shoulder and biceps. And I’ll balance out my workout by lifting the beer pitcher with only my left hand.”

Sometimes I’ll even assume a mild cardio benefit by proxy when I’m driving and wave a jogger through an intersection.

But it’s time to step it up for real, so I am seeking fitness direction from the people I trust most: celebrities. The internet is packed with workout videos delivered by celebrities of various status, age and credentials. My research led me to this mesmerizingly erotic terrifying fitness video by Angela Landsbury.

And in this next video, a penis in tiny blue shorts terrorizes a public park, while Sally Struthers and her friends try to keep up by power walking.

Finally, since we mentioned bowling and we want to erase the traumatizing visions of the previous two videos, here is Jim Gaffigan’s splendid routine about bowling. Now you have the flu.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Middle-Aged Housewife

We went to the Arts Festival at Piedmont Park in Atlanta this past weekend. The heavy, stifling summer swelter has finally relented to cool sunny skies and crisp fresh air—a perfect day to join our city neighbors in celebration of staggeringly shitty art.

It’s safe to say we don’t know real art from our assholes (although many in the local art community do regard my asshole as a work of special consideration). That said, we are certain no actual art was disturbed in the hosting of this festival.

It’s no small feat to host an arts festival of this size without a single discernible work of actual art. Hundred of booths lined miles of park paths, with artisans peddling their creations. The day’s biggest draw was in the park just outside the entrance of the official festival, where a street performer held the crowd captive playing drums on plastic buckets. We nicknamed him Neil Dirt.

The festival-sanctioned art delivered standard outdoor event fare. We enjoyed watching white suburban liberals peruse the ethnic art, conspicuously enriching their cultural appreciation by nodding thoughtfully at pieces they would never actually bring into their homes. Some stared pensively, allowing these diverse perspectives to evoke rich new personal and intellectual horizons. (The most honest ones realized that the art evoked memories of watching Good Times reruns on TBS as a kid, but they kept it to themselves.)

There were also photographers, jewelry makers (who probably acquitted themselves the most successfully), folk artists working with license plates, and some shimmery lacquered Japanese fish painters. (The art was shimmery and lacquered, not the painters, much to our disappointment.)

The dominant festival trend, however, was the Bored Housewife Collections. At some point between the ages of 43 and 55, many married women seem find their artistic “gift.” With Oprah and chardonnay as their muse, they put oil or pastel to canvas to express all the beauty, passion and feelings they’ve repressed during 20 years of PTA meetings, carpools, soccer games and thoroughly unsatisfying marital sex.

The ones with big dreams and disposable income end up here, some surely realizing a return of at least $0.24 for every dollar they spend on materials, transportation and booth rental. We wish we had taken more pictures, but we think you can visualize: Lots of stiff, static two-dimensional still-life portraits, often of flowers, wine glasses and bottles, or loaves of French bread, with no sense of dimension, depth, light or perspective. Or worse, “abstract” works, crafted at the hands of carefree spirits buoyed by Bikram and Xanax who refuse to let the rules of society, art or good taste confine them. “I love to work in color,” we imagine them saying at parties.

Actually, we don’t have to imagine, because they say things like this:

“I recently re-visited Pearl S. Buck’s book ‘The Good Earth’. It totally made me paint in a quiet, filmy kind of way… almost as if with vapor. This series grew out of that feeling I got while listening to the book on tape.”

We only snapped one picture at the festival, but we think it’s representative of the genre:

Is that champagne cigarette bird art? Well turn it up, man!

And in case you think we unfairly selected one work from this artist out of context:

She calls this collection "Where's the Fuck is the Pharmacist's Number?"