The Mitchell Report

I don’t understand why there’s such a hubbub about the Mitchell Report.

Were that many people truly tripped out over the revelation that prominent baseball players have used steroids? Actually, what sent my synapses spinning was that someone typed over 400 pages on the subject!

So a report covering the last 5-10 years of steroid abuse in baseball is longer than The New Testament. Apparently more guys popped roids over the last few years than Jesus dished out miracles during his whole human existence. Then again, Jesus was a lanky character. Maybe he should have let Moses inject HGH in his buttocks that one night at Esther’s birthday party. Everyone was doing it.

Anyway, the Mitchell Report is no more profound than a dog licking his own butt. It plainly states the obvious. Apparently over and over and over again. I’ve heard that Roger Clemens’ name was mentioned 83 times or something. Okay, we get the point! Roger Clemens likes it in the butt (hormone injections, that is). How much paper did this guy need to waste in order to get his message to the public.

I actually think that such a blatant waste of paper is a bigger deal than jocks using steroids. All I got to say is thank God for Adobe Acrobat and the PDF. Otherwise I would hunt George Mitchell down and shove a tree up his ass! Although I guess that would also be a waste of paper.

Back to my point. How were so many people astonished by this report? Everyone knew Barry Bonds was lying about using steroids. And we all know Sammy Sosa didn’t suffer an acute attack of sudden linguistic amnesia before he testified in front of a federal grand jury. Come on people! The truth is right in front of you. Actually, most of it’s been flushed down the toilet. And the rest is still swimming around in Mark McGwire’s forearms. But you know what I’m saying.

Baseball players have been, and will continue to use performance-enhancing drugs for a while. There’s not much we can do to stop this. If scientists figure out a way to detect the undetectable, then someone will mix a few chemicals together, and there will be a new steroid on the market.

It’s a never-ending cycle. The only way to solve this problem is to totally legalize performance-enhancing drugs so that everyone has an equal opportunity to shrink their own two balls for the sake of slapping a few hundred of someone else’s over a far away fence.

Whatever It Takes

Have you ever tried so damn hard to lose, that you ended up winning?
No?
Neither have I.
Losing is about as fun as an emo concert. Lots of unnecessary pain and confusion.
But I digress.

The point is that I just witnessed the Houston Rockets try valiantly to blow a nationally televised game against the Detroit Pistons. We tried so damn hard! But after 48 grueling minutes, the Rockets failed and emerged victorious.

After two straight losses in which they played more like the St. Paul Alter Boys of the U-12 Reverend’s league than an NBA team, you would think the Rockets would play up to big boy standards against Detroit.
Not exactly.

On the same day the Houston Chronicle posts an article with a Yao Ming sized chart listing every category the Rockets suck at, the team decides to up the anti. Apparently they thought 74% free throw shooting was too good. So why not add another category to that list of things they suck at.
Free throws.
How’s 27.3% for ya’? That’s 6 for 22. How clutch.
Especially considering you’re playing one of the elite teams in the league at home on national television wearing throwback jerseys to commemorate an era when short shorts frolicked and free throws fell. How do you choose such an elemental night to try and lose a game.

One might say they just weren’t trying hard enough.
I disagree.
It wasn’t just the free throws. We knew 27.3% might not be enough to lose. So we deemed it prudent to go ahead and miss a whole slew of lay-ups and easy shots as well.
I mean, if you shoot 6 for 22 from the charity line AND miss easy baskets, how can you win?
The Rockets obviously thought it would be enough to lose.

But somehow, someway, Sumner Redstone, the Rockets beat the Detroit Pistons and regained an edge in their battle against mediocrity. It’s amazing how this team works. They constantly throw their loyal fans into an emotional labyrinth of pain and confusion. Just like an emo concert.
That’s just how we roll. Better get used to it.

Welcome to the roller coaster ride that is The Houston Rockets.

Step Up

Here we go again. Another Tracy McGrady injury. Another uninspiring performance by the Houston Rockets at the end of a game.

