Out of all 26 letters in the alphabet, the only letter that grinds my gears worse than a rusted cabin door, highly in need of a WD-40 spray down, is the letter R. You're probably scratching your chin and pondering to yourself, like Curious George ponders about the mystery behind "The Man with the Yellow Hat." Well keep on scratching, because this is going to itch like you've got ants in your pants.
I dislike the letter R simply because it stole P's form faster than you could butt in front of the line-leader in Kindergarten. Did R honestly think it was fooling anybody by disguising itself with a mere diagonal line? I'm no freak with a protractor, but I can see a falsified angle when I see one.
Hey Q, if you are reading this, don't think you are going to get away without a bashing. You know damn well that you were lazier than a Lazyboy recliner when you had that con-artist-like idea to use the same diagonal line that R used in it's thievery of P's formation. If O butted in front of P to kick the living shit out of Q, I wouldn't even consider jumping to Q's safety the way Paul Bearer did so many times for The Undertaker. Let's face it, Q and R, you both deserve to get duct taped to your locker and pounded with rotten vegetables by The Rocket, Steroid Clemens.
The letter R represents this guest entry post like the letter B represents steroids. Hello Barry.
Her name is Rachel and she is the care taker of a buck-wild Miniature German Schnauzer named Nibbler. She also serves as my elder brothers girlfriend, like Geoffrey serves as the Banks Family butler.
Rachel will now share some of her thoughts, which I find to be slightly more stimulating than a tour of the Butterfly exhibit at the Academy of Natural Sciences. It's located in Philadelphia, if you're interested in museums that couldn't force a mummy to stay still. (That's the Philadelphia in Pennsylvania, not Mississippi).
Following her attempt to brain wash you, I will briefly share my thoughts, which will most likely force you to agree with my dislike of the letter R.
Rachel Says:
As a news producer, every so often there is a story that just jumps out, slaps me across the face, and screams "WRITE ABOUT ME!!" But, alas, I am a local news producer, so stories not related to New York City's five boroughs just have to be passed by, like grape Jolly Ranchers.
Today, that story was about a daycare in Arkansas that accidentally gave children windshield wiper fluid instead of Kool-Aid. First off, who gives energetic kids Kool-Aid? If you give them any sugary drinks, isn't it supposed to be Sunny D? At least it LOOKS like orange juice. Secondly, why was windshield wiper fluid in the fridge?
Turns out, children can spot the difference between the two fluids – the kids complained after drinking about an ounce. That was enough to send all of them to the hospital, leaving one with levels high enough to induce comas and blindness.
All I can say is, despite some rockin' music coming out of Kansas band, famed neighboring state and kick ass rock group for the past 36 years, I am never going to move to Arkansas.
Back to Dan:
Well said Rachel. I suggest you change your name to Pachel really quick, then come back and read the final paragraph. I'll wait for you...
Was Arkansas totally out of line for stealing the name of Kansas and simply adding an "Ar"? Does anybody else smell what I'm cooking here? "Ar" and "R". ARE you kidding me? The lack of originality is making me want to butt in front of line at the Campbell Soup factory and drown all of the R's in windshield wiper fluid. I sure hope I don't see a pirate on my way there.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
The 11 Second Shot Clock
Every Wilbon has its Kornheiser. My Kornheiser, aka Brother, who has asked to be referred to as “Dubaku” from here on out, will now help melt the ice with this mind boggling interview, where I will ask him eleven relatively important questions regarding sports, sports and more sports.
Lucky for you, and because of my love for numbers, letters and punctuation, I will share a twinkle of my brilliance on said questions following his nonsense-filled responses. Prior to reading, I suggest you take a sip of water and clear your medulla oblongata. The following information will need 100% focus to fully understand the immortal hypocrisy which borders the monumental 75 show streak that Ken Jennings exhibited on Jeopardy.
Side note: When I asked him why he wished to be referred to as Dubaku, he simply stated, with a straight face and one flared eyebrow, imitating The Rock, “It’s in the mirrors.” Well, as the French say, “Touché, mate.”
So, without Freddy Adu, enjoy.
1. Who is your MVP, Kobe or LeBron?
Dubaku: Since this question is limited to just those two and not CP3, D-Wade, Superman or Zaza Pachulia, I’m going to go with LBJ. Mainly because of his resemblance to the other LBJ, #36. The King also does more for his team, while Kobe is surrounded by greater talent. I can’t remember the last time I thought the East was better than the West; and I still don’t, especially after the All Star game whopping. Since LeBron has his team playing well, with an almost identical record to the Lakers, I give him the edge over Kobe. But let this be heard, this race is closer than a Tony Danza vs. Sylvester Stallone pronunciation contest.
