Topics of the week:
- The Superbowl and why it’s not too lame
- James Stewart
- The Phoenix SX
- More Random Bullshit
Topics of the week:
- The Superbowl and why it’s not too lame
- James Stewart
- The Phoenix SX
- More Random Bullshit
Shorter show this week. I things to not do and people to make fun of.
- Why Supermini parents need to teach their kids to get out of the way
- Dungey’s podium streak
- Why America needs to adopt the word “cunt” into everyday vocab
- A non-racist explanation of why it’s good to be a black racer at Oakland
- Cole Seely’s results
- Cooper Webb’s excellence
- Eli Tomac’s sicko line in the rhythm section
This is the type of shit that I think of on a weekly basis…
Green Flag: Total nerd, and not necessary at all. Literally the guy who runs up to you and yells in your face that everything is alright. Yeah thanks chief, I fucking know. How about you learn how to give us information that is actually necessary?
Red Flag: The guy who brings everything to a screeching halt out of nowhere. Everything is cause for emergency for this motherfucker. Get a bloody nose and the music immediately shuts down while this guy gets an ambulance en route. You know that he means well, but every time he shows up, you think “Really? Again? What the fuck, man.”
Red Cross Flag: Red cross on the flag, but as a person, square as they come. Total PC BRO if you have ever seen one. Wants everyone to be safe, but break one rule and he will crucify you. Definitely cannot stand people being marginalized for their beliefs or ethnic background. He is also the guy that flips the table the second you don’t get every girl in the place to sign a consent form.
Yellow Flag: Definitely a chick. She always yells at you to be careful, that you are going to hurt yourself. On the one hand, you are glad that she is there, but she always gets in your way. You are always trying to get something done, and then she pops in to warn you that you might hurt yourself. Bitch, just let me do my pong dunk off the roof and become a YouTube legend, ok?
Blue Flag: He’s moody as fuck; an entirely polarizing character. One day you love him, one day you hate him. He’s a wingman on Friday, and a cock block on Saturday. It’s because he’s always trying to help someone, but often at the expense of someone else. He’s pretty much Donald Trump – willing to throw the weak under the bus for the sake of the fit, but is often misdirected and has a stupid slab of yellow (toupee) that just refuses to shut up.
Black Flag: The enforcer. Step out of line, and you are dealing with this guy. Usually sits in the corner and just watches everything from the shadows, but when someone is getting too rowdy, he bounces them out before they can say “Debo”. In one fell swoop, he can knock you the fuck out.
White Flag: The homie. He is your best friend. The guy who lets you know that everything is going to be good, and motivates you to accomplish things. He’s the dude who sees the fat friend who’s telling your girl that it’s time to leave and hops on the grenade so you can make it to the finish line.
Checkered Flag: Your mixed race buddy, who is throwing the ripping after-party. You show up and are immediately glad you know him. He’s got refreshments waiting, and the girls are on their way. You showed up, have had a long night, and as far as he is concerned, your job is done. So now just relax and grab a beer.
I’m back, bitches. From the ashes of the shitty first BRO podcast four years ago comes the phoenix that is the new and improved BRO Show. I went super basic on this podcast, meaning that at least for these initial episodes, it is just going to be me talking about dirtbikes and such. First of all, I wanted something that I controlled entirely, because that’s awesome. Second, I wanted to use a style that lent itself to short shows, because that’s what I’m going for. I don’t feel like many people have time for three hour shows, so here we have it. 30 minutes of pure BRO ranting, and maybe offending a couple of people.
Topics for Show #1:
- Quads, and why we can be friends
- San Diego Supercross
- A random girl’s answer to MFK – Dungey, Roczen, Canard
- The Boston accent Jimmy Decotis race report
- Why getting pissed about aggressive passing is for pussies
- The Team “I Try Too Hard” riders and why they need to chill.
If you want to download to iTunes, click here.
