Labels: Guest Columnist
By Shaun Marcum
Some guy
Did you see the news in the other dugout this morning?
I bet you did. Major controversy in Yankeeland -- Johnny Damon doesn't think it's a good idea that Joba Chamberlain has been put into a starting role! The Yankees just haven't been on the same page this year and I, for one, am heartbroken. I know how important the Yankees' success is to the rest of the universe.
I was worried that we wouldn't have anything to say about Joba today. It's been almost two days since he started a game and got shellacked, helping us win the game and drain the Yankees' bullpen at the same time. That was the biggest story in baseball so far this year, so I was really excited to see how it unfolded. Joba is the reason baseball is such a popular sport in America, after all.
Not that I'd know. I'm in Canada most of the time. And let's be honest, nobody gives a shit about Canadian baseball. No, I didn't say Canadian bacon. Yeah, I saw how you stopped paying attention just now.
I know I have a 2.63 ERA and 67 strikeouts in 78 innings this year, with a WHIP well under 1.00. But ho-hum. That pales in comparison to the 50 amazing innings Chamberlain has thrown in his storied career. He's got a ton of strikeouts, a low ERA, and he kind of looks like Babe Ruth. I mean, that's why he's so huge, right? Because he's fat and kind of looks like Babe Ruth? I just figured that was the case, since he hasn't really done anything yet that should make people think he's the greatest Yankee ever.
I kind of look like that younger guy from "Married ... With Children." That's got to stand for something. But I definitely shouldn't be compared to Joba's greatness -- I mean, I'm practically middle-aged at age 26, and we really don't have much going for us in Toronto. Let's take a look at some pitchers we have, and you'll see why nobody's giving us 1/100th of the coverage given to Joba, even though we have the best starting pitching ERA in baseball:
Jesse Litsch, nine months older than Joba, 7-2, 3.45 ERA. Yawn. I totally understand why nobody talks about this guy. What a dumb name: Jesse Litsch. Maybe if his name sounded vaguely like a Star Wars character, things would be different.
Dustin McGowan, 4-4, 3.95 ERA. Also 26 though, so he's practically a grandpa. Wake me up when we start talking about Joba, who was the 75th-rated prospect in baseball by Baseball America in 2007. That means there were only seventy-four players ranked ahead of him when he became such a celebrity. How awesome!
Roy Halladay, 7-5, 2.94 ERA. He's fine, I guess. He's thrown three complete games this year and gone 8 or more innings in five out of his 10 starts, but it's not about guys who can throw whole games anymore. It's about guys who appear in one-or-two batter situations and has rules named after him. Nobody's talking about Roy Rules, dude.
AJ Burnett, strikes out just short of a guy an inning, but boring! I've always thought if Burnett would say more outlandish things in the media, people might pay attention to him like they pay attention to Joba and his crazy celebrations.
It'll be a shame when we leave New York and get away from all the coverage of Joba, because I, for one am fascinated, and am honoured to have seen him pitch first hand.
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Isiah Thomas
NBA Mastermind
How very exciting that my hometown Chicago Bulls have been granted the first overall pick in this year's NBA Draft. I was hoping that my current team, the New York Knicks, had done enough in the regular season to merit the top pick, but I was disappointed when lady luck did not smile upon our franchise, which has been hit with some bad luck over the past few years.
I'd like to think if I hadn't traded all my draft picks the past couple years, I would have made some franchise-changing successes. If I presided over the Bulls -- say someone gave me a phone call and asked me to be their head coach -- then I know what I would do this year.
A lot of people are simplifying this draft down to two players -- Derrick Rose and Michael Beasley. Both are nice players, but I think some outside-the-box thinking is always a good idea when you're trying to turn your franchise around. You have to see potential where others have not found out, like in Eddy Curry or Jared Jeffries. You have to stick your neck out there to have success.
So rather than go with the obvious consensus selections, I submit another name to you, Chicago. Danilo Gallinari.
Foreign players aren't often as glamorous as the stateside guys, but there is some very simple logic here. My good friend Joe Dumars had the No. 2 pick not that long ago and had to choose between a European superstar and a college freshman who had just come away from playing in the national title game. He chose Darko Milicic -- and immediately won the NBA Championship that year. That's what it's all about. I salute Joe Dumars for making the call.
I urge Chicago to do the same. You obviously can't use the overall top pick on a guard like Rose, and there are just some non-specific things I don't like about Beasley. But Gallinari has the full package, and I think the Bulls would be wise to take my advice.
Take it from me. I drafted David Lee. Call me, John Paxson.
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Jim Abbott
One-Armed Man
On September 4, 1993, I had one arm.
But that didn’t stop me from no-hitting the Cleveland Indians while wearing the New York Yankees pinstripes. You have to admit, that’s pretty impressive. I had ONE ARM and still worked nine innings without allowing a hit.
Jon Lester has a great story, don’t get me wrong. The dude overcomes cancer to throw a no-hitter for the Red Sox, and good for him. Nice kid, etc. But they have relays and benefits and galas and all kinds of stuff to raise money for cancer. You don’t see anybody raising money for kids with stubby arms. Hell, George Steinbrenner actually said it was an unnecessary distraction in 1993 when I was visiting disabled kids in the hospital!
So no offense to Jon Lester, but my no-hitter was way cooler. Way more interesting. I HAVE ONE ARM! I’d shake hands with you, but I can’t. Doesn’t mean you can hit my curveball.
Somewhere along the way, the world stopped caring about the New York Yankees. It used to be that they got all the coverage, but now it’s all about the Boston Red Sox. So when Lester does his thing, ESPN can’t stop talking about it. How many times have you see Jacoby Ellsbury make the diving catch, or Alberto Callaspo strike out to end the game, and it has barely been 24 hours?