Dan T.: One word, “Mo Williams.” Mo, if you’re reading this, please accept my apology on behalf of my brother, Dubaku. His obsession with the colors yellow and purple must be worse than we had previously suspected. In 51 games this season, Mo is averaging 17 points per game and 4 assists, along with 40% from 3 point land and 93% from the free throw stripe. If anybody is hauling a bag of 3-D Doritos around the court with him, it’s Kobe, not LBJ. Not to mention, “The Beast from the Middle East” Zydrunas Ilgauskas and “Afroman” Ben Wallace, who surely do not hurt your teams hopes.
Kobe takes the boat if the race is only between these two Jordan hopefuls. Nevertheless, neither deserves MVP as much as Kevin Garnett. His “Anything is possible!” rant after last years championship clincher was so touching that I have already awarded him MVP for the next five seasons. It’s surely a bummer that my vote for MVP carries less weight than a bag full of nothing.
2. What is your ultimate fantasy wrestling match?
Dubaku: A tag team match between LeBron and Kid LeBron, vs. Anfernee Hardaway and Little Penny. No explanation needed, as this match would attract more fans than a Backstreet Boys and Nsync sing-a-long, guest staring O-Town and 98 degrees.
Dan T.: Props to Little Penny; he took full advantage of his 15 minutes of fame. I’d take LBJ and Kid to dominate that match, like a mixture of Lance Armstrong, steroids and the color yellow in his rout of the Tour de France.
Bare with me and picture this treasured fantasy: A Royal Rumble match consisting of the cast from Family Matters, Chaz Finster, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Gordon Bombay (as a coach, not a player), Charlie Conway and Adam Banks from Mighty Ducks, Stan Van Gundy, Tim Riggins and Smash Williams from Friday Night Lights, Ben and Fred Savage, Pedro Martinez, Don Zimmer, Sam Cassell, the Lopez Twins, William Perry and Gisele Bundchen. Okay, you can breath now.
That’s just flat out surreal like the time I met Kelly Kapowski and told her, “Lose the zero (Zack) and come with the hero (me).” I’ll let you decide on a winner without my analysis, which probably wouldn’t make much sense anyway.
3. What is your favorite nickname in all of sports?
Dubaku: My two favorite nicknames are Jake “Daylight Come and You Gotta” Delhomme and Jake “Daylight Come and You Gotta Throw to Steve Smith.” It’s just so fitting. I’m also a fan of “Parsley Sage Rosenfels and Tine.” Some other greats are “CP3” and Jimmy “Super-fly” Snuka, which obviously needs no explanation.
Dan T.: Delhomme’s nicknames are pretty solid, like anything that comes out of Boomer’s mouth. But if we’re ranking nicknames for guys named Jake, then nothing will ever top Jake “the Snake.”
CP3 is self explanatory, so I don’t rank that high up there on the depth chart of nicknames. A good nickname, to me, is a name that adds an image and flavor, while continuing to leave us guessing at what this creature will do next on their platform.
The top three on my list are “Refrigerator” William Perry. That man single handedly created laughter from the joke, “Is your refrigerator running?” “The Round Mound of Rebound” is also a classic. Charles Barkley earned that nickname with his attack on the boards. Lately, however, he has earned other nicknames such as “Dumb Ass” and “The Round Mound of Drinking and Driving.” Lastly, and not only because he’s on my fantasy football keeper league team, but also because he is a freak of nature and will soon begin to shatter records like mirrors are shattered when looked at by guys like Sam Cassell, Adam Morrison, Andrei Kirilenko and all the other members of the “All NBA Ugly Squad.” I’m speaking of “Purple Jesus,” Adrian Peterson. Say what you will, but this man has got it going on like Ari Gold.
4. Who is your favorite ESPN analyst?
Dubaku: Chris Berman. Not only because of his amazing ability to assign nicknames like a 3rd grade school teacher, but also his ability to paint the perfect picture for you. Not to mention the classic YouTube moment that features Berman throwing a temper tantrum when someone walked by him during his broadcast. If you didn’t fall more in love with him while watching that, then go to Canada and join the other fan of curling.
Dan T.: Berman is great, I do not disagree. However, Erin Andrews takes the triple layered chocolate cake here like a flock of birds takes craps my car in the summer. No explanation necessary, this woman has got it going on.
5. Which current NBA young star, Politician and Female Movie Star would you like to play a game of H-O-R-S-E with?
Dubaku: Thaddeus Young, President Obama and a toss up between Mila Kunis and Elisha Cuthbert.
Dan T.: Why Thaddeus? I don’t get it. Probably some kind of weird fascination with guys who wear the number 21. Who’s next? Tim Duncan? Weirdo. I agree with Obama and your female selections, but only if the game can take place in the White House.