The Rockets’ inconsistencies are almost more frustrating than watching George W. Bush speak. How can you surge back from an 18-point deficit (without TMac), take a brief lead, and then end the game without a field goal for the final five-plus minutes?! During which, a single possession presents itself with at least three wide open looks for a tying 3-pointer, followed by a buzzer-beating attempt for another tying tre after a perfectly executed intentional free-throw miss by Yao Ming. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

What’s going on? How can one team be so good, yet so bad? Reminds me of the Clutch City vs. Choke City days of yore. This stressful inconsistency seems to be an inescapable trait of the Rockets year in year out.

Anyway, the Rockets lost another game within their grasp. What can you do but learn from it. Time to move on. And for roughly one week, the Rockets will be moving on without lazy-eyed superstar, Tracy McGrady.

TMac, the superglue that holds the Rockets together, will ride the bench for a few games with an elbow injury. What impeccable timing for the team’s go-to-guy to get hurt—right before the Rockets launch in to a threesome with the Spurs, Suns and Mavericks.

The week ahead will prove to be a pivotal one for the Rockets. The team will have to cope without TMac, forcing Yao Ming to exert himself as the Great Wall that he is. Other players will also be forced to step up their game. Perhaps this is where we’ll witness the second coming of Steve Francis. Or maybe the emergence of the team’s new little man, Aaron Brooks.

Chuck Hayes came out of nowhere to grab rebounds along with a starting spot in the Rockets’ rotation last year. Who’s going to step up this year and add a third head to the monster that is YaoMac?

Adelman and Aristotle

I believe it was the great Greek philosopher, Aristotle, who once said, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Wise beyond his years, Aristotle was. Even though he was simply telling a nearby eunuch to quit fiddling with the DVD player, Aristotle’s words still enlighten the human soul to this day.

Unfortunately, Aristotle’s wisdom hasn’t quite resonated with the Houston Rockets coaching staff. Too bad Rick Adelman wasn’t in Aristotle’s marble chambers that chilly night in 346 B.C.E. to hear the philosopher’s profound proclamation. If Rick had been there, not only would he have been bewildered by Aristotle’s owning of a DVD player despite humanity’s non-knowledge of electricity, but he would have also learned a very valuable lesson.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it! If Yao Ming is bigger and better than everyone else, keep feeding him the rock! Why on earth would you stray away from the immaculate game plan of Yao crushing the competition when it’s obviously been working wonders?

Going in to last night’s game against the Memphis Grizzlies, the Houston Rockets were 6-1, with their only loss being a fledgling defeat to Dallas in a game where Yao Ming saw fewer balls tossed his way than Rosie O’Donnell at a male strip joint. So lesson learned, right? Apparently not. Last night the Rockets were handed their second defeat of the season at the paws of the Memphis Grizzlies. Once again, Yao was a non-factor.

Yao was virtually man-handled on defense the entire game by Darko Milicic’s quick turnaround hook shot. Instead of feeding Yao in the post on offense and letting him save face by tooling Darko around on the other end of the floor, the Rockets’ point guards decided to try and take the game in to their own hands.

Rafer Alston and Mike James need to learn that neither one of them are Tony Parker—that little running teardrop isn’t going to cut it. Neither is a combined 6-19 shooting. If you have Tracy McGrady and Yao Ming on your team, use them. TMac did his job by dropping 41 points and making it look easier than a drunken sorority girl. But where were the rest of the Rockets? I can’t recall one play from last night’s game where Yao worked the post like he’s been doing all season (minus the game versus Dallas).

So here’s what I don’t get. If making Yao the crux of your offense works so wondrously every game, why stray away from that winning formula?

Hey Rick, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!

A Change for the Better

And the winner is (drum roll)…the Houston Rockets!

True, the Rockets got their asses handed to them by the Utah Jazz these past playoffs, but what’s done is done. The past is exactly that. The past

What matters most is how you improve upon failure. For success is simply moving from one failure to the next without losing your mojo. It’s between those failures when you truly succeed. There’s no better way to learn than from one’s own mistakes. That’s why it’s so hard to repeat as champions these days. The winning team one year becomes a stagnant target the next. While the winners bask in their glory, jerking off to their shiny new trophy, the losers evolve with a stronger desire to take that trophy away. Just look at the Miami Heat. One year they win the championship. The next year they get swept in the first round of the playoffs.

