Labels: DeJuan C3P0
DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Name: Charles Xavier "DeJuan" Curtis C3Po
Hometown: The City of Angels, CA
Objective:
Get my hands on a fine position within OJ Mayo's inner circle now that the high-flying wunderdawg has decided to select some new friends. Willing to run errands and such, and unafraid to be called part of a "posse."
Summary of Achievements
Flotsam Media
2006-present: Fly scribe. Undercover brother journalism investigation of 2006 Olympics, the Barry Bonds shit, the Winter baseball meetings, and some hockey. Developed ability to irritate other media types. Generated large palette of adjectives and nouns, so if you need someone to tell that camera guy where he can stick it and you want it to be colorful, I'm your man.
West Coast Wonderland Tour
2004-2006: Supporting act (technical title: "roadie"). Hung out with several hip hop legends on tour across America. Would have held a more hands-on role, were it not for freak pyrotechnics accidents caused by a slight, tiny oversight on my part.
Mooch
2002-2004: Saw the countryside. Mostly lived in assorted basements. Blogged.
Experience
2007-present
Watched a bunch of your games on TV. Developed strong dislike for OJ Mayo haters. Coined term "No Holding the Mayo" in the national blogosphere. Bitches, I'm like a big deal on the web.
2007
Started paying attention to college basketball. Cool shit.
2000-2002
Propensity for being fly developed, worked with large crowds. Brokered endorsement deals here and there. I've already made some calls to Miracle Whip, and they are totally interested in working something out.
1993-1997
Junior varsity basketball, Lake Elsinore High School, San Diego, CA
Education
2000-2004
School of Hard Knocks
Specialization: Sexy
1993-1997
Lake Elsinore High School
San Diego, CA
Selected Publications
"DeJuan Does History or Something," published by Flotsam Media. On-Line. May 10, 2006. http://www.flotsam-media.com/2006/05/dejuan-does-history-or-something.html.
"People I've Impersonated", published by Flotsam Media. On-Line. March 12, 2008. http://www.flotsam-media.com/2008/03/people-ive-impersonated.html.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Bitches, I was on the edge of my damn seat Wednesday night watching the elimination episode of American Idol. Dog, I love me some Syesha Mercado, but I would be damn pissy if my boys the Davids -- David Archuleta and David Cook -- did not make the big finale next week. They couldn't be more different dudes -- the Disney-loving 17-year-old shrimp cocktail (non-alcoholic of course -- boy won't be hitting the sauce for another four years) and the seasoned bartending rock dude. It's the clash of the damn titans! We're all gonna die!
So who is America's favorite David? There are so many other Davids who deserve consideration for that shit.
1. David Beckham. Y'all, he plays some game that nobody gives two shits about, but can you imagine how many times he has heard that shitty Spice Girls song "Spice Up Your Life?" That's hardcore, bitches. Can't believe he hasn't killed a man yet.
2. David Ortiz. Big Papi! According to my massive research, that's French for "Large Patriarch."
3. Dave Winfield. Remember the good old days of baseball, when all the best dudes were skinny? Man, what did they eat for breakfast before protein milkshakes got invented?
4. David Padgett. Well what do you want from me? I scanned all the Greatest Damn Athlete lists I could find, and there just aren't that many athletic famous Daves out there. For some reason, I just got hungry for barbecue.
5. David. Dog, put on some damn clothes! Yo, any dudes out there interested in feeling better about themeselves? This David is considered a work of art, and he ain't exactly Santonio Holmes.
Honorable mention: David Chappelle (funny as shit!), David Letterman (not funny as shit), Davy Crockett (furry damn hat), David Wright (good at baseball, probably should be up there instead of Padgett), Dave Roberts (fast and old).
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan 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: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
I'm pretty sure when those British dudes cloned a mammal for the first time, its name was Dolly Llama. Cool shit, I'm not gonna lie. But dawg, it's not like that had any broader impact on anybody's lives. Ain't no great deep peace and understanding that came from Dolly Llama.
But dude, some of these folks take it all too seriously, cuz they keep talking about the Dolly Llama while chasing the Olympic Torch around the world, protesting and shit. Stupid teenagers. Get a job, hippies!
The Beijing Olympics are upon us this summer, which are not nearly as cool as the Winter Olympics, where there were lots of sexy Italian missies in various forms of undress and plenty of exquisite gateway drugs. Dawg, I'm pretty sure if they catch you with weed in China, you get your foot cut off.
I would be more excited if the summer Olympics had snowboarding. To express my displeasure, I decided to follow around the protesters, hitting up London, Paris and San Francisco. I love it when Marv is too damn pasted on whatever drug is in-season in his garden, that he ends up approving whatever expense account cash I ask for.
I had a really good time. I rapelled down the damn Golden Gate Bridge -- haven't had the pleasure of doing that in at least three years -- and I bedded the fine Victoria Arceneaux at the base of the Arc de Triomphe while traffic whirled around us in the stirring Place d'Etoiles in Paris.
And you thought DeJuan wasn't cultured. Served.
But turns out all these protesters want is some crazy Free Tibet shit. I don't know why Tibet deserves to be free -- I guess he didn't do what he was accused of -- but there sure are a lot of people who want him out. Like that dude Rage Against the Machine wanted out of prison.
But neither Mr. Tibet or the Dolly Llama really inspired me to keep at it. I mean, why hate on the torch? I love fire. Torches, in fact, were an integral part of my epic 1997 Circus of Fire tour, which was the coolest shit on Earth until a minor safety oversight led to the death of two Bengal tigers and seven angry clowns. Thank god the cotton candy machine remained intact.
I did enjoy some of the protester signs, though, including one that showed the Olympic rings as a bunch of handcuffs. Most folks saw that as a statement -- I saw it as inspiration for another magical night with my belle Victoria. Viva La France and shit.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Dawg, I have been divinely inspired to rap about my main man Isiah Thomas, who is really having a rough few weeks. And by few weeks, I mean decade. Because I love Isiah so, I have written a rap to highlight Isiah's soon-to-be extinguished career. The rhymes were a little tough, but I think you'll like it mighty nice.
The baby-faced assassin from old IU
Back before Kelvin Sampson sniffed some glue
Came to the NBA and was a Motor City Miracle
Won some hardware to prop up in his cubicle.
Isiah. He's Isiah.
Mama can't spell, she forgot a letter.
But ain't no thang, cuz your game was stellar.
12-time All-Star, Olympian too.
Coolest shit since they invented Fu Manchu.
Isiah. He's Isiah.
But shit went bad when you hung up the shoes
Raptors, broadcasting and CBA all lose
You got mad game, but you can't manage for shit
And your Hollywood star started taking a hit.