My power forward selection is Kevin Durant because of the lucky performance he had at the All Star game H-O-R-S-E competition. Nobody tosses up half court shorts at ease like that and gets away with it, in my heart. So I’d like to press my luck with Durant, and hope for no whammys, no whammys, no whammys and stop!
6. Which NASCAR driver would you like to ride 250 laps with?
Dubaku: This is easier to answer than a True/False quiz about things that, well, are not true. The #16 3M Ford Fusion, driven Mr. Greg Biffle. I have so many questions to ask him, mostly relating to his last name; Biffle. For instance, whether or not he enjoys playing Wiffle Ball? But for some reason, the name always reminds me of Biff from Back to the Future. They don’t really look much alike, but I just can’t help myself from smiling when I think of either of them.
Dan T.: Biffle is a stud, but I’ve got to take a ride with Juan Pablo Montoya and see what goes on in that man’s head during the race. Time after time, he is driving other cars off the road, like he’s straight out of Mexico with a vengeance to kill. Wait a second; he is.
7. What is your favorite moment in sports history?
Dubaku: That would be the only time I have seen a major Philadelphia team win a championship. Your 2008 World Champion, Phillies. Some close runner-ups would be seeing Iverson, in his rookie year, cross over Jordan. Seeing Lex Lugar body slam Yokazuna was also something to write home about. Finally, that one time I won a four team baseball parlay; that never happens. It’s a shame I only had $5 on it to win $30, which I lost that same night playing the .05/.10 poker table.
Dan T.: “The 0-2 pitch - swing a miss, stuck him out! The Philadelphia Phillies are 2008 World Champions of Baseball! Brad Lidge does it again, and stays perfect for the 2008 season! 48 for 48 in save opportunities, and watch the city celebrate.”
8. If you could wear the shoes of any athlete, past or present, for 1 full day, who would it be?
Dubaku: Surely, I’d want to wear the shoes of Shaquille O’Neal aka Shaqovich or Shaqistotle. How does a human being wear size 24 sneaks? I’m taking this question literally and not figuratively, because I feel as if there’s lots I could do wearing somebody else's shoes for a day and I’d like to enjoy the fantasy while I can. Come to think of it, I could probably fit my entire body into one of his shoes. Although, they probably smell like 3 month old spoiled coconut.
Dan T.: Agreed, lots of fun could be had in Shaq’s sneakers. But lets take a deeper look at this. If I put on Tom Brady’s sneakers, will I get to go home with Gisele? Hey Al Bundy, I’d like to try that one on for size.
9. Now that you’re wearing this persons shoes, what would you do in those 24 hours?
Dubaku: I would do all sorts of fun things. First and foremost, I’d try to walk. That probably wont work too well, seeing as though my size 10’s might not have the strength to get that boot in the air. If I am able to pull off a Neil Armstrong like step or two, I would like to try my hand at some free-throws. I’ve always believed the reason Shaq can’t shoot free-throws well is because of his enormous feet. With his toes on the line, he loses much more distance than the likes of Nate Robinson or Dana Barros. After walking and free-throw shooting, I’d like to slip into a nice Shaqadillic outfit and hit to local arcade for some skee-ball. I’d hit that 10,000 point slot more times than a Tyson combo and donate all my winning tickets to a young group of hoodlums so they can buy rub on tattoos and act-a-fool.
Dan T.: Dubaku nailed that answer. If steps were to be had in the shoes of the Shaqinator, then fun is right around the corner. I’d be sure to challenge Doug Funnie in a race.
If I can swivel my way into the boots of Tom Brady, however, then I’m heading home faster than a senior citizen trying to catch the early bird, and checking into the Gisele Hotel for some good times with the richest supermodel in the world. I’m sure she has her eyes glued on Tom’s feet at all times, so she wont have any idea that it’s me, Dan T., not Brady. (That rhymed, ha!)
10. What is the most insane superstition you have ever heard of an athlete doing before game time?
Dubaku: LeBron listening to “Time After Time” by Cindi Lauper before games. I saw it on a commercial, so it must be true. Another cracked-out superstition is Jason Terry wearing the team shorts of an opponent the day before each game. What a weirdo.
Dan T.: Superstition, or not, Stone Cold chugs a beer before every match; which I find completely moronic, like that year when I was hooked on washing my hair in the bathroom sink before every one of my basketball games. Then again, when your 17 and have a huge white-boy afro, there are other issues that deserve much more thought.
11. How do you feel about frilly toothpicks?
Dubaku: I’m for em. And I’m not even in the club.
Dan T.: Well said, Dubaku.