You have to keep evolving if you want to win. And that is exactly what the Rockets have done this off-season.

First and foremost, the Rockets traded Jeff Van Gundy’s outdated (and extremely boring) defensive style for the more fast-paced play of Rick Adelman. You got to admit, watching the Rockets under Jeff Van Gundy, at times, was more boring than a French avant-garde film.

So once the Rockets decided to upgrade to a 21st century basketball coach, it was time to recruit players to surround the two-headed monster called YaoMac.

First, the Rockets traded an elderly Juwon Howard to the Timberwolves for Mike James. Okay cool, add a little depth at the PG position. Understandable. Especially considering the Rockets struggled to put points on the board last year with YaoMac on the bench. And Mix Master Mike can definitely do that.

But plugging one hole is bound the poke another. And with that trade, the Rockets basically became power forward-less. No disrespect to Chuck Hayes (who I love for his dedicated hustle), but if you want to win a championship, you need depth in the frontcourt. And height (The Chuck Wagon is only 6’8”).

So here comes June 28—draft day. After the Greg Oden/Kevin Durant mania subsided and 25 other teams made their selections, it was time for the Rockets to fill that PF void, right? Wrong!

What many people criticized as poor management may turn out to be the best sleeper pick of the draft. The next Tony Parker. The next Sam Cassell. The only Aaron Brooks!

I for one can honestly say I loved the pick from the moment David Stern announced it just after downing his seventh Crown & Coke (C’mon, what else is the little Jewish man going to do for four hours?).

Anyway, the Rockets were smart in drafting pure talent instead of trying to fill a position. They could have drafted a mediocre power forward and made plenty of people happy with empty hopes of getting the next Otis Thorpe. But instead, they added even more depth to the guard positions with Aaron Brooks. As a huge fan of the little man, I loved the pick.

Just look at the slew of little guys who have been wreaking havoc on the hardwood lately. Earl Boykins, T.J. Ford, Chris Paul, Allen Iverson, etc. These little (in perspective to their counterparts) ballers create crazy mismatches all over the floor. Aaron Brooks will prove to be an invaluable asset to the Rockets lineup.

That’s all gravy, but what about the black hole sucking in all matter at the PF position?

Oh yeah, that. Well, little did we know, the Rockets had a European excursion on their minds. Last week the Rockets traded Vassilis Spanoulis and a 2009 second-round draft pick to the Spurs for Luis Scola and Jackie Butler. Butler will provide depth at the center position. But it’s Scola who could prove to be the difference maker next year. Scola is a 6’10” Argentinean superstar who’s won MVP twice in the Spanish basketball league.

So there you have it. This off-season the Rockets upgraded to an offensive-minded coach, traded for, possibly, the best foreign player currently not in the NBA, and drafted a stud-of-a-guard with a knack for clutch shots. Oh yeah, not to mention picking up Mike James and Steve Francis. Which if you think about it, are pretty funny pick-ups. Here’s why:

A couple of years ago, the Rockets traded Mike James to Toronto for Rafer Alston. Now they have both players. Additionally, the Rockets once traded Steve Francis and Cuttino Mobley to Orlando for Tracy McGrady. Now they have TMac and Francis. So it looks like the Rockets basically traded Cuttino for TMac. A pretty good swap if you ask me.

I forgot to mention that Bonzi Wells resigned with the Rockets, too. Assuming he lays off the Texas BBQ and drops a few dozen pounds, Bonzi will be a great sixth-man (especially being reunited with his old coach in Adelman).

If all that’s not enough to make Avery Johnson shit his pants, don’t forget that one of the Rockets many talented Summer League players could turn out to be the next Chuck Hayes—an underestimated player who straight hustles (something most NBA players lack these days). All I’m saying is look out for Carl Landry or Mike Harris.