Isiah, dawg. He's so Isiah.
Got your ass inducted into the Hall of Fame
About the time your career went all to shame
Spent a few years in Indy coaching the Pacers
Moved on to New York and turned the Knicks into bitches.
Isiah. Love Isiah.
Made some silly ass trades and the team got worse
Now they hired Donny Walsh to reverse your curse
You'll probably get fired, maybe lay low for a while
If you wanna work again, try the retail aisle.
Isiah. Bye, Isiah.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Dog, there is some funny funny shit coming out of the world of soccer, probably the most entertaining story about soccer ever. I've seen soccer games, my bitches, and it's like watching body paint dry. An entire sport dedicated to foreplay and no scoring. Shit dog, I've read "No Exit" by Jean-Paul Sartre. I know what hell looks like.
Anyway, some Italian cat claimed he was Nicolas Cage, and the Real Madrid soccer team fed him a nice meal and was like, "damn, that's Nic Cage!" even though the guy had an accent. Seriously, couldn't you figure that shit out? Didn't you make him say "Carla WAS the prom queen" and giggle, cuz The Rock is the bad-assest movie of our generation?
Stupid soccer players.
But it reminds me of the many times I have impersonated someone famous to gain entry to a club, restaurant or amusement park. Don't pretend like you ain't done it! Dog, the world is damn expensive, and you have to take every advantage you can get.
My three favorite instances:
1. In 2003, some fine kitty in Miami thought I was Ricky Williams and ushered me to this bitchin gala for High Times Magazine in a downtown high rise. Dog that was fun, even if the details are foggy. Problem was when they started asking me to wear a wedding dress for some photo shoot. Dog, it don't matter what I'm smoking, I ain't wearing no dress. I got my pride.
2. Spring training 2004, I told the Los Angeles Dodgers I was Guillermo Mota, started speaking pretend Spanish and throwing gas in some split squad games. Dog, the commercials tell you Visa is everywhere you want to be, but apparently they don't count the Dominican Republic, cuz Mota was hella late and the Dodgers needed a middle reliever. I probably shouldn't have started spreading a rumor that I got down with Paul DePodesta's wife, cuz that little nerdy man never forgot it. The real Mota showed up before the regular season, but his ass got traded to Florida before the deadline.
3. I got myself a VIP club pass in Beijing one summer after I told the bouncer that I am the glorious Orlando Bloom. Shit I was the life of the party, until someone who actually had seen Lord of the Rings said I wasn't no Orlando Bloom, that O-Bloom is a white guy with pointy ears. Do I look like the nerdboy who watches that shit? Dude has a black first name -- Orlando Jones, anyone? Orlando Cepeda? I wound up getting kicked out. Gotta bring my pointy ears next time.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Bitches, it is some kind of hot in Arizona. And it gets hotter when ain’t nobody around.
That hobo Marv sent me on another assignment this week, and I was damn excited about it – Spring Training in Arizona! I was going to hit up all the finest hot spots – Scottsdale, Flagstaff, Phoenix, etc., and hopefully find some beautiful tanned belles with whom I could explore the desert wildlife. Dog, I figured they would be flocking to me, cuz I would be a ballplayer! You know how these journalists all go to spring training and pretend they’re on the team, riveting us with those first-hand accounts of flyball drills and wind sprints? Well, that is what DeJuan was ready to do.
Problem is, there is nobody here. I reported to camp on time at the buttcrack of dawn, 6:30 a.m. to the California Angels camp in Tempe, with my baseball cap, socks, glove, cleats, aluminum bat, flip-down shades, hoodie, bag of 15 baseballs, packet of Big League Chew and extra set of flip-down shades. Do you know how early 6:30 a.m. is? And I had to wake up at 6 a.m. so I could get there on time. It was the worst day of my life.
I expected to be among a fleet of non-roster invitees doing the meet and greet with a bunch of famous superstars, but all I got was a damn uncomfortable physical exam and some sit-ups with a bunch of Double-A cats. Dog, do I look Double-A to you? I am at least worth three to four A’s.
I was hoping people would mistake me for Vlad The Impaler Guerrero or Reggie Willits and ask for my autograph. Shit, at spring training, nobody knows if you’re a real ballplayer or not – they just ask for your autograph if you’ve got a jersey on. I figured some of those Arizonan beauty queens would want me to sign their midriffs, and I would comply, on many lovely conditions. I was going to be fawned over and loved upon. Instead, nobody was even there – not even the damn grounds crew. I couldn’t even get into the utility shed to take a joyride on the infield tractor thing.
I thought maybe I got the wrong time, so I waited around until 6:30 p.m. hitting baseballs off a tee into the Tempe afternoon. I’m not gonna lie, bitches, I got lonely. DeJuan does not do lonely. Chasing after those 15 balls got damn annoying after a while.
So forget this. I’m flying back to Cali where I can follow Spring Training in the newspaper just like everyone else. Now that I know all baseball players are lazy and don’t actually report to Spring Training when they’re told, I think my opinion of the game has changed. Screw that. It’s NBA All-Star game for me, bitches.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0
DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
My mama, the fine Miss Octavia Winston C3P0, once saw me crying in the living room when I was six years old and she asked me what was wrong. I said, "Mama, brother DeCharles has a better bike than I got."
It was true! Shit, do I look like someone who can ride a Huffy around the block and still keep my street cred?
Mama didn't like that I was coveting my neighbor's shit (never understood that, DeCharles slept in the same damn house as me. He wasn't my neighbor), and she got all mad. She spanked me across the backside and said not to be so wanting, to be happy with what you got and all that.
Damn, mama, why'd you ask then, if you were gonna beat my ass?
Dog, this is what it's like on Media Day at the Super Bowl. There are a lot of crazy-ass people here who ask the stupidest questions, then get all crazy about the answers. It's like they're trying to be like my mama, or win the award for television's dumbest journalist.
Too bad they can't win, cuz some foxy lady dressed up as a bride and started asking folks to marry her. Wish I would have had a microphone, cuz brother, I would have said yes. DeJuan's biological clock is ticking!
Anyway, back to my mama. Some cat asked Plaxico Burress for a prediction, and he gave it to them. Nice guy, that Plaxico Burress. Named after a Plexiglas corporation and shit. So he answers the question, and then the media is all a-tizzy, cuz Plaxico is GUARANTEEING A VICTORY.
Bitches, there are no guarantees in life. Except that the Patriots are going to win. My boy Plax was just answering a question. What's a brother supposed to do? Say, "Shit, I think the Patriots are going to win?" Or, "Dog, I would love to answer that question, but let me refer you to my public relations counsel."
God damn.
