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.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, April 9, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, March 26, 2007
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.
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.
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