Why is Chris Berman still doing broadcasts on ESPN?

I don’t understand it, Berman makes no sense and his catch phrases are no longer funny. He has the worst case of ADD I have ever seen. He rambles incoherently about nothing. He alludes to obscure music references that even a Rolling Stone writer wouldn’t understand. He gets to pick any broadcast—baseball games, Super Bowl, Pro Bowl, All-Star games; and everyone he works with kisses his ass.

Chris Berman is a smug, fat, NutriSystem eating, loud, and always annoying ESPN anchor-for-life. Hey Boomer, you realize that comby on your dome doesn’t get thicker the older you get. You are not the Benjamin Button of the hair world; you’re a balding fat man who has a lifetime membership to Hair Club for Men.

Check out “Berman’s Crazy Rant”

The greatest thing that has ever come from Boomer is his NBA All-Star Game weekend antics in Vegas. This is where the name sake for sports blog powerhouse With Leather originated, from this fat piece shits mouth.

The story goes like this; everyone is partying for NBA All-Star weekend in Vegas. A regular guy is sitting at bar running game on a fine woman, in a hot leather dress. This poor schmuck is buying her drinks all night and throwing the kitchen sink at her. So Mr. Big Shot, Chris Berman himself walks into the bar points at the woman in the leather dress and says, “You’re with me, leather” she gets up and leaves with Boomer. This dude is left holding his pud and an empty wallet.

I’m just waiting for some hooker to come forward claiming Boomer forced her to snort lines of coke off his boner.

Case in point…

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It is that time of year, when the weather cools down, the leaves begin to change, and fat guys come out of the hibernation of air conditioning.  Yes, you guessed it; it’s the fall season or the fat guy’s summer.  The temperature is comfortable and a fat guy’s equilibrium centers. The end of summer means one thing: no more sweating! It is now acceptable to wear clothes on a regular basis.  The normal apparel can be either jeans and a T-shirt or shorts and hoodie. When everyone packs up their beach gear and begins to wander toward their local watering hole.  Fat Guys are getting mentally prepped for their own summer holidays: football season, tailgating, Halloween, and Thanksgiving.

Yes, that’s right the 4th of July for fat guys—tailgating. Tailgating is a glorious time when men gather in fields and lots across this great country, pop open the back hatch of the SUV blare some southern Rock, pound beers, and chow down on burgers, brats, stews and chili’s. There’s nothing like this barbaric ritual of drinking some frosty’s, chowing some grub, watching some football.

Aside from football and tailgating another can’t miss fat guy ritual is Halloween.  So you mean to tell me if I dress up you just give me candy—where do I sign-up?  I can dress up in virtually any absurd outfit or costume I want to?  Fat guys are used to wearing uncomfortable, tight fitting clothes.

Thanksgiving is the Fat Guy’s Labor Day and Christmas rolled into 1.  What a day!  Excuse me a series of days that end’s the fat guy’s summer.  Beginning with black Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving where most young people go home get obscenely drunk and go out on the town and run into every awkward person and conversation from your glory days of high school/college.  Normally goes something like this:

ME: “Hey, what’s up Pete?”
Pete: “Hi, how are you?”

ME: “I’m good!  What’s going on?”

Mistake #1: I asked a question. Then some asshole, that I was never friends with, babbles on about how great it is to sell elevator buttons in Idaho and how he has received 1 year of free potatoes for being the best salesman and how he lives on a farm with some chick and her hillbilly family.  Sweet, I proceed to walk away in mid-sentence while he’s describing his goats and cows, grab a beer and proceed to laugh at all the stupid people and stories with my friends.  Needless to say it’s a long, albeit interesting night.

The next morning is almost like Christmas morning for Fat guys.  The presents are wrapped in turkey, stuffing and gravy…..yum.  It’s a day of eating, football, sleeping, more eating, more football and sleep again.  There are leftovers for about a week, in all type of various assortments:

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Lebron James,

What the fuck is wrong with you!  Did your mommy not teach you any values—apparently not?  Do you know where you come from? You were born and raised in Northeast Ohio hailing from Akron, Ohio. You single-handedly put Cavaliers basketball and the city of Cleveland on the map both nationally and globally. You were on your way to become a God in this city, now you are a complete embarrassment and alienated the Cleveland faithful. You didn’t forget about your scumbag friends from high school, whom you so loving refer to as the ‘four horsemen.’ You might not realize this Bron Bron but a kid with no real world experience, let alone no college degree does not normally become Vice-President of marketing for Nike. You don’t realize what this city has been through The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, The Blown Save, you must have forgot about this while you were doing the ESPY Awards or Saturday Night Live.

