BwareDWare94

Atlanta might be Chicago in the second round. We need to start talking about this team.

I picked Dallas stricly because of Austin and Dez who, by the end of the next season, I expect to be the top two WRs in the division. Forget Jackson. Forget Hicks. These two will light some shit up.

Why are people defending Marshall? He had it coming. We all know that. Come back down to earth, folks.

He's a thug. There's no half truth in that.

I smell the Hornets being Raided. 4-1 Lakers in 5.

You think every southerner is racist or what? I'm just saying, some of them country boys would kick his ass for hitting a woman. I'd love to see it.

LOLDolphinsfan This isn't about ALL men, it's about Brandon fucking Marshall and the fact that we know he beats his significant others. Should she have stabbed him? No, but should she have just taken it? No. In the end, he truly had it coming. Brandon Marshall is just another rich athlete with no brain. I'd like to see him get some lessons in manners from a southern country boy. Racist? No. True. Stop beating women.

Picking Cam Newton in the top 10 is a major mistake unless you've got a higher pick team willing to trade for him.

Well, the issue here isn't opinions. It's exposure. Most folks here aren't exposed to a lot of these greats, so they just pick who they know.

I'm factoring creative ability into it too. This isn't just technical skill. All of the bolded guitarists are more creative than the crossed out guitarists.

This is my last post on the subject. Jimi Hendrix 19 Eric Clapton 17 Jimmy Page 16 Eddie Van Halen 14 Kirk Hammett 9 Steve Vai 9 Buckethead 8 Frank Zappa 8 Jeff Beck 8 Tony Iommi 8 David Gilmour 7 Slash 7 Tom Morello 7 Alex Lifeson 6 Angus Young 6 Duane Allman 6 Keith Richards 6 Carlos Santana 5 Randy Rhodes 5 Billy Gibbons 4 Chuck Berry 4 Dimebag Darrell 4 Ritchie Blackmore 4 Stevie Ray Vaughan 4 Synyster Gates 4 B.B. King 3 Brian May 3 James Hetfield 3 Jeff Loomis 3 Joe Satriani 3 John Frusciante 3 John Petrucci 3 John Sykes 3 Mark Knopfler 3 Marty Friedman 3 Ted Nugent 3 Zack Wylde 3 Adrian Belew 2 Alex Laiho 2 CeCe DeVille 2 Dave Murray 2 Gary Rossington 2 Glenn Tipton 2 Jerry Garcia 2 John 5 2 Kerry King 2 Michael Angelo Batio 2 Michael Schenker 2 Mick Mars 2 Mick Ronson 2 Nuno Bettancourt 2 Robert Fripp 2 Robin Trower 2 Walter Becker 2 Yngwie Malmsteen 2 Ace Frehley 1 Adam Jones 1 Adrian Vandenberg 1 Alex Skolnick 1 Dave Mustaine 1 Frank Marino 1 Gary Moore 1 J.J. Cale 1 Jerry Cantrell 1 Joe Perry 1 Johnny Greenwood 1 Johnny Winter 1 Kim Thayil 1 Leslie West 1 Mark Tremonti 1 Matt Bellamy 1 Michael Bloomfield 1 Neil Young 1 Pat Travers 1 Pete Townshed 1 Peter Green 1 Ravi Shankar 1 Robbie Robertson 1 Steve Hackett 1 Steve Howe 1 The Edge 1 Tommy Bolin 1 Uli Roth 1 Warren Haynes 1 Wolfgang Zenk 1 See, this is my problem with this tournament. I put slashes through inferior guitarists with more votes. Everybody bolded who's under the top 25 mark is more technically skilled and more creative than the slashed names. I bolded names that most folks would know, so they could look at it and realize, "Oh, shit. I can't believe I put 'Gates/Hammett' above 'Petrucci/Knopfler." Catch my drift?

A nasty fullback can make a running back. Granted, Foster's cutback runs aren't necessarily based on Leach's production, but they don't always run Foster that way. Leach is a monster, and great fullbacks aren't a dime a dozen.

Derrick Williams. Why is this a question? Whoever picks Kyrie Irving over him or Kemba Walker is going to regret it.

I just have 17" Compaq and it's perfect for what I do. Music and writing fiction. I don't game. The most I do online is facebook and TGP. I believe this is my exact model.

Bother me? Not so much. All I did, initially, was tell folks that he doesn't belong with the other names mentioned, and he doesn't. That's fact. Then you come in and throw blatant and unnecessary personal attacks my way while the only argument you can come up with is "Thats like, your opinion, man." I defended myself and my posts. Hitler? Muzak Kommandant? Yeah...that makes sense. :sarcasm: Are you a Republican? Because that was so fucking ridiculous it sounded like something you'd find in a right wing smear campaign, which is the only kind they run. Give my points a chance, and listen to those bands I mentioned. You'll see what I mean. You'll understand.