Who is Alberto Callaspo anyway? These are the Royals. When I threw my no-hitter, I dominated guys like Kenny Lofton, Carlos Baerga, Albert Belle, Manny Ramirez, Jim Thome and Sandy Alomar, Jr. And Felix Fermin.
I HAVE ONE ARM!
By Dwight Gooden
Doc Feel Good
On May 14, 1996, I wasn’t exactly in my heyday. I did most of my damage before I turned 21 years old, in fact, accumulating something like 1,000 strikeouts before I could legally (tee-hee) drink. Look at my numbers in 1985, when I had 24 wins, 268 strikeouts and a 1.53 ERA. Hello, those numbers are insane! It was shortly after that when I also went insane. Thanks to cocaine.
Eric Clapton said it best when ne noted that cocaine, she don’t lie, and she sure as hell didn’t want me to keep playing baseball. I was spending time with my favorite lady when I missed the Mets’ World Series victory parade in 1986. Relationships are hard, man, and sometimes you gotta make sacrifices. I’d say I sacrificed a lot to be with coca cola.
I almost got my ass released in April of 1996 because I was pitching so badly in one of my comeback attempts, but then I no-hit the Seattle Mariners at Yankee Stadium. I sure as hell hadn’t thrown a no-hitter when I was young and awesome, but here I was – an old man who just wanted a hit, and yet threw nine innings without a single one. That’s legendary stuff, folks. Way better than Jon Lester’s story.
Since Lester pitches for the Red Sox, ESPN is behaving like he just saved the world or something. I know he had cancer and all, but they’ve got incredible medicine for that sort of thing. For me, the medicine WAS the issue. It’s hard to overcome your problems that way.
I wish ESPN paid more attention to other teams in baseball – like the Yankees.
By Nolan Ryan
Owns Robin Ventura
I threw seven.
Labels: Guest Columnist
Mel Kiper
Regular Guy
So how did the NFL Draft go?
Normally, as many of you know, I'm on it like Sonic. It's how I made my name. But not this year. Nope, you'll never guess what happened this year: My daughter decided to schedule her wedding for the weekend of the NFL Draft.
Can you believe that?
Out of all the weekends of the year, she decided this weekend was when she wanted to get hitched to that boyfriend of hers. Well, I guess he's her husband now. Whatever.
After everything I've done in my career, working my tail off to get scoops and watch thousands of hours of film, all to make a name for myself, just so I can put food on the table for my family -- this is how she repays me? By setting a wedding date for the NFL Draft? Did she do this to rebel against me?
I bet most of you woke up Saturday and lounged on the couch, eating delicious junk food and watching all the relevant analysis of each player selected. You groaned at certain picks. You ooh'd at others. Oh I bet those crazy Jets did something wacky again.
Well, I didn't get to watch like you did. I spent Saturday morning getting final alterations made on my tuxedo, and running around to make sure that there were enough prawn wontons for the reception. Then I zoomed over to the church and helped lug around flowers to get things in place for the ceremony.
After I gave my daughter away (a bittersweet moment!), I had to get to the reception and mingle with the 300-plus guests in attendance. There was so much talking, I barely had time to eat hors d'oeuvres. I managed to get in the dance with my daughter, pay the DJ and then see the happy couple off on their honeymoon. Finally, I collapsed into bed.
Sunday, we still had dozens of family members left in town, so we had to endure a brunch in the morning, then go for a drive around town so they could see what was new. By the time that was over, it was time for dinner at Fuddruckers. Then I had to drive the grandparents to the airport so they could catch their flight back to Boca Raton.
By the time I got back to the house, the Draft was already over and I had missed everything.
So, what happened? Did Glen Dorsey go to the Rams like I predicted? How far did Brian Brohm fall? Where did Limas Sweed wind up? San Francisco? Philadelphia?
Damn this empty feeling in my stomach. I feel so incomplete and so without purpose. Will my career recover from this? I hope people missed me on Draft Day. I missed you, after all.
Well ... I guess now that the draft is over, I'll just retire to the basement for a while. I've been meaning to catch up on some films. I hear "Juno" was pretty funny.
If you'll still have me, I'd like to talk about the 2009 Draft. I think George Selvie will be a surprise top pick. And watch out for Michael Oher. He's a good one.
Well. I guess I'll catch you guys later. Have a good year.
Bye.
Labels: Guest Columnist
Pigskinius
Football God
I am Pigskinius, Football God! Ye shall feel my wrath!
For years, one of my duties has been to properly administer punishment against horrendous football commentator John Madden by smiting he who is bestowed with cover honors on the annual Madden video game. I have fulfilled my duties with precision and great success. But now! Now comes an attempt to thwart my authority. And I am angry.
This year, the creators of the video game have adorned Brett Favre on the cover, even though Favre recently proclaimed his intent to retire. How can I ensure the Madden Curse if the man has already promised to never play again? It's a conundrum that defies the Cosmos, and for this, there will be consequences.
The world is not in balance as long as John Madden is allowed to speak into a microphone, where he insults the game of football with exasperated expressions and meaningless mumbo jumbo. The Football Gods are most displeased that he is allowed to desecrate our favorite game.
The subversion shown by the video game community will not be tolerated. Each year, I expect a sacrifice to be made on the Madden cover, but this year is a significant skimming of penance. And so my vengeful wrath shall be felt in totality.