You show up to a Tribe game versus New York sporting a Yankees hat on national television and completely dogging your hometown, what a travesty.  Not only wearing a hat of one the most hated teams in this city’s history but arrogantly and pompously rubbing our face in it by flaunting your hat in the air. How would you like it if Bernie Kosar showed up to a Cavs playoff game a rocking a Pistons jersey, guess what, that wouldn’t happen because Kosar has class.  Do you even know who Bernie Kosar is?

You are done; I’m no longer cheering for you, sticking up for you or comparing you to Michael Jordan. The fact of the matter, you don’t play defense and you can’t consistently make free throws—you are no Mark Price.  I will, like any other die hard Cleveland fan, continue to root for the Cavs and any success that comes with the organization. Go back to where you came from—Akron, home of rubber, the dirtiest strip clubs on Earth, and Cleveland’s red-headed step child.

Sincerely,

The City of Cleveland and its fans

P.S. How many kids do you have now?

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I’ve been born and raised in Cleveland and have cheered and cried over all sports Cleveland and will continue until the day I die. This city has experienced the Drive, the Fumble, the Shot, and the Blown Save. It’s the most tortured sports city in America, with the longest professional championship drought. Yet every year I root for the Browns, Cavs, and Indians.

I am absolutely sickened by the fact that Indians fans boo Jim Thome. What a fucking travesty! Thome is the all-time home run leader for the Indians. He is one of the best ambassadors for the game of baseball and most loved Cleveland sports athletes. Thome is apart of the holy trinity of Cleveland sports: Thome, Bernie Kosar, and Mark Price. These three extraordinary men could run for mayor of the city and win in a landslide.

Jim Thome is no Albert Belle!

So why do Indian fans continue to boo Thome? Well guess what uniformed Indians fans, I am not a fair-weather fan. I remember when Thome was brought up from the minors and couldn’t make the throw from third base or couldn’t hit a breaking ball. He worked his ass off and become an All-Star and future Hall of Famer. Thome was so beloved because Cleveland could easily relate to him. He’s a blue collar, hard-working, whiskey drinking stand-up guy.

Thome was the main force beyond the powerful teams of the 90’s. He continues to live in the Cleveland area and expressed his interest in going back to Cleveland. If anything, fans should boo ownership for their continual lack of desire to produce a championship. The owners refuse to spend money. It’s not Thome’s fault, the Indians were going to erect a statue of Thome and name a city street after him.

Why don’t those assholes drive to Cooperstown, NY and boo Thome during his induction into the Hall of Fame, while he’s proudly sporting Chief Wahoo. Otherwise shut your pie-hole.

And I will be getting another tattoo.  A Chief Wahoo tat when the Indians win the World Series.

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Alex Trebek is the host of the popular game show Jeopardy. This is a great show. However, Trebek needs a ball bat to the dome. His smug, condescending demeanor and attitude makes me want to vomit. I guarantee if it wasn’t for the index cards supplied to him he would have no idea what any of the answers are. This Canadian piece of shit treats the guests like absolute morons when they answer a question incorrectly. My personal favorite is when someone mispronounces the answer and Alex so rudely corrects them. Or if the contestant doesn’t say “What is” or better yet, if the contestant does answer ‘what is’ and Alex chimes in with “No Who is, not what is”. You know what, this contestant got the right answer, don’t be an asshole and give them the $200 they deserve. Alex, a caning is in order.

First, Alex you have no clue what the answer is, let alone be able to pronounce the answer correctly. Second, you wouldn’t even be able to buzz in on time because the clicker would fall through your hands because of all the gel from your jerry-curl afro perm. Oh and guess what, when you interview the contestants and they tell paint dryingly dull stories I don’t need your side comments about your days growing up in Canada, or the weekend you spent in the Galapagos Islands, or your collection of stamps–seriously come on spare me.

And who’s Johnny?!?!? I’ve never seen this Oz like figure who has all answers. Maybe Johnny should tell our friend Alex that he is a two-bit hack who should be parking cars at the stadium.

“Foods that begin with the letter ‘Q’”
Quince
Quesh
Quayle

Fuck you Alex!

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