It's a little easier to follow in a Word document. Right now, he sounds arrogant, but I kinda just threw his traits out for the draft I just handed in without balancing him out. I made him look like a complete ass. I'll be working on that within a week. Thanks for the feedback.

The Last Cowboy The sound of the bar door closing returned Jake to the present. A waft of autumn air chilled the back of his neck as the warmth of the room returned to prominence. He noticed the absurd lightness of the bottle in his left hand and ordered a new Budweiser. The barmaid set the fresh bottle on a coaster, looked at Jake, and said, “That’ll be two seventy-five.†Jake smirked. “Come on, Steph. You say it like I don’t usually pay up.†“I’ve been out with you enough times to know how you handle your money.†His smirk became a smile. “I have a memory, you know. You had fun.†Before she could reply, the jukebox started up. Bass thumps and shitty rap lyrics. Jake tossed her four dollars, told her to keep the change, grabbed the remote for the jukebox which was sitting by the till, and pressed the “skip†button. The song stopped playing, and each set of eyes in the room turned to Jake. A young man in a Hollister shirt glared at him. “What the fuck did you stop my song for?†“Because that ain’t music.†Jake returned the glare. “You’re in a small town. We don’t play that kind of shit around here.†Jake watched as the young man sized him up, noticing Jake’s button-down T-shirt, cowboy boots, and powerful frame. The man realized he was in over his head and quietly resumed the conversation at his own table. The older patrons clapped in appreciation of Jake’s actions. He sat down, and the bar returned to its usual state. Jake grabbed his beer and took a long drink, closing his bloodshot eyes. When he opened them again, Steph was in front of him. She took the remote from him and set it under the bar. “Jake, you can’t do that.†Her long red hair and slender frame were captivating. “I know you don’t like that kind of music, but you have to take it with a grain of salt.†“Did you hear that fuckin’ song he tried to play?†He put his beer down as her hazel eyes looked straight into his own. “Alright. It’s been a rough week.†He paused. “I can’t get in to the field.†“I know it’s been raining,†she began. “Just keep your head up. Harvest will start up again before you know it.†She gave him a smile. “Thanks, Steph.†She walked away as a crack was heard on the pool table. Jake looked down the neck of his bottle before getting up and walking around the bar. He avoided the table by making his way to the jukebox. He pulled a single out his wallet. Three plays for a buck. He decided to play a tune by his favorite artist, Jamey Johnson. He picked “That Lonesome Song.†The country artist’s voice muted the conversational din with the first few lines of the song. That morning sun made its way through the windshield of my Chevrolet. Whiskey eyes and ashtray breath, on a chert rock gravel road. He turned to the pool table. Gary and Tony, his former classmates, were re-racking after a miscue on the break. Jake watched as Tony took the cue ball to the other end of the table and slammed it onto the felt. Jake balled his fists and approached the men. “Knock that shit off.†They were taken off guard. “Blow it out your ass, Jake.†Gary had never known when to keep his mouth shut. What the hell did I do last night? That’s the story of my life. Like tryin’ to remember words to a song nobody wrote. Jake took a deep breath. “Every time you slam that damn ball on the table, you dent the slate. So every time you miss a shot and blame the table roll, it’s actually your own fuckin’ fault.†His words brought Gary around the table. “Leave us alone, man. We’re not doing anything wrong,†the man said as he pointed at Jake, hitting him in the chest with his index finger. Jake shoved him. He watched Gary wind up and take a swing. Jake caught the man’s wrist, stopping it in place. He used his thumb to press into the inside of Gary’s arm. Jake had total control. Gary sank to his knees as Jake’s fingers, strengthened by years of manipulating barbed wire fences, pressed further and further into the man’s wrist. Jake felt the cartilage under his thumb, relishing the fact that he could do serious damage if he wanted to. He looked down at Gary. “Don’t even pretend that you don’t know what I could do to you.†He watched Gary grit his teeth, saw him slam his eyes shut and hold his breath. “Get the hell out of this bar. Take Tony with you.†“Yes, sir.†The two men grabbed their things and left. Warren, the bar owner, approached Jake. “You can’t do this to me. I don’t care if they dent my table,†he said. “I rarely get this many customers during the week. Don’t scare them outta here.†Jake regained control of his temper. “I’m sorry, Warren. I’ll buy a round for the place to make up for it.†Warren tried to tell him that it wasn’t necessary, but Jake did it anyway. He returned to the jukebox, needing more of Jamey’s honesty, and began searching for a song to pick. It’s a south bound train. It’s a whistle in the wind. Ain’t no one that’ll care where I been. I’m hummin’ on that lonesome song again. *** If the rain would end, so could Jake’s harvest season. But it wouldn’t. Every other day, water would appear between his pinto bean rows. Every week the river would rise and ravage the line fences of his pasture, where his cattle needed a month more to graze. The rain had also prevented him from hauling all his bales. They sat in highway ditches, alfalfa fields, and on the stubble of the wheat he’d managed to thrash. The workload piled up as water pooled over the flat land. At the moment, Jake was fixing his chisel-plow. Each shank had to be rotated so he’d be able to tear up all the wheat stubble when the fields dried up. Arlen, his hired man, had put new shanks on three weeks ago. Each shank required two bolts and two nuts and Arlen had used bolts that were a half inch too long. Threads stuck out a half an inch past each nut and the rocky ground had stripped the threads on nearly every bolt. Jake had to use a hacksaw to remove most of the shanks before he could rotate them, turning a half hour job into three grueling hours. He was angry. The rain didn’t help. The day had brought scattered showers, but the sky remained grey throughout. The sun was an illusion. *** “Jake, what's wrong?" He could hear concern in Steph’s voice. “Nothing...nothing," he