This morning, some guy wrote this article on Vurb about the greatest fictional motocross racers ever. Phenomenal stuff, and it got my brain turning. Luckily in Hollywood, a movie is nothing without some often-conniving female character to throw the male lead off his game, because nothing rattles a man like the potential of squirting throat yogurt in an eager, self-lubricating cave of excellence. So I decided to break down some of the best track snacks that Hollywood has ever given us:
Her name is fucking Piper, for god’s sake. Like, this conversation 100% happened when the dudes were writing this movie – “Guys, what do we name the girl who rides and fucks the renegade brother?” “Ha, we should just call her Piper, that would be hilarious.” “OMG, how funny would that be?” And voila, we have Piper, the girl who pipes. She can actually ride, and backflip which is a completely new level of absurdity. Some people seem to be of this weird mindset that if a girl can ride, she isn’t a moto ho. Obvious bullshit constructed by moto hoes to make them feel better. Piper sees the ne’er-do-well brother that rips and thinks “Yo, I’m gonna break me off a piece of that.” Moto ho, tramp-stamped and certified.
Absolute fucking legend, in every sense of the term. She had the good guy, then went for the bad guy. Why? Because she wanted to go somewhere. Pro ho mentality 101. This is the world I know, and these are the guys that rule it. Get with the gnarliest dude, and become queen of this Mad Max wasteland we call motocross. And, in a true testament to the writers’ know-how of motocross, Cindy turns out to be a total moron and her life sucks. She just sits there taking verbal abuse while she eats her shitty pizza and drinks her shitty Coors Lights and wishes she could either have a time machine or a Glock .45 to end her miserable existence.
No lie at all, that’s what that girl’s character is listed as in the credits of the movie. Look it up (don’t look it up, I’m lying). Her part in the actual movie is extraordinarily miniscule, but she was a much more significant character in the subtext, which I read like a book – chick goes to Channing “Hey, I’m such a fan, will you sign my tits?” Channing goes, “Of course, anything for the fans.” Channing signs, then goes straight in for the motorboat, to gauge her reaction. She giggles. We are all systems go. Channing invites her to come back to the rig after the race. She says “Sure, as long as you win .” Channing goes out and wins, thus defeating the Carlyles and setting himself up as the alpha at this point in the story. (Full disclosure: I don’t actually remember which part of the movie this happens at, so I could be completely mixed up as to whether Channing Tatum wins that race or not. I could go do the research and figure it out in about 10 minutes, but that would require watching some of that movie, which I’m not going to do. Sorry, BROs)
She starts out as easily one of the worst characters in the history of American cinema. A team owner’s daughter that isn’t ass-over-tea-kettle for the 250 Pro champ? Ridiculous. Just spitting in the face of the viewer. But then she falls into a much more believable character: He takes to an N’Sync concert, she fucks him. Then a French rider comes over, and girl who “doesn’t date riders” is on his baguette in about three seconds. It seems a bit strange that she’d go for a 125 rider over a 250 rider, but these things do happen. While it may seem like Dean Talon is a little bitch and lost her, he winds up snagging the other girl, anyway, dyke haircut and all. That dude is the covert pimp of the entire movie. Two teams fighting over him, two girls, and a 250 Pro title. Absolute champion.
A few of you know that I spent the summer back in my homeland of New England, catching up with the Northeast lifestyle and reminding myself why people from there are better than other people. Great times were had and the world started to make sense again escaping the hustle of southern California. But the journey wasn’t all great. Knowing that New England had spent the winter buried under about 50 feet of sweet Colombian white, I figured that I’d be running laps around all my amigos. Keep in mind, New England has some rippers that you never hear much about, since the sport is essentially landlocked out there. Sure, everyone knows Jimmy D, but guys like Robby Marshall and Mike Sottile and all the Jones Bros can ride the shit out of a dirtbike. Still, I figured that I’d come back and be showing them what’s up, because I’m the shit, and it’s time everyone else fucking knows it. Unfortunately, such was not the case. They are all still faster than me. Like, by a lot. I grew sad, each day at the track yet another reminder that even though I have been riding year-round while these fuckboys have been drinking beers and planning on who they’d eat first should a Donner Party situation come about, they are still faster than me. What the fuck, Jesus? Why do you torment me so? Alas, I am resilient, and I have managed to come to terms with my status in life. Since I know that many of you deal with the same pain, I have decided to document just how I did it.