You do not want to isolate a single player to feel the Madden Curse? Then I shall find a way to bring suffering to each of the league's 25 best players, as I deem them to be. Pay heed, league executives, for you will need to address your future needs in this weekend's NFL draft. The following players will be stricken with season-damaging ailments:
LaDainian Tomlinson (broken ankle), Petyon Manning (concussion), Champ Bailey (broken fibula), Ed Reed (pulled hamstring), Shawne Merriman (drug suspension), Brian Urlacher (wounded in Lance Briggs dragracing fundraiser), Antonio Gates (stabbed by Philip Rivers), Troy Polamalu (hair fracture), Julius Peppers (achy back), Tom Brady (remarkably persistent case of syphilis), Jason Taylor (teninitis caused by dancing), Walter Jones (ACL), Larry Fitzgerald (broken kneecap suffered in attack by Anquan Boldin), Orlando Pace (foot fracture), Osi Umenyiora (torn knee cartilage), Carson Palmer (Chad Johnson), Reggie Wayne (broken hand), Brian Westbrook (broken ankle), Terrell Owens (head explosion), Kevin Williams (broken arm), Patrick Kerney (fractured sternum), Mike Vrabel (ingrown toenail), Randy Moss (arrested for murder), Reggie Bush (broken ribs suffered during hit by Mario Williams) and Steven Jackson (playing for Rams).
You will learn from your misdeeds. I am Pigskinius!
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Prince Fielder
Hungry
All right, fine. I get it. Being a vegetarian was a bad idea.
I remember last year, when I'd fly-out to the warning track, I'd come back to the dugout and my teammates would say, "Should have had one more hot dog before the game, Prince." And we'd all laugh. And then I'd eat a hot dog and hit a homer in my next at-bat.
Now, when I hit it to the warning track and just miss a home run, there is awkward silence when I return to the dugout.
I don't blame my teammates. What are they supposed to say? "Should have had another scoop of hummus, Prince"? Or, "Well, chew on a few more spinach leaves next time, buddy"?
Fuck this. I'm eating a cheeseburger.
That's right. After I finish writing this article, I'm going down to Sobelman's and I'm going to have a big-ass double cheeseburger with a side of buffalo wings. I might even have some chicken strips, too, if I have time.
Then, on my way to the ballpark, I'm going to stop by the drive-through at Culver's and grab a butterburger to tide me over until after the game. I bet I rock the party to the tune of 3-for-4 with two homers and a greasy gapper double.
After the game, I'll probably make a quick stop at Fuddrucker's for a breaded tenderloin and a tall glass of Miller Lite.
No more lazy fly balls to the outfield, or weak grounders to second base. The Prince is coming back. No more popping up hanging curveballs. No more taking shit from Gabe Kapler because he has four times as many home runs as I do. I'll just be like, "Hey Gabe, remember that time you did this?"
Then I'll eat a 20-pack of chicken nuggets from Mickey D's.
Aw yeah, the Prince is coming back. Look out National League, because I'm full of protein, and I'm coming after you.
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Sue Snow
Sandusky Rec Dept. Secretary
Folks gathered in front of the Rec Department office window this morning at 8 a.m. when the official Sandusky Monday Night Men's Softball League schedule was released, as mandated by league commissioner Harvey Wilcox, Jr.
As always, there are several highlights to discuss with this year's schedule, which features 10 teams hungry for a championship. Rec Dept. employee Martha Burgess presented a live blog on www.sanduskyrec.com during this morning's proceedings, and Harvey answered questions online as part of a live two-hour chat.
Unfortunately, we had to share our schedule release with another league, but that didn't dampen our enthusiasm. We went right ahead with the festivities.
Probably the most exciting matchup of the year will pit Bob's Bakery against Fireman's No. 323, in Week 3. As you know, the second week of May is often a rainy one, so there is some concern that this game could get moved to a week after the originally-scheduled regular season. If the Farmer's Almanac is correct and we do get the showers, this would set up one heck of a season finale, against teams that took first and third in last year's standings.
That Battle of David Coulthard will take place in Week 7, when Enetek Systems (having recently fired David after a heavily publicized sexual harassment lawsuit) battles with David's new team, IniPro. David hit .689 last year with 20 home runs in 42 plate appearances, making his offseason move the most significant in the Sandusky Rec Softball League. There's bound to be some bad blood and I, for one, am simply in a tizzy.
Rivers, Johnson and Schlosser and Associates, one year after suffering through several injuries and finishing just 1-9, will return with renewed optimism. They get the featured 9:10 p.m. game next Monday in Week 1, taking on The Watering Hole, which was able to re-assemble a team this year after a series of DUIs cost the team its infield last year, compelling a series of forfeits. Remember that if your team fails to show, you forfeit your 200 dollar deposit, and you also get an angry Sue Snow on the case! Tee-hee-hee.
Sue's Game to Watch: Week 6 -- Bantam Corp vs. Enetek. One week before facing old foe Coulthard, will Enetek look past a Bantam team looking to jump into the league's upper tier? Pitcher Bill Villalobos, who issued only 6 walks last year, returns to Banta.
As always, stay tuned to sanduskyrec.com for updates.
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Michael Beasley
Droopy-Eyed Basketball Wonder
Let’s be honest with ourselves. I’m pretty awesome at basketball.
I’ve been lucky, I guess. Blessed with people who have pushed me in life and blessed with natural gifts. I have a big decision to make: Whether to go pro or stay in college for another year at Kansas State. I gotta tell you, it’s a really tough call.
I know a lot of people think I’m going to be the top pick in the NBA Draft and make millions of dollars, but I have to think about the big picture. Education is really important to me, and it’s something the coaches who recruited me really sold me on. Kansas State has some incredible programs, and you can’t put a price tag on a degree. Not even a really big, eye-popping price tag.
Sure, I’ll be playing with against lesser competition, risking injury and thus a lot of money, and probably not even getting the same TV time I would if I were in the NBA, but there are a lot of intangibles that people don’t understand.