uttered as his breathing picked up. He stood up, shaking, and walked away from the bar. He walked to the jukebox, put in another dollar, and selected “The Last Cowboy," another song by Jamey Johnson. He walked back to the bar without filling his remaining credits. He took a seat and contemplated another drink. It would be his ninth in two and a half hours. And ever since Waylon, I can’t find no one to buy into sad country songs. A couple of false cowboys were ordering their drinks. Their words were sloppy and hard to understand. Jake could see that Steph was having a hard time taking their orders. He heard her decide to start simple. She asked them their names. The one in blue was Todd, the one in red was Tucker. “Twins?" Jake asked, interrupting. The men looked at him curiously. “No, just good friends,†said Todd. “Those are goofy fuckin' names." Jake feigned a drink from his empty bottle. Tell me who’s gonna ride us away when the last cowboy is gone. “Jake,†Steph whispered. He looked at her and she mouthed the word “stop.†“What do you boys do?†“We farm,†said Tucker. “Where at?†“By…uh…Lankin.†Jake could see the discomfort in Todd’s eyes. He could tell that they knew he was on to them. “If you’re farmers, why aren’t there any scuffs in your boots?†Jake lifted his own into the air, revealing countless scuffs and scratches in the leather. He pointed at his torn jeans and ragged shirt. “You don’t farm without roughin’ your clothes up a bit.†“Look, man,†began Tucker. “We’re just trying to have fun.†His drunken words infuriated Jake. “You two can leave and find a place to change…†Jake set his bottle on the bar. “…Or I’m kickin’ your asses.†He gave them a stern look. Tell me who’s gonna ride them away when the last cowboy is gone. Jake watched Tucker nearly fall to the floor as the man slid off of his seat. “Fuck you. We’ll stay here and do what we want.†He stood there, swaying, clearly unable to handle his liquor. “Your choice, boys,†said Jake. He got up from his own bar stool. His song was ending. Does everything good have to change til the last cowboy is gone? Apparently the men liked their odds two-on-one. Jake stepped to his left as Todd threw the first punch. Jake wound up and his fist crashed into the man’s nose, sending Todd to his knees. Jake saw Tucker advancing and brought his foot into the air and drove his boot into the man’s stomach. He watched Tucker fall to the ground and throw up on to the rough tile floor. Jake took some ragged breaths and straightened, turning away from the smell of vomit. He saw that Todd was back on his feet, a pool stick in hand. *** Jake’s old Ford was a monster. The 1975 model had been running as long as he remembered. When his father died, he’d fixed the body and replaced the clutch. He had the old beast out on the highway, headed into town. He’d realized that Arlen’s mistake was partly due to his low stock of nuts and bolts. He looked out the windshield and had to brake for a deer. He heard an odd sound when he first touched the pedal. The old beast was talking to him again, whining about something. The truck began to slow, but he felt his brakes give way, and had to push the pedal to the floor to stop the vehicle. Dammit, he thought. He got out and popped the hood, praying it was just a blown brake line, but discovered that his calipers had blown apart. “I don’t have the money to fix this right now,†he mumbled under his breath. He slammed the hood shut walked to the back of the truck. He opened the tailgate and grabbed the crow bar in the box. He swung it up into the air and brought it down hard on the tailgate. It barely made a dent in the solid metal. He hit it again. *** The night had progressed with no further incident. It was getting late for a farmer on a weekday. The ten o’clock news had finished, forecasting more rain for the coming days. Jake decided he’d close down the bar with the local drunks, but he’d definitely be up in the morning before many of them were aware of their own identities. The door opened again, but Jake didn’t bother checking who entered. He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Two men walked to the other side of the horseshoe bar. They were each wearing a Stetson hat, button-down shirt, tombstone-sized belt buckle, and cowboy boots. This wouldn’t have been an issue for Jake, but there were no imperfections. Not a scuff on the boots, tear in the jeans, stain on the shirts, or frayed edge on the hats. The men were faux cowboys, and Jake was beside himself with anger. It was clearly a ploy with the intent of getting laid, but neither man had a woman in sight. Jake attempted to control himself. They wouldn’t allow it. Both men were drunk and obnoxious. They were louder than anybody else in the bar. They were abusing the image that he was born into, the image that he adored. Jake had laughed off the presence of such men before, but it was the wrong night, at the wrong time, and the men were in the wrong place. *** Jake glared at Todd, daring him to swing the pool stick. The man’s nose was bleeding, and he was clearly at a last resort. He advanced, and Jake stepped back. He watched Todd begin to lift the stick into the air. Jake grabbed a bar stool, lifted it above his head, and used the seat to break the momentum of Todd’s swing. The stick collided with the more solid object and snapped in two. Jake tossed the stool aside and ripped the jagged pool stick out of Todd’s hands. He shoved the man into the bar, wound up, and threw a nasty haymaker that sent Todd to the floor. Jake placed his boot on the man’s chest, pinning him on his back. “You done yet, boy?†“Yeah,†gasped Todd. “Yeah…We’ll go.†He was breathing heavily through the blood pouring out of his nostrils. Jake went down on a knee and used his index finger to jab the man in the chest. “I ever see you in here again, the same thing’ll happen.†He waited for his words to sink in. “If you want to pretend to be a cowboy, stay out of small town bars. You’ll run into more country boys like me.†He stood back up. “Now you know what happens when you get in over your head.†Todd and Tucker collected their things and left in a hurry. The door closed and the room was silent. Jake walked over to the jukebox for the third time, noticed his unused credits, and selected Jamey Johnson’s “Playin’ the Part.†The outlaw’s voice filled the bar once more. END It's a little rough in this format, but just give it a try. Opinions, please.