The man thinks his team is gonna win. That's confidence, bitches. You think I could have gone on a world tour if I wasn't confident that I could pick up Chinese in just two audio cassettes? Or would I have run three-fourths of a leg in the Olympic 200-meter-relay in 2000 if I wasn't confident I could outrun the fatty security guard? Just cuz a man has confidence doesn't mean he's trying to wrong the other guy. It ain't fair that they ask the question, then get all crazy because he answered the question.
Shit, at least they asked a real question. It wasn't like "What is your purpose in life?" or nothing like that. I have been kicked out of no fewer than 29 sporting events for asking those questions. But at Media Day dogs, that's just what you do.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go ask Eli Manning how long he's been a Southern quarterback.
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Fly Scribe
Those damn writers and their greedy guard dogs are plotting in some treacherous lair right now, wondering how they're going to ruin one of the year's best damn nights -- the Academy Awards. Bitches, the Oscars! Dog, nothing is finer than watching Hollywood's hotties decked out in their sexiest evening wear, with glitz and glamor and all that shit. Those four hours on the couch with Billy Crystal and several small golden bald dudes fly by like my boy Shani Davis on ice skates.
Those bitchy writers have their scissors to cut up the red carpet, their picket signs to block out the lovely and slightly bipolar Melissa Rivers as she interviews celebrities, and probably a plan to kidnap Billy Crystal. I swear to God, if that shit goes down, I'm gonna go all Karate Kid on some union members. Dog, Karate Kid should have won Best Picture. Mr. Miyagi!
I have a confession to make -- I haven't heard of any of these damn movies nominated this year. Usually I know the nominees front and back, having scanned plot synopses and cast lists, so I can figure out which fine lady extras might be looking for a mysterious stranger posing as a representative from a talent firm at the post-Oscars gala. But shit, I been busy this year, and I haven't seen a film since Ratatouille (four fucking stars!).
But I recognize, my loyal bitches, that you expect some comments about the year's best films from DeJuan C3P0, and so I will give you what I got.
"Atonement." This documentary, narrated by that dude from NFL films (cue the slo-mo cameras!), follows the life and times of a slightly retarded-looking white boy from Mississippi, who moves to the Big Apple and gets hated all over the place before throwing a bunch of touchdown passes at the end of the season and leading his team to the Super Bowl. James McAvoy is fucking spectacular as Eli Manning. Jon Voight stars as Archie, and there's this bad ass scene where Eli goes, "I, don't want, your life!" And then, my bitches, there is the whipped cream bikini. I give it three out of four DeJuans.
"Juno." This is a profile of that Olympic sport that's kind of like karate, except different or something. You know how I feel about the Olympics, ever since they kicked me out of the Grand Turismo a couple winters ago. Bitches. One out of four DeJuans. Mr. Miyagi!
"Michael Clayton." This is a hell of a riches-to-rags story, about going from the first round of the NFL Draft and a great rookie season to NFL oblivion. Dog, every year I expect this fool to bounce back, and I take him in the late rounds of my fantasy draft, and every year he disappoints my ass. I'm sick of it! Also, I am not okay with George Clooney as the title character. Dog, did the casting directors of America go on strike, too? Two DeJuans.
"No Country For Old Men." So, this title is like all ironic and shit, since it's talking about Major League Baseball. It's this bad-ass insider's look at Roger Clemens and other old dudes who took steroids to stay in the game. Everyone's all like, "Roger is so old, but still so good," and then you see it's because he's getting his ass peppered with puncture wounds. Dog, baseball is for young people, and this movie proves it. Plus, Javier Bardem comes in and kills a bunch of dudes. Very powerful. Three-and-a-half DeJuans. I promise, you get my sexy half.
"There Will Be Blood." It is about damn time someone made a movie about the American Gladiators. Shit, did you see that episode where that crazy contestant lady hit her face on the Eliminator? Blood everywhere! Dog, that shit is as real as it gets, and you can throw in a bunch of scary sisters and brothers, plus the unbearably awesome Hellga, and it's like the perfect storm of cinematography. Thank god the movie has Daniel Day-Lewis instead of Hulk Hogan. Shit, you know I love the Hulk, but the man can't act. FIVE out of four DeJuans!
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Bitches, I have been a lost soul since Bionic Woman was taken from me by those greedy writers and their wants, but the television world has bestowed to me a treat of epic bleeping proportions. It's fucking American Gladiators, bitches! I can't even breathe. Seriously, I think I need to go to the damn hospital.
Ever since Mike Adamle and Larry Czonka went off the air, along with Nitro and Gemini and the luscious, dynamite Blaze in seasons past, I have been forced to get my Gladiators fix through alternate means, like TBS and shit. And ESPN Classic. Dog, I can't afford expanded cable! I can't even afford the medical care to properly re-configure my nose after I asked the lovely Laila Ali if she wanted to show me some of those leg lifts at Chez C3P0.
Now, Laila Ali is on my TV. And Hulk Hogan! Dog, he ain't dead! I thought that whole WWF thing went extinct, like the stegosaurus and shit. Time to check it out.
8:02 p.m. Seriously, they got some Gladiator named Helga! Dog, I have seen some amazing breasts in my day, but those could kill a series of small zoo mammals. Don't get too close Hulk Hogan! You can't even name them individually, like Regina and Dr. Lovespankings. You'd have to name them collectively, after some sort of land feature.
8:07. Shit, I hate these heartfelt contestant features. Ain't nobody caring about your personal life and three kids and your damn motivation. I just want to see you get the shit kicked out of you by a bunch of finely-tuned super mamas with clever names. Whoops, looks like I spoke too soon, since Jessie got all beat up in Powerball. Dog, if you can't survive the games named after the lottery, you're probably not going to hit the jackpot. Shit, did you get that play on words! I'm like Tupac.
8:11. Awwww, Jessie Adams is okay, and she's all like "Mommy's tough, she's okay" into the camera, as if this wasn't getting shown like six months after it's taped. Mommy hasn't run head on into Helga yet. Then, Mommy gonna die.
8:13. Hulk was some damn tight dialog, saying to skater punk Chad, "You are obviously one of the coolest dudes I've ever seen. Those tattoos are awesome." It's like a Lenny Kravitz concert.
8:15. They got some Gladiator named Wolf, an honest to god werewolf! That shit is legit, way better than anything you'd find in the original. I am damn pleased that they are keeping at least one major tie to the original series: rampant, illicit steroid usage. Eat your heart out, Rocket Clemens!
8:17. Jessie Adams is dead! On crutches and shit, Laila Ali is all like, "You showed a lot of heart." I wish all I had to do was roll around and bitch about my ankle to get Laila Ali to tell me how much heart I had. Laila, get with DeJuan! They got some crazy physical therapist named Venus to take her place. I'm yo Venus! I'm yo fire, (Laila), your desire! Dog, American Gladiators has got me in a singing mood.