That completes Round 1 of, what I like to call, “The 11 Second Shot Clock.” I hope that you found this bundle of wisdom and wit to be more valuable than an episode of The Reading Rainbow with LeVar Burton. Feel free to present these same questions to your friends, family or co-workers for some light-hearted entertainment and possibly a bit of soul searching. Until next time, my friends.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Scott Hartnell: It's Not The Hair
A giraffe once said, “I couldn’t win a limbo contest if you chopped my neck in half and tied my legs together!” This reminds me of a friend of mine. Except this friend is not really a friend. In fact, he’s Scott Hartnell, #19 of the Philadelphia Flyers; And I guarantee he has no idea that I even exist. Regardless, Scott reminds me of a giraffe trying to, not only win a limbo contest, but simply participate and be respected in one. We’re not talking about a legit, full-fledged, league play in the National Limbo Association. A simple Bar-Mitzvah limbo contest run by D.J. Moshe will do just fine in this comparison that is sure to tickle your fancy like Elmo in the mid-90’s. Imagine that, a giraffe at a Bar-Mitzvah doing the limbo with D.J. Moshe and a bunch of crackling-voiced 13 year-olds. That’s a more ironic sight than Alanis Morissette having ten thousand spoons when all she needs is a knife. Don’t you think?
How in the world does a giraffe in a limbo contest relate to Scott Hartnell you ask? Read on, my friend. Scott Hartnell on a breakaway is uglier than Betty. Is it the hair? Is it his wife? What causes him to stumble down the ice like a 4 year old, with a dirty diaper, learning how to skate? This is a mind-boggler that I’ll leave for someone else to answer. Jeeves? Google?
The bottom line is, and you can ask Stone Cold Steve Austin, a giraffe in a limbo contest is about as successful as Scott Hartnell on a breakaway. Flyers fans, however, love when it happens, because we know Mr. Carter is right behind, ready to clean up the garbage with a shot to the likes of Jeff Gordon coming down the stretch. And as we are all aware, at the end of the day, nobody throws a glove at a guy better than my friend, Scott Hartnell.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Manute Bol
Imagine this, Manute Bol, a freakish 7'6" of pure bone and skin galloping down the court like Smarty Jones galloped into our hearts in 2004. The man looks like a starved version of a bulimic light post. Hailing from the most unpopular vacation spot in the world, Sudan, Manute Bol towered his way into the NBA with the Washington Bullets (now known as the Wizards), late in the 2nd Round of the 1985 NBA draft.
Like a true wizard, Manute spent the next 10 years absolutely dominating the NBA the way Muggsy Bogues dominated a tall person contest. Get it? Manute's Warrior like attitude on the court came second to his Sudan Charity giving. The man gave back millions of dollars off the court and millions of laughs on the court. Laugh with me as we travel back in time and relive the memory of the man who's torso to legs ratio is more shocking than the candy that made Willy Wonka look like the Einstein of the 20th century.
During Manute's short 3 year tenure with the 76ers, a good buddy of mine, who's father owned court-side seats, invited me to a game. After laughing at the "Special Blessing" (Manute's self proclaimed nickname) for 4 quarters, we pranced on over to the player tunnel, hoping to obtain a sweaty headband or a high five. As Manute strolled by after another stellar performance, I said, "Hey Manute, you couldn't dunk on a Little Tikes Easy Score set!" (I didn't really say that, but thinking back, I should have). I actually didn't say anything, just nonchalantly stuck out my hand for one of those sneak attacks where you pull your hand away just before the slap occurs, then point and laugh at the guy because he was too slow. Manute knew what was in store and decided to give me one of those "Talk to the hand cause the face don't understand" acts. That's right! Manute jacked his sweaty palm into my face like a Mark Summers Pie in the face on "What Would You Do?" That night ended in a mixture of laughter, tears and 45 minutes of washing my face, as if I were a Bozo the Clown impersonator who accidentally used nonwashable markers as facepaint. Time for some sweet revenge Manute. I'm about to bash you like Dean Portman and Fulton Reed took care of business in Mighty Ducks 2. If you are reading this, Manute, you probably would have been more successful as a boxer, horse jockey or rock star than you were on the basketball court. But I'll leave that decision up to the judges. Thank you Simon, Paula and Randy.
Since that day, I've had it out for the man who ended his 10 year career with only 2,647 rebounds. He was 7'6" and only had 2,647 rebounds in 10 years. That's 264.7 rebounds per season. Divide that by 82 games a year and he pulled down a glorious 3.2 rebounds per game. Granted, the guy probably missed a fair amount of games like Shaun Livingston did after he practically snapped his leg in half. The thought of those weak knees that Manute protected with kneedpads larger than pillows, being able to hold 220 pounds of flesh day in and day out is about as unrealistic as Barry hitting 762* career homeruns without the juice. Hey A-Rod, if you are reading this, let me be the 1st (or millionth) to tell you that the asterisk is on it's way to New York and will arrive at the new Yankee Stadium in time for opening day.