If I stayed in college, I could eat Ramen noodles with my friends at 2:30 a.m. while watching re-runs of The Simpsons. That’s priceless, man, and most people get to enjoy four years of that stuff. For me, it would just be one. Plus there’s getting up at 8 a.m. (sometimes – haha, even I miss a seminar or two) and walking to class. You don’t even need a car to get around, because everything is so close. It’s the perfect life. Man, those communists had it good. I learned about them in Prof. Hillman’s history class.
Water gun fights on the weekends? Playing sandlot baseball in an open field by the dorms? Man, that’s awesome stuff. Sure, playing basketball before thousands of people calling your name in an arena and earning endorsement deals has its appeal. But it doesn’t have the heart, ya know?
I always tell myself I’d never be that guy who should declare for the NBA Draft, but takes forever for no good reason, and then declares anyway. But now that I’m at this crossroads in life, it’s just not that easy of a decision.
Yeah, I had a nice year in college and I’ll probably be OK when I get to the pros. But there will be a learning curve – and maybe I’d just rather spend my formative years learning about philosophy and how to be a good leader and friend, instead of how to slam dunk between three 7-foot-2 guys.
Nah, fuck it. I’m going pro. Who’s ready for the Bease?
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Libby Perkins
Hates Broccoli
This year, I successfully defended my age group championship in the Sandusky Free Throw Challenge, sponsored by the Sandusky Jaycees. I won a big trophy last year when I was 9, and this year I got another one for being the best 10-year-old girl in the competition. I made 84 out of 100 free throws at Walter Church Middle School. Daddy said I'm his special little girl, and he thinks I can play varsity basketball someday.
Free throws are pretty easy though. So how come Memphis couldn't make any in the national championship game last night? Jesus Christ. It's not that hard!
It's only 15 feet. The key is to bend your knees, I think, and to try to do the same thing every single time. It's not like you have to shoot over a defender or dribble-drive. You just set your feet, twirl the ball around, bounce once, and fire. Swoosh!
This year, Dana VanderSchlossen had 80 free throws made, and I was really worried that she was going to catch me. That would have sucked. But I hit all of my last 10 free throws and won the big prize. I got my picture in the paper and everything.
I don't get why it's so hard for Memphis guys to make free throws. They only hit 7-of-16 in the second half, and that basically cost them the game, because it went to overtime. Chris Douglas-Roberts, Derrick Rose, all of you -- what was the problem?
I know Memphis' coach was saying all tournament how free throws weren't important. I don't think they're important either. How can the easiest part of the game be the most important?
You know, there's no shame in just throwing them off the backboard. That's not how I do it, but I've seen it done. Banking is pretty easy. Swallow your pride, Memphis. Or, if you want me to check into the game when you need someone to make free throws, I can do it. By the time I get to college, I'll have a lot of Free Throw Challenge trophies, which I keep in my room next to my Barbies.
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Dick Vitale
Yeller
I tell you, NCAA Tournament time is my favorite time of the year. It is with so much pleasure each spring that I watch young men hoop it up on the hardwood, giving it their all in pursuit of the ultimate crown: An NCAA title.
While I am a fan of basketball on any level, I prefer the college game to the NBA. The sheer love of the sport, coupled with the passion of the students and pep bands, makes for an experience like no other.
And the players! In the past, I have loved rooting for players like Trajan Langdon, Carlos Boozer, Elton Brand, JJ Redick, Chris Duhon, Grant Hill, Jason Williams, Christian Laettner, Shane Battier, Bobby Hurley, Johnny Dawkins, Corey Maggette, Shelden Williams and Steve Wojciechowski.
All of those guys brought something different to the table, and all of them rank among my favorite basketball players ever. I don't even know if I could choose a favorite. They all inspired a deep, longing love inside of me.
But I must confess, this year I felt something different. One little player gave me a different type of feeling. One sharpshooting young man who seemed different than all of the others. And that young man is Stephen Curry from Davidson.
Stephen wasn't like all of the others that I've loved. This love was fleeting; it was fast. While I had time to dote and dwell on the magnificence of my other loves, Stephen swooped in from nowhere. He was different, and I couldn't figure out why. In my brain, I knew it was love. But my heart did not understand. He was so mysterious and wondrous, like Johnny Depp in Chocolat.
Along with this brief passion, I felt guilt. I did not understand the reason behind this emotion either. No matter how much I tried to suppress this feeling, it still popped up. Why did loving this boy from a school of 1,700, the son of an NBA three-point specialist, make me feel such a rollercoaster of emotions?
I was torn. I knew my love was true, but it felt forbidden.
And then suddenly, as quickly as those feelings came, they were gone. Stephen Curry had left my life and my feelings were gone with it. Was it real? Had it really happened? This new flame, this new desire had been snuffed out nearly as quickly as it had warmed my insides.
While I enjoyed my time with Stephen, watching him nail three-pointers and floaters as well as anyone I've ever seen, I knew it wasn't to last. I knew this was a fling. A tryst. Something that can never be repeated. I felt sadness, but -- at the same time -- satisfaction.
What does this all mean?
Ahh, you know what, who cares!? I'm ready to rub whipped cream on my nipples and watch Tyler Hansbrough's hard-working, passionate desire of gritty fortitude dominate the Final Four! North Carolina, baby! It's the Final Four! It's tremendous! I'm in orgasmic ecstasy, baby! Awww yeahhhhhh!
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Cinderella
Animated Icon
Look, I know I'm not the most attractive Disney creation, and I never had a Vera Wang dress to wear to the Prince's Ball, but I'm not exactly a hag, either. Have you seen my stepsisters, for example? Nasty, nasty wenches. By comparison, I like to think of myself as modestly cute.
That said, is it really SO surprising that I eventually hooked up with the Prince after the big night? I know I had a little help from the Fairy Godmother, but I'd probably equate my situation to an 11-seed beating a six in the NCAA Tournament. Sure, it wasn't expected, but was it totally out of the realm of possibility? No.