8:20. So when I tried out for this show, which I did four times in four different American cities, each time I reached like the second level of tryouts before they handed me this damn bio sheet where I had to fill out "contestant information." I don't know why it's so hard to understand -- I didn't sign up to be no damn contestant. I wanted to be a fucking Gladiator. Then, one time in Fort Worth, some British guy wanted me to sing instead of doing my fine ass tumbling demonstration. Dog, the process is flawed.
8:24. Yadda yadda, Joust, yadda yadda playing on some rings and shit. Dude, I did that damn action on the playground when I was 12. I'm bored. Whoa! Now one of the Gladiators got all hurt, and they've sent the Werewolf onto the rings instead of Galvatron or whatever his name was. What a bunch of pansies! Except Helga and her Icelandic jugs.
8:27. I don't remember this Earthquake shit, isn't that like a move by Montezuma from Hulk's playing days? It's a bunch of dancing on a giant frisbee. Hulk is like, "Venus what was it like when she had her legs wrapped around your neck?" The answer, of course, is "would have been better if my man Barry White was playing in the background."
8:33. That werewolf is everywhere, now he be playing this game where they're throwing around some giant ballsacks at your face. Dog, this is not my favorite part of the competition. That one dude Anthony has like a 32-2 lead on Chad.
8:39. Bitches, they are on The Aggro-Crag from Nickelodeon's Guts! Bunch of crazy women throwing contestants down the pyramid, and now Venus has a one point lead! On the dude side of the same event, there's Mayhem with his dreadlocks. He reminds me of me, except way less reliance on pyrotechnics.
8:48. It's eliminator time! I'm gonna say that every time I use the john.
8:49. They got to swim underneath fire! I can't believe I haven't thought about that shit before. Next tour, I'm definitely coming out on stage totally immersed in a lake of fire. Except a dunk tank instead of a lake. That's like King Arthur and shit!
8:51. Venus scores a comeback win on the Eliminator, prompting Hulk to spit some mad dialog again, chirping on about "the sun, the moon, the stars, and Venus was definitely in alignment." It's all like cosmic and shit, we get it, Hulk Hogan. Your old show sucked, but it had way better writers than this one. Dog, the WGA needs to get their shit together, cuz this could force humans back to books. Fucking books!
8:54. Harvey McGuffin just called and is hella, hella pissed that they didn't have no Assault, where they have like tennis balls and guns and shit. Harvey says it reminds him of the war or whatever. Dog, I'd listen to what he says, cuz I heard a rumor that he was a Gladiator back in the day. I think he was Malibu, dog, I really do.
8:58. Chad's making a comeback on the Eliminator, which is really stupid because Anthony kicked his ass all day. Anthony wins anyway. Yay. OH MY GOD THERE IS A SECOND HOUR OF THIS SHIT. Well, I am not prepared. That's all I got. There better me more Helga in this hour.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Dog, I look lovely.
Fresh off my trip to Carolina to take in the Panthers-Cowboys game, I can't bring myself to take off my flowing blond wig and dainty No. 9 jersey so I could look like Jessica Simpson. That mama is fine. I hooked up with some cats from Carolina that were headed to the game, trying to be all distracting to Tony Romo with their Simpson attire, and I just had to play along.
So all day, while Marion Barbarian crushed himself some Panthers and the Cowboys helped themselves to home field advantage in the playoffs, I was acting all ditzy and shit to fit the part, talking about my man Tony Romo and singing "I Wanna Love You Forever" to anyone who would listen. Dog, say what you want about my vocal range, but I can hit those notes. I'm like Aaron Fucking Neville, except with a blond wig.
Can you believe that shit, people saying that shorty is a distraction to my boy Romo? Trust me, bitches. When you're getting play, especially from one of the finer pieces of tail engineered in the United States of American, you have never been more focused. When I was on tour in Los Angeles, I wasn't even my damn self until I got laid by the unquestionably gorgeous but questionably sane LaFonda Webster in the rafters of the concert venue. Pyrotechnics and getting jiggy have never been more appropriately interwoven. That shit was hot! Literally.
Problem isn't Jessica Simpson for Tony Romo. It's Terrell Owens and his front where he says she's all distracting, but he's really just damn jealous. He's like, "shit, I drop footballs thrown my way all the time, cuz I'm not getting me no Jessica Simpson." If he was getting action, he would not have rolled his ankle and sat out the second half. That shit doesn't happen when you got the lingering image of boobies on your brain. I have empirical proof.
I salute you, Tony Romo, and I salute your pop queen sweetheart. I just hope she got that "I'm a virgin until I get married" phase over with when she dumped Nick Lachey's ass. Cuz I don't want to see you have another bad game, dog, and since the entire 98 Degrees catalog was a shitfest, you know she was responsible for Nick's shortcomings. Don't let it happen to you. It's playoff time soon!
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
So check it. White people humor has always made me laugh my ass off, and it's Christmas time and shit, so I watched the movie "Elf" last week.
Shit dog, Will Ferrell is so damn funny. And Bob Newhart! He's like the Sidney Poitier of white people.
Anyway, I was watching in my hotel in Nashville, because lord knows if I go outside, I'm going to get attacked by a bunch of hillbillies with banjos and cowboy hats. Dog, they look all bumpkin and shit with their southern twang, but once they open their mouths and start strumming their guitars, it's like the damn end of the world. It's like someone -- possibly Marv Blackstone -- has just taken a screwdriver to my eyeballs.
I'm here for the winter meetings, but there was a whole lotta talk and not a lot of action, so I was getting bored. I hooked up with my broham Scott Rolen for some drinks and -- you're going to love this shit -- just to stir the pot, I told him that I overheard Tony LaRussa call him a cotton-headed ninny muggins.
Dog, I laugh my ass off anytime I hear someone say that, like my boy Will on Elf. Cotton-headed ninny muggins!
So Scott gets all pissy and shit, but I tell him to be cool. Later on, I see Tony and his hippy air cruising the streets, and I told him Rolen was looking for him. Said my boy S-Roll called the Hippy an "angry elf" and that he couldn't even recite the alphabet.
Shit, I have trouble with the damn alphabet too, so I don't know why that set Tony off. But the man went bonkers, and then started calling out Rolen in public. Nashville is a good time after all, dog. Good times.
What else did I do when I ventured out into the Nashville streets, equipped with ear plugs and some mace? I hung out with Jeffrey Loria and bought Kevin Gregg for five dollars and some cigars. Bitches, I have a closer! That's something the Milwaukee Brewers and Texas Rangers ain't got! Also, I put a whoopee cushion under Hank Steinbrenner's chair, and dog, that white boy needs a sense of humor. He thought the Minnesota Twins were behind it and got all huffy and stormed out, from what I hear.