Some would argue that Manute Bol was not actually a human, but a walking, talking, shot blocking broomstick. That statement, however, is about as true as GWB being a good public speaker. Over 10 seasons, Manute racked up a monumental 2,086 blocked shots. Remember, this gigantic sized pencil frame was 7'6" tall and should have blocked more shots than Eddie the Eagle and Saint Patrick Roy. Don't get me wrong, sitting 13th overall on the all time shot block list is something to write home about, but a 7'6" freak should be blocking shots left and right, quicker than a Tyson Combo. All in all, Manute led a pretty successful career, with about as much potential as Russ Tyler's knucklepuck popularizing itself in the NHL. Zdeno Chara's 105.4 MPH slapshot would make the knucklepuck look like a Chet Steadman fastball.
Claiming the rights as the tallest man to suck at basketball is about as hip and cool as Screech Powers at Bayside High School. Mr. Belding would dunk on Manute, give Zach Morris detention and sleep with Kelly Kapowski quicker than Manute Bol would stand a chance at the Hall of Fame, or even an All Star game. Manute, however, has a kind soul like Ty Pennington from Extreme Home Makeover. He has spent much of his overpaid salary giving back to his homeland of Sudan. He has given about $3.5 million to the "Ring True Foundation", a charity that he established to help fundraising for Sudanese refugees. Manute Bol deserves the Nobel Peace Prize like the Philadelphia Eagles deserve a Super Bowl ring.
Manute spent some time in 2004 recovering from a car accident where he broke his neck when his taxi driver hit a guardrail and overturned. How he fit himself into the backseat of a taxi is about as interesting as how Obama plans to bring our country out of a recession. Some questions are better off left alone, like what happened to the mischievous Kevin McCallister we fell in love with. Kevin's slick rick attitude against the Wet Bandits was about as clever as Bret The Hitman Hart proclaiming his finishing move as the Sharpshooter. Any man who can pull off wearing pink tights is worthy of a tribute, like Urkel was worthy of a date with Laura.
Big L (RIP), was an Underground hiphop artist who rapped, "And every time I'm jammed, I always find a loop hole. I got a crime record longer than Manute Bol." Big L claimed to have a crime record 7'6" long and he was finding loop holes to stay bright on the streets like a lite-brite. Manute Bol should consider tossing some of that Sudanese charity money, that he so dearly earned during his NBA career, to put punks with crime records like Big L in jail with dog lover Michael Vick.
Until Shawn Bradley, Gheorghe Muresan and Yao Ming joined Manute Bol on the "I'm tall, so I play basketball" list, Manute was outcasted like the fat kid in gym class. Thanks to screwed up DNA, our world has been blessed with a number of gargantuan people who have been given the ability to tie their shoes and stand straight with their hands up in the air, like a pencil dive off the high board. Like the famous little league quote goes, "You can't teach height." This is about as true as Hulk Hogan wrecking havoc on Rick Flair in a 1994 Steel Cage Match. Manute and his oversized compadres changed the face of the NBA like Flava Flav changed the art of reality television. Manute is lucky that I didn't chase him down the tunnel and lock him up in the sharpshooter after he pulled that hand in the face antic on me. Seriously.
Like a true wizard, Manute spent the next 10 years absolutely dominating the NBA the way Muggsy Bogues dominated a tall person contest. Get it? Manute's Warrior like attitude on the court came second to his Sudan Charity giving. The man gave back millions of dollars off the court and millions of laughs on the court. Laugh with me as we travel back in time and relive the memory of the man who's torso to legs ratio is more shocking than the candy that made Willy Wonka look like the Einstein of the 20th century.
During Manute's short 3 year tenure with the 76ers, a good buddy of mine, who's father owned court-side seats, invited me to a game. After laughing at the "Special Blessing" (Manute's self proclaimed nickname) for 4 quarters, we pranced on over to the player tunnel, hoping to obtain a sweaty headband or a high five. As Manute strolled by after another stellar performance, I said, "Hey Manute, you couldn't dunk on a Little Tikes Easy Score set!" (I didn't really say that, but thinking back, I should have). I actually didn't say anything, just nonchalantly stuck out my hand for one of those sneak attacks where you pull your hand away just before the slap occurs, then point and laugh at the guy because he was too slow. Manute knew what was in store and decided to give me one of those "Talk to the hand cause the face don't understand" acts. That's right! Manute jacked his sweaty palm into my face like a Mark Summers Pie in the face on "What Would You Do?" That night ended in a mixture of laughter, tears and 45 minutes of washing my face, as if I were a Bozo the Clown impersonator who accidentally used nonwashable markers as facepaint. Time for some sweet revenge Manute. I'm about to bash you like Dean Portman and Fulton Reed took care of business in Mighty Ducks 2. If you are reading this, Manute, you probably would have been more successful as a boxer, horse jockey or rock star than you were on the basketball court. But I'll leave that decision up to the judges. Thank you Simon, Paula and Randy.