So here we are again, at the cusp of another tournament, and my name starts coming up on every ESPN and CBS broadcast. Somehow, I have become the poster child for underdogs everywhere -- specifically college basketball underdogs. Sure, I had a nice career in high school as an intramural point guard, but I've certainly never done enough on the basketball court for people to make this association.
Any way you slice it, I just don't want to be thought of as that girl overcoming unbelievable odds. Winning over the prince may have been unlikely, but not as unlikely as George Mason reaching the Final Four or Hampton beating Iowa State. All this Cinderella talk is like someone saying I'm the recipient of the Most Improved Player award. Did I really suck that much to begin with?
Pick somebody else to be the longshot. Everyone loves talking about David and Goliath, so why does that stop come tourney time? Maybe Davidson is this year's David, eh? What about the Patriots during the Revolutionary War? Broadcasters love Patriots, after all. Anybody ever heard of Hannibal (no, not the face-eater in Silence of the Lambs, you uncultured twits)? How about Robert the Bruce?
This probably has something to do with ESPN insisting on calling the 64-team tournament "The Big Dance," involving a series of punched dance tickets. Honestly, I haven't needed a ticket to go to a dance since I was in middle school, and if I did need one, they would probably have bar code scanners instead of hole-punchers. And why in a sport portraying masculine athletes do we need to name them after the girliest of girls? It's a pretty strange comparison, folks.
But whatever. I'm cheering for North Carolina this year (seriously, why are we even TALKING about Michael Beasley as Player of the Year? Get back to me if Kansas State gets into the Sweet 16), because nobody is going to call them Cinderella anytime soon.
Labels: Guest Columnist
Tom Looker
Neighborhood Watchman
Look, folks. I know all of American is up in arms about Bill Belichick and his spying habits. It seems that he has been spying on opponents since 2000, when he took over as the Patriots' head coach. This is according to Senator Arlen Spector, who apparently doesn't have anything better to do with his time.
And you know what I say? I say good for Bill Belichick.
Yeah, I see you, sitting there at your computer, indignation creeping across your face. I see your brow furrowing as you read that Belichick said he didn't know that he was doing anything illegal. I see the way your hand gently holds your mouse, deftly sliding it across the surface of your desk. I spy your left hand resting on your inner thigh.
And I sit here to say that Bill Belichick doesn't need to make excuses for a gosh darn thing. Those of us who spy, we are forced to deal with an unfairly nefarious reputation. We aren't evil. We just like to see the world around us. A world that vibrates with life and color, that breathes heavily with magic, and a world that contains so very many people who don't close their blinds all the way each morning when they step out of the shower.
It's a beautiful place, this world in which we live.
I admire Bill for being so open about what he does. And I think he was being honest when he told Roger Goodell that he was doing nothing illegal. It's the same way I feel when the cops come pounding on my door at 3 a.m., telling me that I'm not allowed to let my gaze drift across the street to the apartment where those three sorority girls live. What else am I supposed to do at that time of the night? Watch Matthew Lesko infomercials? The police order me to stop, and they even try to destroy my tapes that I've made. But I tell them I've done nothing wrong, and I truly believe that.
Life is short, and there is only so much time to soak up all of the allure that this world possesses. That's my philosophy, and I try to live each day and each dark, miraculous night by it.
So next time you thumb your pointy little nose at Bill Belichick for his spying habits, try to remember that you aren't so perfect either. And trust me, I know. I've seen what you eat for dinner, and what you Google-search for when your wife goes to her PTO meetings. You're not the only one familiar with Barnyard Tarts.
Now, why don't you push away your righteous irascibility, get up out of that chair and get into something a little more comfortable? I'd suggest that bathrobe that's hanging on that hook by your closet. The white one. No, no. Don't tie the front of it.
There. That's all I needed.
Labels: Guest Columnist
Kwame Brown
NBA Superstar
You know, I was sort of enjoying my life. I was chugging along, playing a part for the Lakers in Hollywood. I was pleased with my life, my career. Everything was good.
Then the world came crashing down around me last week, when I was traded to Memphis for Pau Gasol. I had to listen to people say things like, "Christ on a bike, why would the Grizzlies want Kwame Brown?" and "Man, that Kwame Brown turned out to be a bust. Can you believe he was the No. 1 pick in that draft?" and "Man, I hope they have cake in Memphis."
Now just hold up a god damn second, all right? What's all this bust talk? Why is it so hard for all you people to believe I was the first pick in the NBA Draft? You know who picked me first overall? Michael Jordan. His Airness. The greatest to ever lace them up. He chose me above all others, and I think that's worth something.
I was looking at some of the players picked after me in that draft, and really, who the hell would you have taken instead of me? It's like clown college. Amateur hour. Nerf ball, dude. Check out some of these pretenders that were drafted after me, and tell me with a straight face they would have been better choices at No. 1:
Tyson Chander: This dude has the smallest hands I've ever seen. Do you really want an NBA center who can't palm an orange?
Pau Gasol: Well, clearly, the Grizzlies think I'm better than he is, since they traded him for me. And they should know -- they saw him play every day for years. Also, he's a terrible cook. His chorizo tastes like a hot dog with AIDS.
Eddy Curry: You know how they set up chairs as defenders during NBA Draft workouts? From now on, they're just going to use Eddy Curry. Aww yeah! Burn, bitch!
Jason Richardson: Everyone talks about how much of a bust you are if you don’t light up the world after being taken first overall. What about the expectations for a guy who has won two NBA Slam Dunk titles? Nobody’s clamoring about his underwhelming ass being a bust. I look at him, and you know who I see? Harold Miner.
Shane Battier: Sharpei head.