Hang out with slower friends
I think this is super obvious, but go get some slower friends for your roster. It works off the exact same principle of girls who hang with ugly friends They don’t have to be the best man at your wedding or the arbitrator at your divorce, but just have them around. I got this guy, let’s call him Matt. He’s a ginger AND shit on a dirtbike. I mean, the universe really hates this fucker. His style on a bike screams “I’ve pissed myself on the shortbus a few times.” Great to have around, because I look like Ricky Carmichael’s and Kevin Windham’s moto-inclined love-baby around this dude. So go get yourself a Matt.
Have more Twitter/Instagram followers than them, and constantly remind everyone
The basic bitch rule: Twitter/Instagram is life, and even though having a following on social media means nothing for 99.9% of users on there, it is a huge judgment factor of your value as a human being. Beat me by 30 seconds that moto? Doesn’t matter, I have more Twitter followers than you, chief. If my Twitter following equated to dollars, I’ve got like way more theoretical money than you. You can also talk about how many chicks you have banged, provided that you know the number is more than theirs. It’s how I win arguments with 14-year olds every single time – “Whatever BRO, I’ve fucked more chicks than you.” Check and mate.
Blame the bike
An absolute classic, dating back to the era of the Roman Empire when chariot racers had “mechanical issues”. It is the absolute beauty of being in a motorsport – the machine can always take the blame. My bike isn’t as fast as yours; my suspension wasn’t working right; my throttle literally will not turn as far as yours. Boom, reputation salvaged. And don’t worry, no one will figure out that you actually just lack talent and the ability to cope with that lack of talent.
People say cheaters never win, but those people are the ones that think the world is filled with gumdrops and happiness, and that goodwill towards mankind is all that we need to survive. Total lunatics. Get out there, and start cutting the track. It’s really easy to do in practice, and during the stopwatch nationals that you and your friends have, you will be miraculously chopping 10 seconds a lap off your times and have all of your friends with their jaws on the ground while you walk away with their bitch. Just like that, alpha male status retained. If you’re in a race, just wait for a back section of the track to make your move. Happens all the time and the officials are always too occupied with which flag to wave to see anything.
Prologue: Another one that I’m a broken record about…Probably the only time I am not for the American version is with the title of MXdN. Fuck that Motocross of Nations garbage (pronounced “garbaj”). It is and always will be Motocross des Nations. And that’s “des” pronounced like “day”. If you pronounce it “dez”, I want to stick a ka-nife in your ignorant fucking chest. Ok, on to the blog.
I’ve always thought the Motocross des Nations was the coolest race. Probably because it’s the one race that combines two of my favorite pastimes: motocross, and rooting for America/hating place that aren’t America. At MXdN, I’m not xenophobic; I’m a goddamn patriot.
Let’s just Tarantino this and start with the end: USA did not win. It’s the fourth straight year that we have shown up and not taken the trophy, our worst losing streak since the first year we won the race in 1981 (since USA didn’t show up in 2001 or 2004). But I’m not jumping off any bridges anytime soon, so sorry to spoil your party, commies. This year was different; different from the shellacking we got in Belgium, and the losses in Germany and Latvia, too. This was the best American team we have seen in a very long time. They rode like champions, and deserve to be champions.
USA scored 16 points for second place, which has not happened in I don’t even know how long. 16 points would have been good for the win at every MXdN from 2006-2014. The last team to score better than that was USA in 2005, at the same track, with 15 points. I said it before that 9 times out of 10, this team with that performance would win. This just happened to be that one stupid, idiot outlier.
Somehow, France took a break from their crepes and cigarettes to score 14 points, the best Motocross des Nations performance since 1996, when USA won on 9 points. But I don’t know if there has ever been an MXdN where two teams performed so well. It’s almost always a matter of limiting the disasters at this race – with three riders, one suffering through two motos against 450s on a 250F, having five moto finishes in strong position is a hugely tall order.
I knew coming into this race that France was the favorite, so I had actually made piece with Team USA not winning before the race started. Not that I didn’t believe in them, but with Paulin, Musquin and Febvre on home soil, a win honestly didn’t seem possible. When Barcia won the first moto and Martin scored a fifth, my patriot boner definitely started to rise. The chants were beginning in my head, whispers at first, but growing louder: “usa…usa…Usa…USa…USA…USA!”