The Rockets failed miserably last year, not living up to expectations. Which is all the reason why they are poised to come back with a vengeance in 2007-2008. It’s because they failed, that they can now succeed. So watch out San Antonio. Wipe off that trophy, because the Rockets are coming for you.

Is That All You Got?

Who gives a shit?

Even if Kevin Durant couldn’t bench press Paris Hilton’s skinny ass, he can still ball! Have people already forgotten the freshman phenom swept every player of the year award? Have they already forgotten he’s a 6’10” Gumby with a 7’5” wingspan who can handle the ball like Kobe?

But wait a minute; he can’t even bench press 185 pounds!

Who gives a shit! When was the last time Michael Jordan bench-pressed a game winning shot?

This is the same kind of heresy the media mumbled a year ago when another Texas superstar was entering the draft. A hoopla of skepticism erupted when it was discovered that Vince Young did poorly on the weurlick test. Cynics claimed Vince wouldn’t amount to anything in the pros. And they were right. If winning rookie of the year and making the Pro Bowl are signs of failure.

So here they are again. The skeptics have slithered out from underneath their pessimistic rocks to talk more shit. If stating that Kevin Durant can’t even bench press 185 pounds is the only thing the doubters can come up with, then I’m so “unimpressed” that I want to draft him #1.

These schmucks who probably get their sense of journalism from watching Fox News, have no idea what they’re talking about. Of course Kevin Durant can’t lift weights like roid-popping Mr. Universe. He’s 18!

Durant’s idea of a workout program is flirting with girls and updating his myspace page. Strength training is something that will be instilled by professional coaches at the next level. So don’t worry about how much Durant can bench press. Just worry about how many three-pointers he’s going to drop in your eye. Because like fellow Longhorn stud Vince Young, Kevin Durant not only has extraterrestrial talent, he’s got the intangibles.

It’s like Rudy T. once said, “Never underestimate the heart of a champion!”

Who Let the Dogs Out?

If you haven’t heard, Michael Vick is being investigated for his role in a ring of illegal dog fighting. Not that there is any form of dog fighting that’s legal, but it’s prudent to mention the illegality of Vick’s alleged behavior so you understand that his actions are more than immoral.

From what has been mentioned in the media, Vick owns a house that was a refuge for the inhumane to bet on dog fights. Pit Bulls to be exact. But Vick claims he never knew about the dog fights, or ever placed a paw in the house before. Okay fine. But what about the police informant who anonymously said he’s personally pinned one of his own dogs against one of Vick’s? And Vick was there to oversee the whole thing. Or what about Vick’s notoriety as one of the high rollers at the fights?

How is Michael Vick going to deny all this?

Probably the same way Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad denies the holocaust and President Bush denies global warming. With fucked up facts. And hubris.

However he denies it, Vick will probably get away with minor repercussions. Athletes always do. So what should his punishment be?

Some say kick him out of the NFL. Others say prosecute him as the legal system warrants. I on the other hand believe in equal opportunity. If those dogs get the chance to fight one another on a concrete battleground, so should Vick. I say throw his ass in there with five raging Pit Bulls and let people place bets. I got five on the crazed dog in the corner with the Rambo tattoo. Actually make it ten. That’s one sick tattoo.

Seriously though, let Vick jump into a pit and try to fight off a few rabid Pit Bulls trained to devour flesh. I bet avoiding a bite in the pit won’t be as easy as evading a sack on the field. A few flesh wounds later and we’ll see if Vick wants to remain a high roller in the dog fighting community.

Way to go Ron Mexico.

Time to make a change

Best foul ever.

I’m sure he wasn’t thinking that at the time, but when Robert Horry body-slammed Steve Nash at the end of game four between the Spurs and Suns the other night, Big Shot Bob committed the best foul of his NBA tenure.

While known for his last-second heroics by hitting clutch three-pointers at the end of crucial playoff games, the Will Smith look-alike made the most important play of game five days before tip-off.