DMac, I cannot find Austin Pettis on your board anywhere...is this intentional? I doubt he slips that far.

Argument of the year: That's like, just your opinion, man. Music is debatable...from a talent perspective? Really? I mean...it's not like talent equates to overall technical skill and creative ability, right? Not a chance. Not a chance. No...it's all about who's on the radio and who the kids in black like! That guy from Avenged is writing sloppy solos and ripping Metallica riffs? ZOMG he must be the best ever! Expand your musical horizons. Then we'll talk. Suggested Bands: Dream Theater Dark Tranquillity Pagan's Mind Symphony X Darkest Hour Here's a small list of 5, all with better, more creative guitarists than Brian Haner

Heartache by Jamey Johnson

I didn't neg your post, man. I negged the people who left Romo out of the top 10, but had those three in it. Long as his name's in there, I don't mind. I do find it anti-Cowboy to leave him out when he clearly is a top 10 QB.

You can attempt to make a case for Ryan, but he's done worse in the post-season and Freeman's only had one really good year, but still showcased inaccuracy. We don't even know if Freeman will play at all like he did last year. He could fall off the map like David Garrard did after that three INT season.

I negged two of you because Flacco, Freeman, and Ryan are not better than Romo, yet you two had them on the list and NO Romo. Stop being anti-Cowboy. I'm not trying to be a homer, but it's not exactly a secret that Tony Romo is a top 10 NFL quarterback.

1. Tom Brady (not debatable) 2. Philip Rivers 3. Aaron Rodgers 4. Ben Roethlisberger 5. Peyton Manning 6. Tony Romo 7. Drew Brees 8. Matt Schaub 9. Josh Freeman 10. Matt Ryan

LOL Mainstream media outlets? Not to mention two of them being readers polls! My God, you really are dense. Readers polls? Are you serious? Most people who are subscribed to guitar magazines are 13-16 year old kids who aren't aware the that the likes of John Petrucci exist. They just look through the names and see "ZOMG IT'S SYNESTER GATES!" and vote him #1 because he's the only name they recognize. These things don't mean anything, you fucking clown. I'm talking about technical ability, and he doesn't even make it into the top 50-100. Or even close. I guarantee you I could name at least 50 guitarists who are undeniably more talented than Synester Gates. Just say it. I'll fucking do it. You're a moron. You just can't accept the fact that your favorite band's guitarist isn't one of the best in the world.