Baseball is right around the corner, bitches.
Naw, that's a lie.
Black Friday. Dog, I just got goosebumps. Bitches, there has never been a holiday more appropriately titled for DeJuan Charles Xavier C3P0. Every year, I get my freak on at department stores across this great nation in the early morning hours after Thanksgiving, giving wacko shoppers the business by shoving them out of my damn way. Dog, you can’t get deals like this just anytime. Down pillows and comforter set half-off at Bed Bath! I got all misty-eyed when I saw that shit. Apparel: As you know, the DeJuan motto of “Less is more, unless you’re talking about moneys or honeys” applies here, but you can get some kick-ass bargains on sports jerseys. My favorite purchase was a Torii Hunter Minnesota Twins jersey for 10 bucks. Shit dog, I thought the security system was going to start buzzing while I walked out the door. I’m going to show that off while he’s making plays next year in the Metrodome. Children’s Toys: All that shit from China is completely on bargain these days, so I highly recommend a Yi Jianlian figurine for that little guy or gal you may have spawned from your loins. If that don’t work, get a Tickle-Me-Elmo. Dog, kids ain’t picky. Get them whatever the hell the store has on sale. Unicorns and shit. Tickets: DeJuan loves to be “Wicked,” considers himself “The Lion King” and loves “BroadWay,” but nobody wants to see no damn plays. Reminds me of that time I landed the lead role in Othello with the community theater posse. Apparently the snoots don’t appreciate a little remix to that death scene at the end. All I know is, the great Tupac would have appreciated me singing “I Wonder if Heaven Has A Ghetto” right after the Big O gives himself the business. Depressing shit. That was the last time I hit up a play, dog. Instead, get your honey some romantic tickets to see the NHL. That shit is hot! Appliances: If you don’t already have a microwave, you probably don’t eat, so you’re probably dead. Do something original this time, pansies. Get DVR, so you can record episodes of Dancing With the Stars (Mel B, you’re my girl!), Bionic Woman and re-runs of American Gladiators. Of course, if you haven’t already bought your shit on Black Friday, you’re screwed. Skip Christmas this year. Learn from your mistakes, dog. Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
The holiday season is upon us, and nobody appreciates some mistletoe, pine-scented candles, and a trio of ho’s like DeJuan. But there is a lot of shitty shit out there that you need not purchase for that fine someone, or your ma or whoever, not when it's overpriced and unworthly of the Christmas love. Keep it real with DeJuan’s buyer’s guide this holiday season.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
For a minute, bitches, Alex Rodriguez was gonna be a member of the Chicago White Sox.
So check it, I show up a few days ago in booty-full Orlando, Fla. for the general managers meetings and I'm all decked out for a party. I check in with my main man Kenny Williams and we start kicking back some cold ones at a local tavern. Shared stories all night and dog, you would not believe the awful shit Ozzie Guillen sings in the shower. How does Kenny Williams know this? Shit, foo, ain't my business.
Anyway, Kenny gets liquored up on some scotch, rum and fuzzy navels and can't even get his ass out of bed the next morning. So he's all like "DeJuan, your country and shit needs you!" and I get my finest piece of leopard-woven leather boots and high tail it to the meetings as K-Dawg's official voice of the people.
I had a great day, and shit I had this incredible plan to get A-Rod hitting home runs for the pale ho's. They were talking some serious cash and carry for this guy's services, something like three G's. Dog, I don't have that kind of scratch. So I peek around some corners, find A-Rod, and lock his ass in the freezer of the downstairs kitchen, thinking K-Dawg and Ozzball can get some reinforcements and carry him back to Chicago. Shit, it ain't stealing if it's overpriced.
Turns out it wasn't A-Rod though, it was Omar Minaya. How am I supposed to tell these people apart?
Before all that went down, I voted for instant replay (shit, just ask the fine LaToya Lenear how inspirational some nice video playback can be), threw some money at Juan Uribe (the brother looked like he could use a break after sucking for all those years) and gave an unsuspecting Jim Hendry a wedgie. Shit, I'm just doing my part cuz there's this rivalry and such.
I didn't really give him a Wedgie, but I did tell him how fucking awesome Kaz Matsui was, and in the end, I think that gag was way better.
Once they got Minaya out of the freezer, though, it was bye-bye for DeJuan. I tried to disguise myself with those Mickey Mouse ears, but Omar's got eyes like a Spanish eagle. I did my journalistic duty though and embedded myself in those meetings, and I can officially report that there be some hella talk about trades. And at least one team (the fuckin' White Sox!) is offering 20 million over four years to David Eckstein. Dog, I love leprechauns.
By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock
I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE.
I have tried to sleep for the last three nights, but I simply can't, so I'm on coffee and Smarties and Tootsie pops and caffeine pills, thinking about NFL football! I NEED TO KNOW WHO WINS THE SHOWDOWN.
You have The Patriots and their New England dynasty and Belichick the MAN-GENIUS and a nervous Bob Griese and Donte Stallworth up the middle and Richard Seymour, Medicine Man, and Randy Randy Moss! You can't not love that. And it's BOSTON, THE CITY OF ANGELS.
Then you have Peyton's Place and Marvelous Marvin Harrison and Reggie Wayne and going through the big D, and yes I mean Dallas! Dallas CLARK! The defense is hard hitting, with Freeney and Sanders and TONY DUNGY IS A BLACK MICHELANGELO. You can't not love that. Indianapolis FIVE-HUNDRED. I'm a member of the A/V club, and you know I'm talking about Adam Viniateri.
In the end, I choose neither. TIE GAME. You heard me.
By Curtis WoodsworthThe dark side - Saturday, 11:45 a.m.
DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
I am damn sure that Uncle Marv is illiterate, but if he's reading, I want to make it clear that from now henceforth, I want the title of my column to be "The Dark Side With DeJuan C3p0." I can hear the pitter patter of fine ladyfeet running over to stroke DeJuan's chest hair as I type. "Oooh, suger, you that fly C3P0 from the Dark Side?" "Honey, let me show you my death star."
Cue that crazy ass music. Darth Vader is in the house, and he is breathing heavily.
That dark side shit is damn appropriate cuz that's kind of what the New England Patriots is. They've got Tom Brady and Mike Vrabel and Wes Welker and a whole lotta white folk, but that Bill Belichick is evil. He's got cameras in bathrooms and shit. DeJuan is not okay with that.
He's also done some damn crazy stuff in his career, and I am pretty sure ain't nobody likes him. He's probably killed a man. That's uncouth.