Eddie Griffin: Who would you rather have manning the low post -- Kwame Brown, or a dead guy? That's what I thought.
Joe Johnson: If you play for the Hawks, you're not a star. Period.
Vladimir Radmanovic: Trust me, dude. I played with this cat for the last few months, and he never, ever showers after games. He just puts on some leather pants and an open-collared shirt and leaves. It's gross.
Kirk Haston: Does anyone even remember if he existed? That right there is an excellent cautionary tale about why you don't enroll in college for four years.
Zach Randolph: Two words: marshmallow man. Did you know that the dude has 300-plus field goals this season, and only TWO dunks? He's 6-foot-9, and he can't even get his fat ass off the ground to jam more than twice all year. If I wanted to watch a bunch of layups, I'd go to a WNBA game. Not that I can anymore, since Memphis doesn't even have the WNBA.
Brian Scalabrine: Pasty white with red hair. That has never, ever worked.
Tony Parker: Eva Longoria said he's only slept with, like, three women in his life. I get more tail than that in a week, just by wearing an Armani suit and telling women that I'm Amare Stoudemire.
Gilbert Arenas: Back in 2004, I started a trend of shouting "Green Egg!" every time I shot a free throw. Why the hell does "Hibachi!" catch on and not my idea?
So, as you can all see, I hold up pretty well to the competition, and that I was the right choice in that 2001 draft. I just hope Memphis knows how to support and please an NBA icon like me, because I'm ready to bring a championship to Tennessee in 2008. Bring on the barbecue! Green Egg!
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Rob and Rick
Morning Radio Show Hosts
Rob: Okay, Rick, let's talk about that big game coming up on Sunday.
*presses fart noise button*
Both: Hahahahaha
Rob: Seriously, though, it is a big game. Get your beer and wings ready.
Rick: Boobies.
Both: Hahahahaha
Rob: Okay, let's go to a caller out there. We've got Jason on the line. Jason, how's it going, you homo?
Jason: Uhhh. Fine, I guess.
Rick: *burps loudly*
Jason: I was going to ask if you guys had any opinions on the best place to watch the Super Bowl. I've got a few buddies coming into town and we were looking to --
Rob: Be gay together?
Rick: Heyyyyy ooo! *presses fart noise button*
Both: Hahahahahaha.
Rob: Ballsack.
Jason: I'm going to hang up now.
Rob: What a queerburger. Anyway, let us take this chance to remind you of our contest that we're running here at WMMC. We've got two free tickets to the Super Bowl to give away down here. And we are going to give them to the first girl to come down here to the station and show us her jumblie-wumblies in the studio.
Rick: *presses boing button to signify an erection*
Rob: So all of you ladies out there in radio-land, if you'd like to come down here and show us the goods, you can get two tickets for Super Bowl Forty-Two in Phoenix, Arizona!
Rick: You could use one ticket on each boob. *make a sound that simulates a motorboat*
Both: Hahahahahaha
Rob: And, don't forget, another thing about the Super Bowl that is so great is that you get to drink a lot of beer on a Sunday. I mean, not that I need an excuse to drink beer on a Sunday, but it's always ...
Rick: Hahahahahaha
Rob: ... good to have that built-in reason to buy some ice cold Bud Light.
Rick: ICE COLD!
Rob: Folks, it's the greatest weekend of the year! Rick, aren't you excited for the Super Bowl?
Rick: Yes. I'll, like, masturbate and fart on my leather couch.
*five-second clip of that "Numa Numa" song plays*
Rob: Hell yes! Rick and Rob will be right back with more Super Bowl coverage, right here on WMMC, 97.3, The Tit.
*26 minutes of commercials*
Rob: And we're back, bringing you Super Bowl coverage! We've got an exclusive interview here with Patriots' coach, Bill Belichick. Bill, how are you doing today?
Bill Belichick impersonater (in fake robot voice): I am good. Are you good?
Rob: Well, I'm not wearing any pants. And I just got rid of my Chipotle burrito from last night, if you know what I mean.
Bill Belichick impersonater (in fake robot voice): I do not know what you mean. Human excretion is not a concept I understand. I do not have time to defecate.
Rick: Poooooooop!
*presses fart button*
Rob: Oh, man. That is great. So Bill, do you ever check out players in the shower?
Bill Belichick impersonater (in fake robot voice): Yes. Randy Moss is terrifying.
Rob: Oh my god that's SO GAY!
*clip of "Anchorman" heard where Brian Fantana says, "You know, desire smells like that to some people."
Rob: OK, we've had enough of this guy for one day. Later on, you robotic retard!
Rick: Hahahahahahahahahaha
Rob: Hahaha
Rick: *shits his pants*
Rob: And here's a little Aerosmith for all you Bostonites out there, right here on WMMC, 97.3, The Tit.
Labels: Guest Columnist
By The Brain
Running the Show
I am the human brain.
There are lots of things I think about all day long. Lots of things because, my god, can you imagine how much thinking a person does in one day? Well, I sure can. I do all of that thinking. There's lots to think about -- what to do, what to say, what to wear, how to smile, what to laugh at, who to proposition, etc. That is how I roll, I'm the brain, that's the way it goes.
Every now and then I think something that's probably not appropriate. I'm sorry, it's not my fault, it's just the first thing that comes to mind. I'm not really censored or shit like that. Whoops, didn't mean to swear; good thing I didn't send that message to the mouth. The mouth and I work very closely together, we're good friends and, sometimes, I send messages too quickly.
When I send those messages too fast, that's when I get in (ooh, is that chicken marsala I smell? Oh my god I'm so hungry, really want chicken marsala) trouble. Sometimes I use naughty words that mean bad things and whoops I was just talking and dirty Jew! Oh dear. I can't believe I thought that, good thing I didn't say it out loud. I was watching South Park last night and sometimes that happens. Cocksucker. Whoa. I didn't say that, but after my third episode of The Sopranos, sometimes it slips. I'm sorry I'm the brain. Blame television.
