Labels: Bandwagon Burt
By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock
Nike (SWOOSH!) says I am a WITNESS, but if I was called to testify, the prosecution would be very disappointed, cuz I ain't seen NOTHING from LeBron James!
I've got my right hand on the Bible and I solemnly swear that Mr. French-For-The-Bron has not made a single shot since this round of the playoffs began! OBJECTION! No, better yet, REJECTION -- as in the Cleveland playoff chances! Have you EVER SEEN LEBRON SO BAD? He's pleading NO CONTEST.
Someone tell the people to stop smoking at the Boston Garden! It's so hazy!
SMACK THAT GAVEL, JUDGE, and declare your verdict: LeBron is past his prime! That's right, it's over. The guy is just too old now, I mean LOOK AT HIM, HE'S FORTY and has all that chest hair and it's somebody else's time now. THIS IS MY TESTIMONY. I SWEAR TO TELL THE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.
I tell you what I am a WITNESS for -- CHRISTOPHER PAUL! He's amazing! When does he get a multi-gajillion dollar Nike contract and a bunch of crazy shoes? He's the GREATEST POINT GUARD EVER, according to some former player on ESPN, and he's got the Spurs on the ropes in the West. And who cares about the Eastern Conference anyway? As they say in court, the East is IMMATERIAL EVIDENCE -- cannot be admitted into court! It's all about the WILD WILD WESTERN.
King James can't be king of the court (HAHA, DOUBLE MEANING) if Paul is in session. He would be MVP if not for Kobe-Won-Kinobe (STAR WARS REFERENCE! -- Kobe has the FORCE!), and LeBron is just some guy on some irrelevant team. I PLEAD THE FIFTH! I MOVE FOR RECESS. v
Labels: Marv Blackstone
Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief
God damn it, A-Rod.
I've spent the last several years defending you against critics, telling them that they had you pegged all wrong. I said they couldn't possibly know you. They don't know how you tick.
But still, you kept doing things to embarrass yourself. And I kept defending you.
But damn it, man. Passing out during the birth of your kid? What the hell? That's the last straw. You're dead to me.
See, I'm not sure you're aware of this, but there is a thing called public relations. It helps control how you are viewed in the public eye. Your image.
When you slap at Bronson Arroyo's glove, or talk about how you and Derek Jeter don't sleep over anymore, or get caught hanging around with burly strippers, or pass out during fucking childbirth, it hurts your image.
LeBron James understands this. His handlers carefully control his image and his likeness. He's a brand right now. When people think of LeBron James, they think of a cool badass who dominates the game. When they think of you, they picture a pretty boy passed out on a tile floor while his wife gives birth.
You and LeBron both play your sports at incredibly high levels. So why the difference in public perception?
Because you suck balls at public relations.
Back in the 1980s, during a brief respite from journalism, I worked in the PR world. I had just been fired from the San Jose Mercury News for stealing the break-room fridge, and was looking for a new gig. Thanks to an old connection, I landed at Nike.
At the time, Nike was known as a running shoe company. That was their niche. But I barged in and told Nike that no one gave a shit about Steve Prefontaine and running. They nearly threw me out, but then I told them -- sign Michael Jordan. Sign that rookie from North Carolina and let's build a shoe for him.
They listened.
So we created the Air Jordan line. In fact, I designed the first shoe. I decided that Spike Lee was the perfect complement for Jordan's first television commercials. I said we should pony up the cash to get these ads on prime-time TV.
The ads were a huge hit. Kids loved them, and begged for the shoes. I remember a meeting I had with him, where I told him he needed to keep his image squeaky clean. And if he did, parents would embrace him as a role model for their kids.
He listened, and the Jordan brand took off. The man knew how to market himself. He was savvy. People adored him. Eventually, the man became the second recognizable face in America, behind Jesus Christ.
All because of me, really.
But that's beside the point. The point is that you, A-Rod, need to get some PR help. I'm available, should you need my services. I can also negotiate deals for you, cook great Lebanese food, and make balloon animals that look like genitalia. Contact me for an all-inclusive package.
Remember "Be Like Mike?" That was my idea. And really, who would actually want to be like A-Rod at this point?
Stop looking like a douchebag, you douchebag. Get an image.
Call Marv today!
Labels: DeJuan C3P0
DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Are you a hippy? If so, you're probably damn annoying.