So all this undefeated shit, and this rolling over opponents? Dog, I think he's using some kind of dark force. Mindmelding and shit. I think Yoda would be mighty pissy if he saw what was going down. Man, I am on board with not calling down the dogs if you're up 21 in the fourth quarter. But they were up 40 with two minutes to go. What the shit? You don't want to kick the Redskins when their chips are down.
They've won three Super Bowls, and I have to wonder if some soul-selling with the devil ain't part of that. It just ain't right. It reminds me of my favorite song, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" by the damn incomparable Charlie Daniels. Of course, the devil did not go down to Georgia because the Falcons probably didn't sell their soul. If they did, they got some shitty results out of that deal.
All's I've got to say is I'm pulling for the good guys, the whitest of white people Peyton Manning and Tony Dungy's white wizard Gandolf shit. Frodo Fucking Baggins.
Quarterback comparison - 7:27 p.m.
By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old
I will always love Mr. Bubba.
He was my favoritest stuffed animal, a ginormous panda bear, and we had many wonderful times. Mr. Bubba was by my side went I rode on a plane for the first time to visit Grandma, and when I first climbed up the big tree at recess and started running around the school roof. Mr. Bubba was always there for me.
He was the greatest stuffed animal I ever had. But then came Dr. Eugene Burp.Dr. Eugene Burp was a present for my sixth birthday. He was a stuffed grizzly bear, with fuzzy fur, and he TALKED! All I had to do was grab his hand and he said funny things, like "Raaaaaaar." And "Don't start forest fires." We had lots of conversations, and Dr. Eugene Burp became a stuffed animal who could listen and talk back when I wanted to tell him about my day. I told him about how Tanner and I put a mice in Mrs. Winston's coffee, and he said, "Say no to smoking." Dr. Eugene Burp!
Slowly, he became my favoritest stuffed animal. When I would play in the yard, he would come with me and tell me fun things, even though it used to be Mr. Bubba who came with me. I think Mr. Bubba was jealous. It makes me sad sometimes because Mr. Bubba is still a really good stuffed animal, and if he challenged Dr. Eugene Burp to a fight, I think Mr. Bubba might win.
The media doesn't care about their Mr. Bubba, Peyton Manning, anymore. He averaged 36 touchdowns over the last three years and won a SUPER DUPER BOWL last year and has completed 65 percent of his passes every year since 2002, including this year. Tom Brady is pretty good, even better than Dr. Eugene Burp, with 30 touchdowns already. But before this year, he never completed 65 percent of his passes, and he has the advantage of a super good football team to play with.
But that doesn't make Mr. Bubba a bad stuffed animal, or Peyton Manning a quarterback everyone should forget. But there is only room for one favoritest stuffed animal in the hearts of people, and right now Tom Brady is the one who talks! "Don't have sex before marriage." I don't know what that means, but the man with the pretty green robe said it last weekend at church. It sounds like something Dr. Eugene Burp would say.
I still think Mr. Bubba could beat Dr. Eugene Burp in a fight. Someday, I will know.
By Murphy KramerLabels: Bandwagon Burt, Curtis Woodsworth, Dakota Brezinski, DeJuan C3P0, Murphy Kramer
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Bitches, there is clam chowder all over my costume.
Dog, I have no idea how it got there, but it is tres, tres disappointing. That is some fine linen I'm wearing, ruined by the skanky smell of chowder. Halloween only comes once a year, so I have gots to look my best, and this year I am proudly dressed as the great Conquistador Hernando de Cortes.
Shit, I am a fly looking mofo, if you can forgive that white ooze all over my breastplate. And I don't know what that English professor old man Mike Lowell was thinking, saying I looked like Marvin the Martian. Then again, ain't so bad representing the lone brother from the Looney Tunes. That shit was tight. Goddamn Elmer Fudd cracked my shit up.
I thought it was gonna take a whole lot more alcohol to get me trying out that chowder shit that the smelly local folk mispronounce all the time, but I have no recollection of the past 24 hours. That, my bitches, is what happens when you've had too much Goldschlager with the brunettes of Boston. And also, too much psychedelic cocktails and baseball.
I've been hopping bars with some of the Red Sox since their plane landed last night. I got myself a Flotsam insider interview with the World Series MVP, promptly reminded him what a fine piece of ass his wife was, got kicked out, and then suckered my way past the bouncers pretending to be Hideki Okajima's little broham. Dog, when I squint, I swear we're like twins.
Shit, that's the last thing I remember. I'm pretty sure at some point I started singing the Canadian national anthem with Eric Gagne, and I might have been in a three-way with Jonathan Papelbon. And Jacoby Ellsbury.
Also, I'm pretty sure the phrase "Big Papismear" is a bad one to use around some of these bitches, but I can't be sure. Whatever the case, I know I liked it, and it's a good time to be in Bostonia. The Patriots are fly, the Celtics are about to check out what KG and Ray Allen can do while not passing, and the Red Sox are World Motherfucking Champions. Everybody's happy here, and drunk, and sensationally easy.
I think I'm gonna stay here all week, at least until the damn Patriots win the Super Bowl. I wonder if Goldschlager tastes good with that lingering taste of chowder on my tongue.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Like the late, great Phoenix, I have risen from my own sexy, fiery ashes to bring you the best of DeJuan Charles Xavier C3P0, returning to Flotsam after a damn long hiatus. Man, it gets hella boring when there ain’t no writing. You think I have a day job, bitches? Dog, I tried to do the crossing guard thing, and I ain’t cut out for that shit. Kids make me feel like there spiders be trying to crawl out of my eyes. I have to wear sunglasses all the time.
But no more sitting around playing solitary Uno, my children, because DeJuan is back. Beardy Marv called me late last night to break the big news, and even though that cat does a lot more heavy breathing than he does talking, I was jumping for joy. Truth is, DeJuan is the flyest writer that hobo has. Investigative journalism and shit. I’m like the prince of that stuff. I am even wearing a crown to celebrate. It is sparkly and made with paper mache. That shit is hard to find.
But here’s the bad news, y’all … I don’t know shit about what’s going on in sports. I mean, I tried to keep up after Flotsam went in the shitter back in the day, hoping Marv would just man up and come out of that coma. But dog, that was a lot of paying attention for no real reason. So I cashed out. And this week was especially bad, cuz it was network premiere week. The debut of Bionic Woman, y’all! I cannot make that shit up. That was hella tight. Already on my TiVo for the rest of the season.
And dude, I know how to use Googles, and there ain’t nothing going on in sports. The Yankees and the Red Sox made the playoffs for like the seventh year in a row, my twin sister Steven Jackson is passed out on a couch somewhere, and the NHL is finally underway after all that lockout shit. And I thought Flotsam took forever to get back in the flow.