Chicken. marsala. With mashed potatoes.
Do you know Kelly Tilghman? She's kind of hot, very hot, golf analyst and used a naughty word because her brain and mouth communicated too quickly and whoops that happens. It's more common than you think. It's just the way the brain works and it happens and you know what? It's super duper stupid to keep talking about it forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and thinking about it. It's over. All done now. It's not her fault she thinks so many things. You're allowed to think things. Do you know how many things run through everyone's mind? All the time? We're lucky that the mouth is so good at stopping most things or we'd all be in prison or dead.
I'd like a nice glass of wine with my chicken marsala. For the antioxidants. And the alcohol that makes me feel so good and warm.
Anyway, these thoughts might be pretty much harmless, and the only reason people don't think it's harmless is if you say them. (remember that one time I accidentally said that dress made my wife look fat? that was so bad she wouldn't let me sleep in the same bed for weeks). (::quick visual flash of makeup sex::). Yes. Where were we?
So if brain and mouth communicate too quickly, it's not my fault. It's not an ideal system we have here, but it's all we have. People move on. Can't make a big deal about it, move on, live your lives, eat your food. Eat your chicken marsala.
By Pac-ManLabels: Guest Columnist
Labels: Guest Columnist
Chris Paul
I am the best Paul, clearly. I'm only 22 years old, and I'm on pace to have a historic season. No player in NBA history has ever averaged 20 points, 10 assists and 3 steals per game.
Well guess what? I am on pace to do that.
I have had a fast start to my career. I was drafted third in the 2005 NBA Draft, behind Andrew Bogut and Marvin Williams. Oops -- Milwaukee and Atlanta -- you screwed up. Last year, in my second NBA season, I averaged 17 points and nine assists. And this year, I'm even better.
You probably don't hear too much about me, because I play for the Hornets and we have the lowest attendance in the NBA, despite a 23-12 record and several good young players. And we also have, you know, the presence of me, one of the best players in the NBA.
I'm lightning quick, I make everyone around me better, I'm a good shooter and I create havoc in the passing lanes on the defensive end. On top of it all, I am also the No. 1-ranked fantasy player in Yahoo Sports. I rarely make stupid turnovers. I'm what you could call a "heady" player. I am physically attractive.
Did I mention that I'm only 22 years old?
And did you know I'm a versatile two-sport athlete? In addition to my success on the basketball court, I'm successful on the other kind of hardwood -- the bowling alley. Yup, that's right. An NBA superstar who once bowled a 256.
So if you get a chance, check me out on the court. I think you'll be impressed, no matter where the Hornets are moved to, whether that is Oklahoma City, Kansas City, San Francisco or Arvada, Colorado.
Les Paul
I don't think this debate should really be that hard. I have been around for more than 60 years, bringing joy to musical venues around the world. I have beautiful curves and a wide variety of shiny, bold finishes that will catch even the most discerning eye.
And my tone. Oh, my lush, rich tone. Whether you need me to play smooth jazz motifs, soaring solos or chunky, palm-muted power chords that will remove your face from your skull, I can do it. I can do it all.
I have been favored by Slash, Ace Frehley, Duane Allman, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page and Zakk Wylde. Those are some illustrious groovers, wailers and shredders. And I was their vehicle.
I was chosen as the model guitar for Guitar Hero 3. You don't see a Fender Telecaster chosen for an honor like that. Nope -- they go with the best guitar in the history of musical instruments. Of course, guitars haven't been around all that long, but if Mozart had played electric guitar, he probably would have opted for a 1959 Cherry Sunburst Standard Model.
Combine me with a Marshall ten-stack and you get the most sexy, decadent tone imaginable. See my body gently hugging the waist of a band's sweaty frontman, and you'll feel a little movement inside your tattered jeans. Smell my hand-crafted maple and you'll probably collapse from sensory overload.
Damn. I am hot. Strap your hands around my flaming fretboard and stroke away.
That sounded kinda weird. But I am still the best.
Ron Paul
Shut up, all of you pinko commie faggots. Go back in the closet and burn in hell. I am the best Paul and if you don't believe me, I will shoot you (or a Jew) with one of my 19 firearms.
Labels: Guest Columnist
By The Count
Can you count to three?
AH AH AH, welcome sports fans! As I'm sure many of you know, I'm an arithmomaniac. That means whenever I see numbers, I can't help counting, AH AH AH! A few days ago, I was looking through the NBA news over at ESPN.com and I saw a story about Kobe Bryant looking to change his uniform number as early as next season.
Of course, this sent me into a counting rage. I counted my teacups, I counted my gothy candles, I counted the hairs in my widow's peak, I counted my ex wives and when I was finally done with all that, I settled down and pondered why a man would change the most important number in his life. Well, the most important number besides three (the number of NBA rings he has), 4,000,000, (the number of dollars he spent on his wife's "sorry" ring) and four-to-life.
Eight is a wonderful number! AH, AH, AH! It's the number of bits in a byte, it's a power of two, it's the atomic number of oxygen (that's pretty important, AH, AH!) and it's the number of legs on a spider.
It's also a very attractive number aesthetically: Its winding nature suggests the infinite talent and wisdom of the man who has grown to embody it. And if Kobe leaves eight behind, the only eight we'll have left in the NBA is that assclown Antoine Walker. And while I thought that old Adidas commercial with him as "Employee No. 8" ("I make baskets," what a great line, AH, AH, AH!) was good, let's face it: He's not half the octal embassador Kobe is.