To vent his frustration at blowing an eleven-point lead late in the game, Robert Horry sent Steve Nash flying into the scorer’s table. Which of course prompted Nash’s teammates Amare Stoudemire and Boris Diaw to rise up off the bench in support of their Canadian brethren. The skirmish never escalated to Ron Artest status, but nevertheless suspensions were handed out like condoms at a Snoop Dogg party.

Horry was suspended two games for his flagrant conduct, but more importantly Amare Stoudemire and Boris Diaw will be kept out of game five in Phoenix for leaving the bench. Diaw has struggled this series, so losing him for a game isn’t going to sink the Suns’ battleship. But playing without Stoudemire, now that’s another story.

Amare is Steve Nash’s right hand man. His pick n’ roll partner. His white stallion. Nash is obviously the team’s knight in shining armor, but he can’t swing his heavy sword on foot. Nash needs to saddle up on his 6’ 10” freak-of-nature white stallion in order to defeat the Spurs. But thanks to some trivial NBA rules, Steve Nash will be riding in to battle without his horse.

So it turns out Roberty Horry’s flagrant foul at the end of game four could ultimately be the most pivotal play of game five. Which in turn seems to be the most critical game of the series. That doesn’t make sense. Especially at such a crucial point in the playoffs where the two best teams in the NBA are fighting to reach the western conference finals.

Okay, so rules are rules, and they state that if a player leaves the bench during a fight, it warrants an automatic one-game suspension. First of all, that’s bullshit. But if the league thinks it’s necessary, then so be it. But that should only be a regular-season rule. Missing one game out of eighty-two isn’t going to affect a team’s entire season. However, missing game five of a seven-game series tied at 2-2 between the two best teams in the league, now that’s another story.

David Stern needs to alter the NBA’s rules to have a section that’s playoff-specific. Rules that would consider the context of a play more thoroughly. Otherwise future players might use Robert Horry’s foul as inspiration to instigate a fight in order to knock the opposing team’s superstar out of the next game. That’s just wrong. It diminishes the integrity of the game.

So while rules are rules, and they say Stoudemire should automatically be suspended for one game, don’t you think that punishment is a little harsh for simply getting up off the bench? Especially considering the severity of its timing.

Rules are meant to be broken. Otherwise the world would still be flat, the sun would revolve around the earth, women wouldn’t vote and Blacks would sit at the back of the bus. It’s time to make a change.

Damn Hooligans!

Why are soccer fans so insane?

Seriously.
When was the last time you saw fans ecstatically igniting fires at Yankee stadium?
When was the last time you saw a stampede at the Staples Center?
When was the last time you saw a fan shoot flares at Peyton Manning?
When was the last time you saw a group of fans try to rip Ben Wallace out of his car for missing his free throws?

Never. I’ve seen people tear their hair out over a sporting event (including myself), but I’ve never seen the type of shit that goes on at soccer games before. Or afterwards for that matter.

Remember the 1994 World Cup? A Columbian defender was murdered after he scored an own-goal that resulted in a loss to the United States. Murdered!

While athletes are idolized in our country, the sports they play are still just that—sport. However, from pole to pole, soccer is much more than 22 people kicking a ball.

It’s beyond sport. It’s life. It’s religion. It’s God.
It has stopped wars.
But it still incites violence.

Last week former French national goalie, Fabien Barthez, quit his job as keeper for Nantes after being threatened by fans. Barthez said that after losing 2-0 at home to Rennes, a group of fans surrounded his car and began pummeling it. The distraught ‘fans’ then attempted to yank Barthez out of his car and “rub him out.”

I have no idea what that means. But I’m assuming it doesn’t involve therapeutic massage oils. And I doubt these were homoerotic fans looking for some action. So I’m pretty sure whatever it means; it would have been bad news for Barthez.

Who the hell are these psychos?

They start fires in the stands. They trample each other in mad riots. They shoot flares and throw beer bottles. And apparently they hang around parking lots waiting to ‘rub someone out.’

I love soccer. It’s one of the best sports in the world. But some of the people who call themselves fans are a discredit to the sport, and a disgrace to themselves.

They’re pathetic.