Let me give you some advice, hippy. Stay out of San Francisco.
Bitches, none of those tooty-fruities in the Golden Gate City want any more hippies in their village, cuz Barry Zito has ruined the fun for everyone. Dawg, it is cute and adorable that you're a zen master and wakeboarder and guitarist and shit when you're also throwing the craziest curveball in baseball. But when you're grooving 84 mile-per-hour slowpitch softballs, nobody wants to hear about your inner damn Buddha.
The Giants should probably stop dealing with Barrys altogether, my bitches. They're going to let Dr. Z make his next start after sending his regularly-tattooed ass to the bullpen, even though he didn't stay long. None of this would really matter except for those 7 years and 126 million dollars hanging out on an official piece of paper locked somewhere in some secret vault, probably in some Hindu temple or voodoo cabin.
I wonder if Brian Sabean and Matt Millen hang out once a year for a shitty GM's luncheon. They can invite that guy who runs the Memphis Grizzlies, too, whoever that is. Dog, if I was that bad at my job, and still employed, I would have luncheons every damn day, and I would charge all goods on the company card. I'd still be doing that now, if my purchase of that pink disco ball hadn't raised a red flag on last month's credit card statement. Marv's gonna flip when he sees I bought an alligator before my privileges got revoked.
Bitches, Barry Zito is terrible. He's 0-6, has like a 7.53 ERA and his WHIP is like 1.93. Shit, give me a baseball and I'll keep two dudes off the basepaths per inning. Actually, that's probably a damn lie, but Barry Zito! Get your juju or jobu or whatever together. Jobu loves the curveball, I know that for sure.
Giants ain't even that bad! I mean, don't get me wrong, they're going to lose hella lot of games, but they're better than the two damn teams who tied for the Wild Card last year, and they're only a few Should Have Pitched Some Other Guy Instead of Barry Zito starts away from .500 and shit.
Let that be a lesson, that you can't trust hippies. Always on your damn lawn.
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Barbaro
Martyr
Dear fans,
I write to you once again on the anniversary of my big win in the Kentucky Derby. Can you believe two years have passed since then? Lots of exciting things have happened in my life since then, and I have been enjoying my time in Horse Heaven.
The newest development has been the arrival of a lovely lady in my life. I haven’t known Eight Belles for long, but already I feel a very strong connection. She’s a little younger, of course, but her energy and beauty has brought me great joy. We’re already talking about a life together, perhaps with runs through the endless Horse Heaven pastures, sipping from the gold-rimmed troughs that are filled with mint julep, and maybe even starting a family.
(I kind of missed out on all the fun breeding that was supposed to happen after winning the derby, and now I finally have my chance. Since, you know, there’s no gravity here, it’s kind of cooler than on Earth, anyway).
Otherwise, things are pretty much the same in Horse Heaven. I’ve been supping diligently on my personal salt lick, which remains the size of a 1971 Buick Skylark despite my many fervent lickings. I like to have friendly races with other past Derby winners, gliding effortlessly through the scientifically-perfected field turf. It looks like real grass (and TASTES like real grass), but it’s actually synthetic! Can you believe that?
I never have to sleep, so that gives me ample time to catch up on my favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts, and play a little fantasy football. Since we are granted omniscience here in Horse Heaven – and since you damn well better believe he’s on my fantasy team AND my real team – I can tell you whole heartedly that Marvin Harrison is innocent.
Also, I pee liberally.
I have been reading the Earth-bound newspapers since last Saturday’s race, and I see PETA is already calling for heads to roll. Eight Belles and I share a laugh about that a lot. I’m pretty sure they’re the only organization in the world that actually gets noticed every time they say something, just because what they have to say is so hilariously off base. The only way to make the crazy guy on the street corner stop begging for change is to ignore him. I wonder why America hasn’t done the same thing with PETA.
Seriously, if PETA hadn’t gotten everyone to think that animals had equal rights, maybe my long, agonizing drawn-out death would have been a little shorter. But that’s all water under the bridge. I’m in Horse Heaven now, and it rocks. Just the other day, I was talking to Secretariat about how crazy PETA was, and we both agreed that we could totally go for a gyro with pita bread.
Eight Belles says hi to everyone back home, and wants you to know that she wishes she could have won the race and made a statement for girl power everywhere. Keep your letters coming, little children!