Though I do appreciate that the new number he's considering taking -- 24 -- is still divisible by eight, I believe Kobe would be making a big mistake in switching numbers. Not to mention I'd have to go buy a new jersey to stay current. I guess it'd be worth it if my Lakers crush the shit out of those smarmy Suns, though. What I wouldn't give to throw on my purple and gold and shake my blood-sucking fanny in front of Grover. Bitch won't shut up about how they're this "team of destiny" and how great they are even without their starting power forward and how Steve Nash is like Cousy squared (No. 14 squared is 196 ... dammit, there I go again). I'll show that blue bastard what's up at the Finals when I moon him from my seat in the Staples Center. AH, AH AH!
Labels: Guest Columnist
By Keith Hernandez
I wear cleats
Hello, I'm Keith Hernandez.
Some of you may remember me from my days playing with the Mets, when I won the 1979 MVP award, or when I won two World Series with the team. I have more than 2,000 career hits, and a lifetime average of .296. And for those of you who find defensive prowess to be sexy, I'm an 11-time Gold Glove winner. Top that, Steve Garvey.
I also did a two-episode cameo on Seinfeld a few years back. I dated Elaine and called George a "chucker."
But enough about me. Let's talk about you out there. Are you a man? That's great. Glad to hear it. Are you a woman? Well, if you are, please get out of the dugout. You have no place there.
A lot of people are upset with me because I voiced those exact sentiments on-air during a game this past Saturday. After former gay Met Mike Piazza hit a home run, my eyes spied him giving a high-five to a raven-haired woman in the Padres dugout. Naturally, I was stunned. Not only because Piazza actually hit a dinger, but because he was celebrating with someone who had a vagina. In the dugout.
Now let me say that I'm all for "celebration" with women. After all, I'm Keith Hernandez. Say you have a big game -- by all means, live it up. Knock out two homers and drive in four one hot evening in Philadelphia? Take a buxom young blonde back to your hotel room and ring her liberty bell. Then let her make you a stack of pancakes and dust off your furniture. That's how it's done.
But please, don't engage in such tomfoolery while in the dugout. The dugout is a place for baseball talk, sporting gumption, tobacco chewing and sunflower seed spitting. It's where men adjust their genitalia and scratch that itch on their ass that just won't go away. A dugout is a sacred place. Its rugged steps are for cheering, the benches for lounging and the bat racks for idle talk about the opposing pitcher's two-seamer. And his wife.
Don't get me wrong. Women certainly have their place. Like I said, take them to your hotel room. Let them use your kitchen to cook meals for you. Hell, even let them use your bathroom to shower if you're feeling generous.
But they don't belong in certain places. The dugout is one of those places. So are board rooms, school administrative positions, executive offices, on stage as stand up comedians, in the military, in manual labor positions, as college professors, newsrooms, on Wall Street, any sort of engineering position, steel mills, scientists, airline pilots, Web development, the auto industry and book publishing.
So please, women, just get out of the dugout. You don't belong there. Would a man ever try to infiltrate your sewing circle or your weekly baking club? How about your frequent bitch-and-moan-about-everything-and-eat-a-pint-of-Haagen-Daas sessions? I don't think so. And if we did, you'd be just as upset as I am. We know our limits. Now you need to learn yours.
Thank you for your time. Until next time, I'm Keith Hernandez.
By Trent Bonner Labels: Guest Columnist
Systems analyst
This is a frustrating game to watch. I come here and pay my money just like everyone else, and I have to sit through this? Well, this is just totally unacceptable. These seats were expensive, those nachos were expensive, my beer was expensive and this is the way I’m treated?
First, you want me to just sit idly by and act like it’s OK that these players are running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. Well, it’s not OK, darnit! I’m a paying customer and I have my rights. And then, not only is this team playing like a thousand crudbuckets, the referees are completely blind out there. They don’t have a stinking clue! Hey baldy, have you ever heard of over-and-back? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
And I feel like I should be able to express my displeasure. But you want to stifle my rights as a paying customer, nay, as an American. I didn’t come here to take this guff so easily. Tell me why I deserve this. Tell me why I should have to sit here and take this treatment.
Tell me why I can’t wave my penis at that referee.
What better way to express my disappointment with this putrid mockery of a sporting event? Oh, loosen up, you old bat. You know you were looking at it from across the aisle. It’s a perfectly acceptable penis; it’s very well-suited for waving at blind and stupid referees. And don’t act like you’ve never seen one before. I bet you were a real tramp back in your hey day. Any 65-year-old woman who wears that much rouge is surely one of the whore’s ilk.
Oh, you’re only 47? Ha! Your face looks like my scrotum.
Which you just saw, by the way, thanks to the ineptness of that idiotic referee down there on the wing. No traveling? Well, my compadre, if you’re not going to watch the game, then take a good look at THIS!
It's happening again. My creativity has been squelched ever since I was a child. My grade school teachers repeatedly told me that I couldn’t get upset with poor grades and remove all my clothes, put my socks on my hands, stand on a chair and loudly recite the alphabet. Well, how else do you expect a nine-year-old to cope with life? And my high school art teachers always called my drawings "tacky," "inappropriate" and "extremely obscene." I guess there’s a reason those schmucks are limited to teaching public school art.
I am the true artist. While the rest of the 23,381 in attendance here today show their emotions via foam fingers and socially-acceptable clapping, I opt for the more demonstrative choice. And that choice is to wave my penis at this officiating crew.
Oh, security. Yup, here they come. That's real original. I expected this. A good paying customer tries to speak his mind and express himself, and they’re coming to take me away. Where are you going to take me, you fascist oppressors of freedom and liberty? To jail? It’s just a penis, folks. Both of you guys have one, though this tubby guy here may not have seen his in a while.
Well then, good sir, if that’s the case, I’ve got a treat for you!