Smoke On

Puff, puff, pass.

Well, maybe it should be puff, puff, catch.
Or puff, puff, sack.

Yesterday it was announced that three future NFL stars admitted to “experimenting” with marijuana at some point in their lives. Those three honest young men are wide receiver Calvin Johnson, defensive end Gaines Adams, and defensive tackle Amobi Akoye.

When the knowledge was leaked that these three guys sampled the green sticky, the media went bong over blintzes predicting how this new light would affect the three players’ draft potential.

Well, let’s see here. Before it was known that Calvin, Gaines and Amobi puffed the magic dragon, all three were predicted to be top 10 picks in next weeks draft by football guru Mel Kiper. And they still should be.

I could care less if these guys smoke weed. At least they’re not instigating bar brawls or beating their wives. Furthermore, it’s not like smoking has jeopardized these guys’ character. I don’t know them personally, but I’m pretty sure they’re all honorable citizens.

How can you criticize a guy for getting high when he graduated high school at age 15, and received a college degree by the age of 19? All while being his football team’s moral leader. I dare you to go tell Amobi Akoye that he’s a nuisance to society. That he’s a worthless pothead who’ll never amount to anything. I dare you. He’ll probably just stare you down with pity, impugn you with a vocabulary too sophisticated for you to understand, then go smoke a joint to calm himself down.

People should quit worrying about whether players smoke the oskie-woskie. Using Calvin, Gaines and Amobi as examples, smoking herb obviously hasn’t hindered their athletic performability. And nobody can claim it will stunt their growth. These guys are all ginormous. And none of them have off-the-field problems.

So let’s say we forget about whether athletes hit the bong after hitting the gym, and worry more about whether they’re ingesting steroids, or why they’re getting involved in parking lot shootouts. Because I bet the only shootout you’ll see Calvin, Gaines and Amobi get in, will involve a 60” plasma TV and Halo 3.

3,2,1...Lift Off!

The buzzer erupts with cacophonous joy.
At this signal, the jolly gentle giant cavorts to and fro like a child on Christmas morning.

An ovation ensues.
Hands clap. Feet stomp. Cheers echo. The applause of thousands thunders like a rocket lifting off.

It’s all over. But just for tonight. The real battle is about to begin. Sleepy Eyes and The Great Wall will lead Skip, Shane, Luther Vandross, Captain Kirk and The Chuck Wagon on a forty-day adventure to the homeland. Where if they all arrive in one piece, Sleepy Eyes will hoist the golden calf above his head for the world to envy.

Actually, it’s a golden basketball. And that’s what the Fellowship of the Rockets is searching for—the NBA championship trophy.

Two nights ago, the Houston Rockets defeated the Phoenix Suns for the first time in seven games, prompting the 7’6” Yao Ming to frolic across the court with glee. More importantly, the Rockets solidified home-court advantage for the first round of the playoffs against the Utah Jazz. Yao was exuberant after the game, stating that it felt like winning a playoff series.

Whoa now Yao. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. The win did mark the Rockets best record in a decade, but we haven’t won a single playoff series since 1997. And Sleepy Eyes hasn’t ever won a playoff series.

But that is all about to change.

Yao is more dominant than ever. He has finally adopted the individualistic “me-mindset” needed to take over games. He’s aggressive. Sometimes even angry. And you don’t want to make Yao Ming angry. Because when upset, Yao grows to be 7’ tall. Oh wait, he’s already half a foot taller than that to begin with. Okay, so he can shoot lightning bolts out of his arss.

Then you got T-Mac. Arguably the most explosive offensive player in the league. He might not score as much as Kobe or Mello, but T-Mac passes like a point-guard and rebounds like a power-forward. Don’t let the sleepy eyes deceive you. When he gets hot, T-Mac has the ability to score 15 points in 30 seconds. Just ask the Spurs.

Shane Battier and Chuck Hayes take care of the intangibles, while Luther Head drops threes like birds shitting on your car. Accurate and often.

And don’t forget about New York street legend, Skip to my Lou. Rafer’s shooting ability is extremely streaky, but his ball handling skills are top notch. He’s a true court-general.