But then came Febvre. Having just watched him run circles around Glen Helen, the only Euro not only near our boys, but passing them, I knew he was essentially unstoppable. And he was, although Cooper’s valiant effort in the Open+MX2 moto deserves a medal of honor. When he went for that block pass, I almost passed out from blood rushing out of my head to lower portions of my body. That was not a dirty move; that was the move of a young man who wants to bring gold home to his country. A lot of the Euros are all butt-hurt about block passing. Eat shit, that’s racing. He didn’t deliberately go for Febvre’s wheel; he just went for the block. Any real racer understands that. Webby, the stars and stripes has your back, kid.
My hat goes off to all of Team USA and Team France. Those were the statistically-best performances at the MXdN in this decade. Barcia wins MXGP, Martin takes a 5-5 on the 250F, and Webb jumps up to the 450 and sticks a wheel in on the world champion. Hold your heads high and your middle fingers up, BROs, for you are the best Team USA we have had in the last four years.
This post is going to be a little different. Just a moment ago, I was editing a short piece about Ricky Carmichael for META Volume 004 (Go subscribe, you cheap fuck). The words that accompany just about any article about RC were of course featured – “greatest of all time.” That statement is still powerful for me, because I believe it. I sincerely believe that Ricky Carmichael was the greatest motocross racer of all time. I started getting all nostalgic and shit, reminiscing on the first time I ever saw RC ride, and I decided that I wanted to start writing about my experiences with some of the sport’s greats as a young fan, attending the Southwick Nationals of years past, when I was nobody, just a quiet young kid who was afraid to talk to people, rather than a slightly loud gentleman who is still afraid to talk to people.
The first time I ever saw Ricky Carmichael in person was in 1998, his second year as a professional, and the first year I ever attended a pro race. Southwick was an absolute cesspool that year, still I think the muddiest I ever saw that track. It was also that year that Carmichael’s bike shit the bed in moto one, handing the win to Dowdy. I ran back to the pits as RC and crew returned to the truck before the checkered flag even flew. I remember I was basically the only one standing at the rig, and Carmichael was pissed. I watched him walk into the truck and whip his Bell into the wall as he walked out of my sight, white with anger (and genetics, of course). I didn’t think he was a cry-baby; he was just an 18-year old who was pissed off. I could see that losing just that one moto was the worst thing in the world to him.
I remember Eric Johnson saying in Great Outdoors 2, from the 2003 season, that no one could beat Ricky Carmichael at Southwick. He was right. I never saw Ricky Carmichael get beat straight-up at Southwick, because it never happened. Even back in my preteen years, I would watch RC in practice and think to myself “That is the fastest Southwick rider on the planet. He’s right there, I can practically touch him.” To a kid like me, who rode a shitload of laps at that track, he was a god. I distinctly remember watching him effortless rip practice to shreds in 2001, his last year on Kawasaki, and thinking, “Remember this; burn this moment in your brain. This is more important than the other crap you care about.”
1999 was the first and only time that RC spoke a word to me. He was signing autographs at the PC rig. I was 10 years old, a short and crazy-shy 10-year old, at that. My dad pushed to the front of the crowd with me, pointing to me and yelling, “Hey Ricky, big fan right here.” Carmichael noticed, and looked me dead in the eyes saying, “Oh yeah? Awesome!” That was it; three words, four syllables. But it didn’t matter. To me at the time, it was pure, resolute poetry. I had a Pro Circuit hat that RC signed, one that I wore for probably a year straight after that. No matter how jaded I’ve become from seeing and hearing things behind the scenes, those are my moments with Ricky Carmichael that I always remember. And being at the beer tent at Loretta’s yelling at hot moms with him standing right next to me. That was tight, too.
I’ve got several more of these with different pro riders that I will write when I fucking feel like it.
Just over a week ago, BRO returned to the race track after what has felt like far too long not being at the track for a good Saturday and Sunday of racing and kicking beers. How did I do? Let’s just say that you have no way of proving that the Yamaha bosses didn’t call me up and offer me a factory ride on the spot. Those are just facts, let’s move on. This blog is about something else, something that I had spent far too much time not thinking about recently. Cruising the pits after the motos was nostalgic as I watched so many young riders gloriously pursuing the one thing that matters to them more than racing: getting laid.