Since that day, I've had it out for the man who ended his 10 year career with only 2,647 rebounds. He was 7'6" and only had 2,647 rebounds in 10 years. That's 264.7 rebounds per season. Divide that by 82 games a year and he pulled down a glorious 3.2 rebounds per game. Granted, the guy probably missed a fair amount of games like Shaun Livingston did after he practically snapped his leg in half. The thought of those weak knees that Manute protected with kneedpads larger than pillows, being able to hold 220 pounds of flesh day in and day out is about as unrealistic as Barry hitting 762* career homeruns without the juice. Hey A-Rod, if you are reading this, let me be the 1st (or millionth) to tell you that the asterisk is on it's way to New York and will arrive at the new Yankee Stadium in time for opening day.
Some would argue that Manute Bol was not actually a human, but a walking, talking, shot blocking broomstick. That statement, however, is about as true as GWB being a good public speaker. Over 10 seasons, Manute racked up a monumental 2,086 blocked shots. Remember, this gigantic sized pencil frame was 7'6" tall and should have blocked more shots than Eddie the Eagle and Saint Patrick Roy. Don't get me wrong, sitting 13th overall on the all time shot block list is something to write home about, but a 7'6" freak should be blocking shots left and right, quicker than a Tyson Combo. All in all, Manute led a pretty successful career, with about as much potential as Russ Tyler's knucklepuck popularizing itself in the NHL. Zdeno Chara's 105.4 MPH slapshot would make the knucklepuck look like a Chet Steadman fastball.
Claiming the rights as the tallest man to suck at basketball is about as hip and cool as Screech Powers at Bayside High School. Mr. Belding would dunk on Manute, give Zach Morris detention and sleep with Kelly Kapowski quicker than Manute Bol would stand a chance at the Hall of Fame, or even an All Star game. Manute, however, has a kind soul like Ty Pennington from Extreme Home Makeover. He has spent much of his overpaid salary giving back to his homeland of Sudan. He has given about $3.5 million to the "Ring True Foundation", a charity that he established to help fundraising for Sudanese refugees. Manute Bol deserves the Nobel Peace Prize like the Philadelphia Eagles deserve a Super Bowl ring.
Manute spent some time in 2004 recovering from a car accident where he broke his neck when his taxi driver hit a guardrail and overturned. How he fit himself into the backseat of a taxi is about as interesting as how Obama plans to bring our country out of a recession. Some questions are better off left alone, like what happened to the mischievous Kevin McCallister we fell in love with. Kevin's slick rick attitude against the Wet Bandits was about as clever as Bret The Hitman Hart proclaiming his finishing move as the Sharpshooter. Any man who can pull off wearing pink tights is worthy of a tribute, like Urkel was worthy of a date with Laura.
Big L (RIP), was an Underground hiphop artist who rapped, "And every time I'm jammed, I always find a loop hole. I got a crime record longer than Manute Bol." Big L claimed to have a crime record 7'6" long and he was finding loop holes to stay bright on the streets like a lite-brite. Manute Bol should consider tossing some of that Sudanese charity money, that he so dearly earned during his NBA career, to put punks with crime records like Big L in jail with dog lover Michael Vick.
Until Shawn Bradley, Gheorghe Muresan and Yao Ming joined Manute Bol on the "I'm tall, so I play basketball" list, Manute was outcasted like the fat kid in gym class. Thanks to screwed up DNA, our world has been blessed with a number of gargantuan people who have been given the ability to tie their shoes and stand straight with their hands up in the air, like a pencil dive off the high board. Like the famous little league quote goes, "You can't teach height." This is about as true as Hulk Hogan wrecking havoc on Rick Flair in a 1994 Steel Cage Match. Manute and his oversized compadres changed the face of the NBA like Flava Flav changed the art of reality television. Manute is lucky that I didn't chase him down the tunnel and lock him up in the sharpshooter after he pulled that hand in the face antic on me. Seriously.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Wax on... Wax off...