Speak to me, my puppies. Tell me what you want DeJuan to rap at you about, and I will make it the fliyest commentary you have ever endured. I’m the prince of that shit, you know. Send the C3P0 where your heart desires. You want it!
Labels: DeJuan C3P0
By DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
There are two reasons why I am pissed today.
One, that strung-out Marv wants me to check in for Game 7 of the Sabres-Hurricanes tonight, which would normally be well and good. But let's be honest, hockey is a bitchface bore ever since Barry Melrose decided to lose the mullet (in the 'hood, we call that shit "selling your soul") and that makes tonight hella boring for me.
Also, the damn Scripps Spelling Bee is on my television! Now there is nothing in life like watching 13 and 14-year-olds who have any number of social shortcomings and will cure cancer someday but never get laid. Those dudes are a kick. You get the feeling while they're waiting in the green room, sipping champagne and smoking a gar, that they could put their heads together and take over the damn world. But they won't, because they don't know how to make eye contact, and they also want to kick the shit out of each other.
It's like watching Children of the Corn, my bitches. Children of the damn corn. I totally knew how to spell the word "phalarope," by the way, which I believe is Greco-Roman for "in the pants."
Anyway, hockey is a great game, based loosely on the Sega Genesis gold mine "NHL 95," and you better believe my Legion of Doom could dominate those Russian Roulette Red Wings when it came down to it. The Sabres have been led by the incomparable Pat LaFontaine and Dominik Hasek, while the Hurricanes are a franchise based on Hartford The Whale, led by Ron Francis.
Yes that was a Wayne's World reference ... you don't think I get white people humor? Yeah, you're probably right. But Tia Carerre is a fox.
Whoa, looking at these rosters have me all turned around. I guess there were some changes since the days of NHL 95. I don't know who I give the edge to, but I think I can make a pretty safe comparison based on the names I see here.
GOALIES:
Buffalo's Ryan Miller is a rookie and has a damn boring name. Martin Gerber and Cam Ward are also rookies with damn boring names. As we learn from the spelling bee, young dudes in big situations often start twitching and shit, and I think they'll all start twitching at the same time. No advantage.
DEFENSEMEN:
If I said, "Yo, broham, here are my friends Henrik and Toni," you would probably think I was talking about my peeps working down at the local massage parlor, not dudes on my blue line. Also, according to intel provided by my inside sources, Henrik Tallinder is a sissy cuz he ain't playing with a broken arm. Carolina has some cat named Frantisek Kaberle, which sounds like something Steven Seagal would do to your ass if you tried disrespecting him. Steven Seagal is my boy. Advantage: Hurricanes.
WINGERS:
Buffalo has some dude named Jochen Hecht, and he's from West Germany, which is impossible because West Germany doesn't exist. At least, not since David Hasselhoff was sent there to tear down that wall. Therefore, the dude must be old school, and you have to love old school. You know who else is old school? Maxim Afinogenov, who was born in the USSR. Dog, when you're a dude playing without a country, you are one scary motherfucker.
And hold on for a second, this Mike Grier fella ... he's a brother! They have brothers in hockey? Dog, I thought my boy Shani Davis was the only black man on skates, but I think we know this bodes well for the Sabres. If you check his ass into the boards, he'll pull out a piece and then steal your ride. That's fundamental hockey, if you ask me.
Carolina has Mark Recchi, who is best known for his work on my Legion of Doom team. Still, this dude is like 60 years old, and did I mention Buffalo has a black man on their team? They're gonna play the Canadian National Anthem, the Star Spangled and then Gin and Juice over the loudspeakers. Advantage, Buff.
CENTERS:
Buffalo has Daniel Briere and Chris Drury, which is fine, I guess. But Carolina has Rob Brind'Amour, also a member of DeJuan's Doomers. Is there really any comparison? I disrespected my people once by going against Recchi, and I can't do that again. Canes.
So in the end, it's 2-1-1, which looks a lot like hockey because there are ties. Or don't they do that shit anymore? Whatever, it's really close, so I think Carolina will win 6-1 or something. Bold prediction. I'll be sitting courtside, throwing my squid and my hat on the ice after the first goal so I can fit in. Keep a lookout for DeJuan when you're dialed in to Game 7 on the edge of your seat. Peace out bitches.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0
By DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Yesterday was a crazy day, my bitches. Dude Marv with the wack beard and that voice that sounds like Dennis Hopper from "Speed" gives me a call at damn near 6:30 a.m., a full eight hours before I was planning on rolling out of my Mattress of Magic, where the fine LaToya Hudson or someone who kind of looks like her slept beside me. After he blabbered about some damn airplane invading his airspace, he told me to get to San Francisco, pronto amigo, for live coverage of Barry Bonds chasing Baby Ruth.
Now, I ain’t gonna lie, I don’t know a whole helluva lot about baseball. Ever since all the black dudes started speaking Spanish, I haven’t been able to follow it that closely. I don’t even know why it’s such a big deal for Barry to track down some guy with a stupid-ass nickname, for second place on some chart. But whatever, DeJuan has gots to get paid, so off I went.
I’ve decided to call this segment "Deep Thoughts With DeJuan C3P0." Dude, I hope it moves you to damn tears.
9:00 a.m. Dog, don’t ever bring a ceremonial spear, obtained during the "DeJuan Doesn’t Do Disco"tour of 2001, in your carry-on when you fly United. Skanky-ass LAX security guard stole it from me, and told me if I didn’t just give to him, he wouldn’t let me on the plane. Shit. That’s my spear.
9:45 a.m. Wheels up and pants off! The fat man in the business suit sitting next to me wasn’t so pleased with this development, but man, that’s the luck of the draw when you’re on an airplane. If you’re worried about your neighbor, then drive your damn car. Pretty little stewardess told me to step off and put them back on or she’d call the captain. Dog, I know the captain has to fly the plane, I wasn’t born yesterday ... but I agreed if she gave me a free vodka and tonic. Suit ended up paying for it. Dog, the world is your oyster if you know where to swim. Wasn’t that shit profound?
11:30 p.m. San Francisco is in for a treat with DeJuan C3P0 on their home soil. After perusing the gift shop (I wanted to buy that LaToya chick a T-shirt that said, "I escaped Alcatraz." That shit is clever as hell), I also purchased a Baby Ruth candy bar. Because that is irony, and hot shit, I love irony.