And for the dirty work, the Rockets have Dikembe Mutombo. An African warrior with the sharpest elbows this side of the Nile.

So all you skeptics beware.

Clutch City is back.

Damn Imus

“That’s some nappy-headed ho’s there, I’m going to tell you that.”

Those are the words that got Don Imus suspended from his own radio show. The comment was made in regards to the Rutgers women’s basketball team one day after their loss in the NCAA national championship game.

Imus’s remark was discriminating. Unjust. And worthy of repercussion.
But that is not why I am upset with what he said. Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson can be the ones to worry about racial righteousness.

I chastise Imus for many other flaws regarding his racial slur. Where do I begin…?

First of all, anyone who has their own radio show should be capable of
forming a grammatically correct sentence. “That’s some nappy-headed
ho’s…”doesn’t sound like textbook material to me. But I’ll let Imus slide on the grammar.

What I can’t excuse though, is that Imus would tease the Rutgers players
about their appearance. Have you seen what Imus looks like lately?
Sure, these girls might have nappy hair. But it’s genetics. Imus on the
other hand…well, he looks like the mutant offspring of Robert Redford
and David Bowie. Okay ladies, Redford and Bowie may have been sexy in
the seventies, but this is 2007. Mold the looks of those two with a
California raisin, and you get the idea. Imus is rocking wrinkles
longer than his hippy hairdo. But once again I’m nitpicking.

My real beef with Imus is that he doesn’t understand the Comedic Chauvinistic Code of Conduct (CCCC).

The CCCC has one cardinal rule:
1) A person may only safely discriminate against his/her own kind.
a. Hence the reason Blacks are allowed to use the word “nigger” while
whites must refrain from such language (I just had to use it to prove a
point).

So the only way Imus could have possibly made up for what he said, would have been to follow rule # 416 of the CCCC; the South Park rule.

The South Park rule states that in order to poke fun at a race, gender,
religion, etc. other than one’s own, said person must discriminate
against every possible race, gender, religion, etc. known to mankind.
This gets very tricky however, as it takes time to brew enough jokes to
go around. And I’m assuming Imus is only allotted a one-hour time slot
for his show.

So as it turns out, Don Imus will be lynched because of his inability to follow the simple rules of the CCCC.

Just kidding. Imus gets to live. But first he must be publicly humiliated by Al Sharpton.

Can I get a booster seat?

Do you hear that?
The thunderous bumping. The trembling bass.

Maybe you see it.
The spinning chrome. The shimmering diamonds.

That’s booster money.

At any major universities in the country, you will find athletes dangling iced-out watches over the steering wheel of their plush Benzes as they cruise through campus. You can’t miss it. Heads turn, and speculative whispers of who that was fill the air.

Wait a second. How is the starting running back rocking a watch worth more than his tuition if his momma is a nurse working two shifts?

Booster money.

Everybody knows it. It’s just that no one is willing to admit it. Or acknowledge it. Boosters have been paying student-athletes forever. Movies have been produced about it and jobs have been lost over it. Why doesn’t the NCAA just face facts and accept that student-athletes are getting paid to play for particular universities.

Take the Great Depression for example. Prohibition outlawed the sale and consumption of alcohol in America. But after a while, people realized it was useless to uphold prohibition, because it didn’t stop anyone from boozing. It just made doing so a little more scandalous.

The same thing goes for the war on drugs today. Billions of dollars are wasted in an attempt to stop the unstoppable. People will always use drugs. And boosters will always pay student-athletes.

So what do you say we face facts and embrace the inevitable?

There’s so much talk in the media today about whether Greg Oden and Kevin Durant should stay in school or go to the NBA.

“Stay in school and get an education.”
“No. Get paid before you get injured.”

Why can’t they do both?

If we just accept that boosters are paying student-athletes to play college ball, then these kids can have the best of both worlds. They’ll get paid AND they’ll get an education.

Of course it isn’t fair to the rest of us. But then again, neither is life.

Damn, damn, damn James

Simba couldn’t wait to be king.