"Man who catch fly with chopstick, accomplish anything" - Mr. Miyagi
The Karate Kid is a helluva boy, aint he? Watch him pose on that wooden block, balancing on one foot, ready to kick the face off of a pigeon. Arms hanging off to his side, flexing like Hulk Hogan after he drops the legendary, 600 pound Yokozuna. To wax on and wax off with such physique and composure is an accomplishment of the equivalence that which Tom Brady has become accustomed to. I'm talking about supermodel fiancee, Giselle Bundchen, not his 3 Super Bowl rings. Although, 3 Super Bowl rings is 3 more than my man McNabb has gotten his hands on. Ouch! His drop kick is so lethal that Chuck Norris cried and Bill Cowher had to retire his under-biting chin back to the streets of Pittsburgh. Mr. Miyagi changed the face of the art we call Karate with one slip of the tongue. As he is approached by the Karate Kid, time after time, his wisdom is made clear like pepsi from the 90's. Allow me to interpret this quote which made us scratch our chins, as if we were duct taped to our locker with no analogical explanation. On that note, is "Duct" not one of the most difficult words to pronounce? What's up with the oddly placed "T"? I think we need to reconsider the possibility of sharing the word duck. The ducks didn't mind it when Gordon Bombay transformed District 5 into a winner. Why not give it a shot, Mr. Ducksworth? But I digress... back to the quote that changed my life like steroids changed Barry in 2001.
Lace up your skates, put on your literary thinking cap and hush up as I break down this quote using more analogies than frolicals in the unibrow sported by Ravens gunslinger, Joe Flacco. Edgar Allen Poe would turn in his grave if he knew his cherished Raven was being represented by a man who looks like a clone of Eddie Munster and Mindy's buddy Mork.
The fly, which Mr. Miyagi speaks of in this show of brilliance is an object of life which rattles our weekly go-around. Think about a moment in life that has shook your mind like a tilt-a-whirl. Have you recently ended a long, heartfelt relationship causing a bit of corruption like an 8.0 Richter scale earthquake? Have you lost your job due to the global warming infestation we call a recession? Thanks a lot Al Gore. Are you down in the dumps because you have nappy hair like Cory Matthews? You get the point. So this fly, which we can't seem to deflate, is a haunting black cloud hovering over us like Harry Potter and his golden snitch. We try to pop this fly by jabbing it with uppercuts, roundabouts and full fledged star punches from Mike Tyson's Punch-Out. Those star punches, also known as chopsticks, are what we use to end this streak of gloom. The chopsticks are the positive things in our life that we use to overcome our shenanigans. Maybe you just received a bonus at work and your boss took you out to do Jager-bombs. Maybe you just met a fine woman at Starbucks, while sipping your Iced Latte and writing in your diary the way Doug Funny tortured Porkchop for all those years. Maybe you're having a good hair day like Uncle Jesse. Whatever it may be, these positive, joyful moments are chopsticks that we use to catch that nasty fly, haunting our souls like green Ecto-Cooler Hi-C haunts my dreams. Why did they stop making that stuff? I drank it, as I'm sure you did, like it was going out of style. Without that drink, Elementary School lunch time would have been full of nasty lunch ladies, floppy hot dogs and stale chocolate milk cartons.
To recap this nonsense, Cory Matthews, Mr. Miyagi and Ecto-Cooler, along with you, me and Uncle Jesse can all appreciate the valuable things in life like Lil' Wayne appreciates his platinum grill. Focus on that fly, hold your chopsticks tight and, my friend, you will see success. If that doesn't work, kick somebody in the face with a roundabout and you'll feel much better. It worked for Chuck Norris.
The Karate Kid is a helluva boy, aint he? Watch him pose on that wooden block, balancing on one foot, ready to kick the face off of a pigeon. Arms hanging off to his side, flexing like Hulk Hogan after he drops the legendary, 600 pound Yokozuna. To wax on and wax off with such physique and composure is an accomplishment of the equivalence that which Tom Brady has become accustomed to. I'm talking about supermodel fiancee, Giselle Bundchen, not his 3 Super Bowl rings. Although, 3 Super Bowl rings is 3 more than my man McNabb has gotten his hands on. Ouch! His drop kick is so lethal that Chuck Norris cried and Bill Cowher had to retire his under-biting chin back to the streets of Pittsburgh. Mr. Miyagi changed the face of the art we call Karate with one slip of the tongue. As he is approached by the Karate Kid, time after time, his wisdom is made clear like pepsi from the 90's. Allow me to interpret this quote which made us scratch our chins, as if we were duct taped to our locker with no analogical explanation. On that note, is "Duct" not one of the most difficult words to pronounce? What's up with the oddly placed "T"? I think we need to reconsider the possibility of sharing the word duck. The ducks didn't mind it when Gordon Bombay transformed District 5 into a winner. Why not give it a shot, Mr. Ducksworth? But I digress... back to the quote that changed my life like steroids changed Barry in 2001.