The doghouse/starter’s box
One of my personal favorites is the doghouse at the start. Not all tracks come equipped with the fully-enclosed setup, but in your travels you are most likely to encounter one. It’s a great spot, albeit relatively cramped. Pretty much guaranteed to be standing, so cardio endurance is going to be essential. But you race motocross, so you should have that covered unless you suck. If you can’t handle fucking in the doghouse, then you should not be racing moto, chief.
On the track
A staple of some major races stateside, fucking on the track is as American as apple pie and complaining about immigrants. As usual, discretion is key; while banging on the spectator jump is sweet, you can’t do it in broad daylight. This is where all those hours of Call of Duty will be valuable – stay out of sight, especially should the authorities roll through. Pick your spot, and be fairly quick about it. That’s pretty much standard issue for fucking at the track – it’s got to be a fast endeavor, so leave your stallion moves in the motorhome, and #VivaLaTTF.
I said “the restaurant” as an umbrella term – it basically means any standing structure actually at the track. Many facilities have food stands, restaurants, ice cream joints, meth labs, etc. Now, unless your track owners are nice and careless, those buildings are probably locked. While we all know how vehemently opposed I am to sneaking into places at racetracks, if you have to do it, you have to do it. Nothing says “good fucking” like a crowbar and ski masks. Fact.
In your competition’s motorhome
Are you down with OPP? If not, you should not be reading this blog, and I hate you. Of course, it’s possible to fuck in your main competition’s rig without it being his girl or his mom or something, but that would only taste slightly as sweet. Regardless, the whole idea of this bold move is that your competition needs to be preoccupied with something, ideally a moto. Maybe he is riding 250 today and you’re just in 450? Perfect, a solid 20 minutes of uninterrupted free time to make some nasty things and juices happen. Just make sure that his bike is dialed before that moto; worst case scenario, he grenades the motor and irately returns to the rig to find you pubes deep in his lady/mom. That’s an awkward convo that we all want to avoid.
On a bike
Obviously, you can do this just about anywhere, but at the track is so much sweeter. Just exercise some self-awareness when doing it – are you the end all, be all moto casanova? Then maybe on the bike is not for you. And don’t try it while actually riding the bike. That is some double black diamond/Keanu in The Matrix type shit. There’s no need to be a hero, because you’re already fucking the girl. Literally all of your motivation in life leads to that, and you’re already doing it. Good job, BRO.
And to all of you ladies and gentlemen who have accomplished each of these at the track, I bow to you. Remember that song by Nas, “The World is Yours”? It’s about you.
So much LOL happening right now. I am super excited about this video, for multiple reasons. First of all, this is a just outcome for any man who takes a selfie. Men should never take selfies, ever. Yes, I have done it before, but usually to make a funny snapchat video/I’m trying to convince a girl to do sex to me. But I will gladly sacrifice those if it means an end to male selfies altogether. Even female selfies are way, WAY overdone, but at least some girls have the good sense to take them while naked/wearing yoga pants. Second, this guy is only doing this as a selfie because he thinks that will make him look cool. Like “Oh BRO, I wasn’t on board with this high five thing, but since you’re doing it while taping yourself AND looking at the camera, I am all in. That shit’s on fleek.” No dude, you just suck; you’re the friend who doesn’t ride dirtbikes and still has nothing better to do than go to the track and be annoying. And now you’re wearing a 250F like it’s a parrot on your shoulder. Have fun with that skidplate. Jesus took the handlebars and guided that thing right into your shot, so I hope you’re happy.
I’ve never understood the fascination with selfies. I feel like people who take them are just trying to convince themselves and the world around them that they are doing more than they are actually doing, just like girls who take pictures of themselves doing yoga at the beach. Rad, you’re at the beach and the sun is setting, and you are standing on one leg while holding your other foot in the air, just like every single white girl before you. Or maybe you are hiking and you found a rock. Again, you are not actually doing much, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but you are trying to convince yourself that you are a super active person and not boring or basic, desperately so, I might add. This guy pretty much realized, “You know what? I didn’t do shit today, like have fun or get a job, so I’ll just take this stupid fucking video of myself being stupid.” Just keep in mind that if you have to take photos of yourself, there’s a good chance it’s because no one else on the planet wants to take a photo of you and your ugliness.