Love,
Barbaro
Labels: Brenda McDonald
By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite
There's like, so many better ways to make a person sorry. Running over them with your car is so 1980s, back in like, the stone age when that pony-tailed man Steven Seagal was popular.
First of all, let me just say that I am deeply saddened that this woman was allowed to roam the streets without some kind of makeover. Like, you know those really old commercials that are like, "friends don't let friends drive drunk." Well, there's also like, "friends don't let friends look like dead witches and talk about the Yankees a lot." Like, that's so unflattering on a woman. And it hurts me that her friends didn't just stand up and say, "oh my God, Ivonne, you are hideous and bad in conversation. Let's go to the spa and do something about it!"
Ew. If I knew how to delete pictures, I so totally would, because that is like a scar to humanity. That hair! Totally unkempt. Hello, Herbal Essences! I wonder if the state of New Hampshire has an Adopt-an-Ugly-Inmate program ... I can totally be of service here. It makes me kind of want to do something good and righteous. If it wasn't prom week, I would SO look into it.
Stop staring at me, bitch!
Secondly, if you really want someone to know like, how much you love your team, there are way better ways to deal with it. You can totally talk about them behind their back, get access to their facebook page and change their interests to "whoring casually," throw eggs at their cars, or pretend that you like them, when really you don't and you just want to stomp on their heart. Oh my god, I just had an epiphany -- can we go back to the facebook thing for a minute? If you can totally steal their password, you can also make their interests say "cheering for the Yankees!" or whatever team they really hate.
Driving over people has like, so many drawbacks. Paint could get smudged, it could like, affect the transition or whatever that's called, or it could cause a flat tire. Hello, I am SO not interested in changing a flat tire. In this dress? My car is way too new and shiny for homicide.
Anyway, I forgot the moral of the story, but school is almost over! Omg, I'm going to have so much fun this summer! Like, I should probably start applying to colleges and stuff.
Labels: Harvey McGuffin
By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
Editor's Note: With the official announcement of Julio Franco's retirement, Flotsam's Harvey McGuffin was too verklempt to offer new insights about his favorite baseball player of all time. Since McGuffin can't be sure if it's 2008 or 1998 anyway, we reflect on a past post adoring the late, great Julio Franco.
An event happened yesterday that took me back to a better time, a better place, a better state of mind.
Gone was the talk of steroids, potential asterisks on home run records, any images of Astros pitcher Ezekial Astacio and quibbles over revenue sharing. Instead, in my head, was a simple tune.
Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo DooDooDooDooDooDooDooDoo.
That's the sound of RBI baseball on Nintendo, you punks.
Julio Franco, older than I am and still hitting baseballs out of ballparks, became the oldest man to ever homer in a game when his 47-year-old eternally-young-because-of-voodoo corpse went yard for the New York Mets. He should be collecting social security and taking Sunday drives with his wife down to the flea market, preventing me from speeding up beyond 25 miles per hour on a 35 mph one-lane backroad. But instead, he is showing whippersnappers who weren't even born when he started playing how it's done.
But here he is, a Tuck Everlasting relic from the days of yore, when everyone was small, white, stocky and caught the ball by raising their hands to the sky and praying for the best. It was a time when every struck ball -- fair or foul -- sounded like the highest key of a xylophone. Fans cheered for you no matter which team you played for. And there weren't so many goddamned teams at all! Just eight of them, all good ones.
I remember the way it felt to see Vince Coleman fly up the first base line, unstoppable unless the ball was hit directly to the second baseman. I remember the way Jack Clark was guaranteed to hit a homer with runners on base, or the way nobody could touch a Bobby Grelts fastball. I loved the way players cried and acted momentarily stunned as they committed an error or the way every outfielder scampered with his little legs, showing teamwork with his other fielders as they moved in concert toward the direction of the musical baseball.
This was the golden era. Julio Franco, bless his soul, is a staple of that era and when he dies, probably within the year, he's going to leave a gaping hole in the hearts of throwback baseball fans everywhere, like myself. We salute you Julio, for hearkening back to that time, and for not dying yet.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to prove Mrs. McGuffin wrong when she says the AL All-Stars cannot be beaten by the 1988 Boston Red Sox.
Labels: Jonny Dave Floyd
Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Spring has sprang and y’all know what that means: the birds are singin’, NASCAR’s in full swing, and baseball’s back.