12:30 p.m. I find a hotel and catch up on some lost sleep. I think my room is haunted, folks, cuz every time I turn on the TV, it’s always the same channel no matter where I turned it off. Creeps me out, dog, I don’t do ghosts. Speaking of ghosts, I’ve heard a lot about this Baby Ruth character trying to prevent Bonds from reaching his home run total from beyond the grave. Baby Ruth, let it go, that was like, 20 years ago. Move on.
2:30 p.m. Here I am at beautiful Candlestick Park. Ain’t nobody here. Can’t even get into the building. What is this shit?
3:30 p.m. Here I am at beautiful AT&T Park. Couldn’t reach Marv on his cell phone (I think 2-5 are his hours designated for blackouts), but Curtis hooked me up with some good information and told me to keep an eye out for his favorite joint right down by the Candlestick, and they gave me the prime location for Giants baseball. Place called "Backyard Baseball" -– clever name and shit. And real nice dudes. Dog, people here in San Francisco are just so damn nice. One even offered to give me a ride himself, but I don’t think he had a car. Weird.
4:00 p.m. Here I am in the Giants dugout, talking to players, drinking some beers and having a good time. Curtis told me I had to say hello to Noah Lowry for him, but dude, Lowry ain’t ever heard of Curtis. There’s Pedro Gomez from the TV, so I get his autograph and shit. Damn, everybody keeps looking at me weird ... I’m just another journalist like you people, man. Here comes Barry now!
4:45 p.m. Great conversation with Bonds, man. We talked one-on-one about history and Baby Ruth and why his head is so damn big and women and all kinds of shit. Everybody’s just standing around, waiting to get a crack at Bonds and I know they’re jealous cuz they ain’t even looking in my direction. Here I am, totally shooting the shit like we’re old friends. Great times. Dog, I never knew Barry Bonds had a Latin accent, and why does he have "Benitez" written on the back of his jersey? Is this like the witness protection program or something? Homie, I think we all know who you are.
5:15 p.m. Everybody tries talking to this other guy, but he won’t talk to them, so I don’t know why they keep trying. Stupid journalists. This dude has his own little reclining chair that looks kind of comfortable, so I take a seat after he’s up, and he’s all like "Bleep bleep bleep bleep, get outta my fucking chair, whatever." Security kicked me out dog. I didn’t see that dude’s name on it, so what of that? Chairs are like music man –- shit that doesn’t belong to any one person, but to the world.
7:05 p.m. Seven hot dogs and a whole lot of press box milkshakes later, I’m ready for baseball. They announce Bonds’ name beforehand and everybody gives him a standing ovation, so I stand and clap too since it seems like the thing to do. Everyone sure does love Bonds, which is surprising cuz he whines a lot and talks about how the world hates him. Shit, I been doing that for years, and nobody gives me no round of applause.
7:21 p.m. Bonds dude walks in his at-bat, which is too bad, because I really wanted to see history get made or something. Looks like he had his chance and blew it. I decide to stick around, just on the off chance that he gets another at-bat.
8:09 p.m. He’s back and this time he hits a shallow fly ball to Juan Pierre in center during the fourth inning. Man, nice catch Juan. Later on, I heard people on the radio talking about how Juan robbed Bonds from the big home run and stole one and made this amazing catch. I thought it was nice, but nothing special. Whatever, I’m out of here, Bonds had his chance to win my love.
8:35 p.m. I see these two dudes on the way out, Chad and Lance, and I totally recognize them from Backyard Baseball. They’re so friendly and shit and want to know if I’m headed back to the bar and I say hell yes, so away we go. Place is kind of dark and there are not nearly enough fine women around for my liking, but dude, this place looks like it knows how to party.
9:25 p.m. I could go into greater detail, but dog, I’m back at the hotel and not drunk and probably never coming back to San Francisco. You can find another man to cover the Bonds thing, Marvy, cuz people in this town are not what they seem. I’m going back to L.A. as soon as I can, bitches, back to my Mattress of Magic where everything made a whole lot more sense. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for Barry Bonds, so I hope the ghost of Baby Ruth kicks your ass so bad. Peace out, homies.
Labels: DeJuan C3P0
By DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe
Dog, someone electrocuted Chris Shelton.
I mean, just look at that trainwreck of a face. He looks like he hasn't been in the sun since he popped out of his mama, and his eyes are all googly and such. Dude is getting a jolt of lightning straight up his ass. And if that wasn't proof, how about the nine homers he's hit in the first two weeks of baseball?
But who is Chris Shelton? I, DeJuan C3P0, master journalist of the people, did an in-depth profile of the greatest sensation to sweep the Major Leagues since entrance music for closers.
(Yo, and what of that? My boy Mariano Rivera getting all huffy cuz Billy Wagner also wants to use "Enter Sandman" when he walks onto the field? Dog, EVERYBODY enters to Metallica or some damn rock band. Be original, homies. Shit, if I was closing down a game, you better believe I'd be entering to "Straight Outta Compton" or "Stop Being Greedy" by my MAIN DOG DMX. Shit, ain't nobody that wants to mess with DMX. He'll just kill your ass if you hit his two-seamer. Then he'll kill all your friends, your agent and your goldfish. You better believe he'll lead the league in WHIP and K's.)
Anyway, Chris Shelton was born in Utah and never left the state until he was drafted in the 33rd round of the Major League Baseball draft in 2001. He lived in Salt Lake City and went to the University of Utah, where he got down with his four wives and spent lots of time being white with his colleagues, like Andrew Bogut.
Let me tell you, I've seen the Pirates. If they think there are 32 people better than you in the draft, dog, you need to take up something else, like lawyering or missionary or something. Pittsburgh has Victor Santos in the rotation, dog. DMX would crush that dude just by looking at him and saying "Stop! Drop! Shut 'em down open up shop!"
Oh-oh. No-oh.
But still, this white boy was special. After the Detroit Tigers selected Shelton in the Rule 5 draft (which is some complicated shit ... I give him credit for just surviving), he hit 18 homers or something in 2005. In 2006, after smoking the same magic gange that Brady Anderson lit up a few years back, the little white boy that could is hitting home runs like they're going out of style.
Dog, let's ponder a laughable moment ... what if Chris Shelton breaks Barry Bonds' 72 homers? Dude already has nine, in 13 games. What the hell would the media talk about? Barry Bonds, records, perjury, asterisks, big heads ... shit, none of that matters if Chris Shelton and his four wives are on the cover of Sports Illustrated and in the record book (for most homers AND most wives by a Major League Baseball Player). I giggle and raise my glass.
Yo, that's good vodka. Oh-oh. No-oh.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this damn in-depth look at the unstoppable Greek God force that is Chris Shelton. We are moving into a new era, my bitches. Between Thome and Shelton and David Eckstein, we are back to the time when wholesome white boys dominated the sport, and also one lawn gnome.
