Honestly, if you (1) went to Syracuse, (2) played lacrosse, (3) looked like a douchy frat asshole, and (4) were named "Hayes McGinley," how could you not totally expect to get the Jesus Fucking Christ beat out of you at least once in your life by a guy named Big Jim Whitcomb.

Here it probably means spike it into the turf or something. In the U.K., do nothing with it for 90 minutes.

Edit: I blew the joke. See below.

Part of me really wants to know what "football his face" means. Punt? Kick? Extra Point? So many options really.

I feel like if you get hit by somebody named "Big Jim", you're gonna have a bad time.

I don't know the details but given how this country treats black people I don't find it implausible that we are missing nothing and there is no in between.

This goes beyond “not being a nice person.” He assaulted a producer for the show for 30 seconds. No matter how much money you bring in, workplace violence tends to get people fired.

Here comes the lunatic fans who are going blame everyone but Clarkson. Reading the comments yesterday was disturbing.

if you don't see the difference you're impressively dumb

if I get the fuck out, can I get some ham? Will it be kosher?

I know you're a troll, but I am tickled at the idea that you derived your burner name from the last BCO Post on Kitchenette.

Will there be 38 divorces in 38 countries?

A walk-in 40... I'm crying. I'm crying for the server. I'm crying for the host and bussers who had to put that table together. How does a group of 40 people not have a single person in it that says MAYBE THIS IS A BAD IDEA AND MAYBE THIS IS RUDE.

It's human nature to take the shortsighted view and subconsciously fear that someone else's success must come at one's own expense, as if all of life were a zero-sum game —...

As though Mark Zuckerberg is obliged to tip you more than I am even if we receive the same service:...

I've never given a thought to Mario Testino before, but he dared to insult Dev Patel, aka Anwar from "Skins?!" Unforgivable.

Sometimes Twitter IS perfection.

Actually, the never-ending string of 20 year-old models whom my middle-aged son keeps bringing home would probably worry me more than a grown woman who has been extremely successful in her career.