But I bet he never dreamt of such royalty as this. Sure he was an ambitious lion, but could Simba fathom living in a bedroom larger than half the houses in his neighborhood? That’s right. Who do you know that has a bedroom alone that’s bigger than the neighbor’s entire house?

Nobody. Unless you live next to Michael Jackson. But what goes on in his bedroom is strictly between him and the boy. So besides the king of pop, who do you know that has a bedroom larger than the neighbor’s house?

Nobody. Unless you live next to LeBron James.

King James is currently building a 35,440 square-foot castle in Ohio. 35,440 square-feet! What would one human being do with so much space? Well, don’t forget that LeBron is still basically a kid at 21. So he’s got to have eleven extra bedrooms for his weekend slumber parties. And a 34’X37’ “great room” for those late night twister games.

But don’t think LeBron just built a house with a gargantuan bedroom and a six-car garage. That would be unfit for a king. I’m sure LeBron has seen MTV cribs numerous times. So you know he’s got the home theater. And when he’s done watching The Big Lebowski, LeBron can head over to his private bowling alley for a frame or two.

You’re probably thinking big deal, huh? I mean the White House has a fucking bowling alley. LeBron can do better than that.

You’re right. The man will have a barbershop and a casino inside his house. George Bush ain’t got shit on LeBron.

I don’t completely understand the reason for having a barbershop. But then again, I’m not black. Nothing racist about it. I just can’t comprehend the unconditional love between a black man and his barbershop.

On the other hand, I completely understand the reasoning behind the casino. The construction of LeBron’s new house must cost a fortune. And just in case the pennies he gets paid to play basketball won’t cover the cost, he can just invite Charles Barkley over. With Barkley’s admitted gambling problem, LeBron could pay for the house in a week. Cash money.

But what if Barkley gets lucky? The house has to pay up, right?

Yeah. But don’t forget that Nike pays LeBron James more than the GDP of the Falkland Islands just to wear their shoes (and a matching headband). Roughly $90,000,000 just to rock the swoosh. He doesn’t even have to hit a shot.

So anti up Charles. Keep the bets coming.

No wonder Simba couldn’t wait to be king.

Damn Idiots

Imagine this: Your wife leaves you and moves hundreds of miles away. For no legitimate reason. You gave her money and supported her in every way possible. Yet she left you.

You’ve never felt worse in your life.

At least until now. Until your new wife refused to adopt your long lost son.

When the Oilers divorced Houston for Tennessee, millions of hearts shattered. But the pieces were glued back together a few years later when Houston married the Texans. They were supposed to live happily ever after. But then the unthinkable happened.

What’s worse than watching your wife leave you? How about seeing your own son leave too. Better yet, how about watching your son leave to go live with your ex-wife?

Well, that’s what happened to every Houstonian in April 2006.

The ass-clowns running the Texans organizations decided to pass on picking Vince Young. The hometown hero who led the Longhorns to victory over the USC Trojans in the best football game in human history.

Instead of drafting Vince, the Texans decided to resign incumbent quarterback, David Carr. A prissy whiner who’s afraid to throw the ball farther than five yards. Apparently someone still believed the pretty boy from Fresno was the Texans’ quarterback of the future. Until last week. Yup, the Texans released Carr and signed Matt Schaub. Okay, so maybe Schaub will turn out to be pretty decent.

But how does he compare to the first rookie QB to reach the Pro Bowl since Dan Marino? How does he compare to a 6’5” freak of nature with an uncanny ability to make plays? How does he compare to the ultimate leader who somehow makes everyone around him that much better?

How the hell did the Texans not draft Vince Young?

It’s mind blowing. It’s heart wrenching. It’s pitiful.

I’ve forgiven the Oilers for blowing a 31-point halftime lead to the Bills. In the playoffs. I’ve forgiven Bud Adams for moving the Oilers to Tennessee. Just in time to reach the Superbowl.

But I don’t think I will ever be able to forgive those ass-clowns for not drafting Vince Young.

VY in a Texans uniform. Imagine that.