It also means the weather’s gettin’ warmer and the air’ more humid-er and you know what that means: the sweating of my crotchal and buttal regions significantly increases which leads to uncomfortable chafing and exponentially more butt pimpling.
But that’s besides my point, really. What I’m gettin’ at is that I’m particularly excited this spring and it’s mostly because of how pumped up I am about baseball.
Ya mighta thought that I didn’t like anything but NASCAR and football, as far as sports go. You’d be wrong as gun control. Baseball’s one o’ my most favorite sports. You already know what my most favorite one is, and baseball’s third -- sandwiched between college football and the World’s Strongest Man contests. Fishin’s fifth if you’re wonderin’ how my top 5 rounds out.
But I kinda got away from baseball maybe just a little bit until this year. But somethin’ got my dander up this year. It was this little baseball documentary that I watched right before openin’ day.
It’s this little story about some little summer league in the north (I know, but it was still all right) and it followed this left-handed pitcher from the wrong side of the tracks with a great fastball, no control, some strange European accent, and, judgin’ by his facial expressions, some sort of digestion problem. Seriously, the kid was making constipated faces all through the thing. I can only presume on the ferocity of his farts, but I’m presumin’, by the looks on people’s faces while they were talkin’ with him, that he was cuttin’ some pretty righteous cheese.
If he wants to be accepted in dugouts, then he’s gonna have to stifle that funk a tad. Fartin’s funny, but it’d get old after a while.
Anyway, the movie follows the kid around as he stinks up the summer (on the field and in a 7-foot bubble around hisself) and it was awesome. It hardly feels like a documentary at all, which is good because those usually suck.
There were a lot of subplots, too. One of the more interesting ones was about a guy that likes fat girls. I didn’t see nothin’ wrong with that. I spent my formative years chasin’ fat girls. I didn’t have a choice. Every single girl at my school was pretty fat. At least the ones that would talk to me were. The dude in the documentary woulda been in heaven here because those were some champion eaters. Some of ‘em did with only half their teeth, too. That’s dedication, y’all.
Another interestin’ subplot was about a little Mexican kid that did it with an old lady. I didn’t see the big deal or think anything was wrong with it because you know how them Mexicans fudge their birth certificates. The guy was probably pushin’ 40, which kinda made it a pretty little love story, I think.
Now, I don’t wanna be one of those guys that gives away the end, so I won’t be. I’ll just say that if you wanna get your baseball love-fire re-kindled, then go watch this documentary. I never did catch the name, but I’m sure my description will suffice for any respected video store chain worker person. It had to’ve made a ton of money.
One more thing, if you still ain’t convinced you wanna see it and you’re kinda a pervert, then there was a pretty hot little number in it that chased the pitcher around and, apparently, had no sense of smell. She gets in a bikini at one point and it was danged sexy. And she looks a lot like Momma. Which adds a sense of comfortableness to the sexiness.
Anyway, that’s all I got. Don’t worry about Junior in NASCAR. His win’s comin’ any week now.
Y’all be good.
Labels: Guest ColumnistBy Big Brown
Horse
Love me some carrots, eating carrots all day thinking about big race, lots of horses and I’m Big Brown thinking about carrots. Carrots. Kentucky Derby driving to Churchill Downs and running all day cuz they’ll give me carrots if I win and roses or something smells nice.
Eight Belles. She the first philly in big race in a long, long time. I wonder what she’s doing later, she’s pretty but not as fast as me. Want to win because (CARROTS!) then they’ll let me get with whole lotta mares and maidens and make Little Brown babies. Love me some lovin. Not sure what the big fuss about Kentucky Derby is, but folks love it and so do I cuz I run fast thinking about oats and wheat and carrots.
Why my name Big Brown anyway? Named after Santonio Holmes. He's not hung like a horse, cuz I’m hung like a horse. Hear that, Eight Belles? Racing against Z Humor and Z Fortune, they brothers or something? They’re gonna team up and try to stop Big Brown, but not worried cuz I’m the fastest horsy in the stable.
Eight Belles looks good in the sunlight. Can’t see at night, else she might look good then, too. Hot mama. Not as fast as me though, cuz I’m Big Brown running and MOTHERFUCKING CARROTS! Stop whipping me, elfboy. I go fast, and you keep whippin.
Hungry.