Lace up your skates, put on your literary thinking cap and hush up as I break down this quote using more analogies than frolicals in the unibrow sported by Ravens gunslinger, Joe Flacco. Edgar Allen Poe would turn in his grave if he knew his cherished Raven was being represented by a man who looks like a clone of Eddie Munster and Mindy's buddy Mork.
The fly, which Mr. Miyagi speaks of in this show of brilliance is an object of life which rattles our weekly go-around. Think about a moment in life that has shook your mind like a tilt-a-whirl. Have you recently ended a long, heartfelt relationship causing a bit of corruption like an 8.0 Richter scale earthquake? Have you lost your job due to the global warming infestation we call a recession? Thanks a lot Al Gore. Are you down in the dumps because you have nappy hair like Cory Matthews? You get the point. So this fly, which we can't seem to deflate, is a haunting black cloud hovering over us like Harry Potter and his golden snitch. We try to pop this fly by jabbing it with uppercuts, roundabouts and full fledged star punches from Mike Tyson's Punch-Out. Those star punches, also known as chopsticks, are what we use to end this streak of gloom. The chopsticks are the positive things in our life that we use to overcome our shenanigans. Maybe you just received a bonus at work and your boss took you out to do Jager-bombs. Maybe you just met a fine woman at Starbucks, while sipping your Iced Latte and writing in your diary the way Doug Funny tortured Porkchop for all those years. Maybe you're having a good hair day like Uncle Jesse. Whatever it may be, these positive, joyful moments are chopsticks that we use to catch that nasty fly, haunting our souls like green Ecto-Cooler Hi-C haunts my dreams. Why did they stop making that stuff? I drank it, as I'm sure you did, like it was going out of style. Without that drink, Elementary School lunch time would have been full of nasty lunch ladies, floppy hot dogs and stale chocolate milk cartons.
To recap this nonsense, Cory Matthews, Mr. Miyagi and Ecto-Cooler, along with you, me and Uncle Jesse can all appreciate the valuable things in life like Lil' Wayne appreciates his platinum grill. Focus on that fly, hold your chopsticks tight and, my friend, you will see success. If that doesn't work, kick somebody in the face with a roundabout and you'll feel much better. It worked for Chuck Norris.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Cold Stone vs. Stone Cold
Let's play the debate game where we choose one possible "Can You Live Without" item, flip the words around and compare it to life without the other. First up, "Cold Stone." Yes, Cold Stone Creamery, home of the "The Ultimate Ice Cream Experience." Why is that their slogan? How does one become so utterly cool that they become the ultimate? The only two ultimate things that I'd nod an okay to is the Ultimate Warrior and Ultimate Frisbee, the toughest face paint wearing wrestler of all time and a game that you can basically chalk up to a mix of football and futbol, with a frisbee of course. Sounds intriguing, eh?
Let's admit it, life without Cold Stone would be ok with me. Truthfully, I don't even think I've ever stepped foot into a Cold Stone, let alone sniffed their ice cream during a frequent mall visit. I pretty much ignore them completly and turn down all the free samples because, let's just face it, Cold Stone to Rita's Water Ice is like comparing Shaq's free throw to a Kobe fade-away jumper. As the Southerners would say, "Dat aint nuffin, I'mma Nascurrr fan." Rita's Water Ice runs laps around Cold Stone like an offspring from Usain Bolt and Speedy Gonzales. That's all I have to say about that.
Stone Cold Steve Austin. Need I say more? Yes, otherwise this wouldn't be interesting. After pondering what life without Stone Cold would be like for months on end, I've come to the conclusion that we just wouldn't be the same without the man. How many people do you know that can break thru glass, chug a beer (with 3/4 of it missing your mouth and landing on the front 5 rows), smash that can of beer on your forehead, then throw the Stunner on your boss (Vince McMahon)? That just doesn't happen in everyday life. Life without Stone Cold is like Bob Barker surviving 35 years on The Price is Right without Plinko, Rod Roddy and Wilford Brimley. Let me break that down for you in Stone Cold language. Plinko was rigged, we all know it. The zero slot had tiny magnets that attempted to draw the chip to it, slightly missing the $10,000 slot (just kidding). Even with that sick knowledge, we continued to watch and cheer obnoxiously on every drop of the chip. Rod Roddy (RIP), and his silly crowd jittering "Come on down" celebration, never failed to amaze us. Barker would have been screwed if he was stuck with that slob they dumped on Drew Carey. Wilford Brimley brought a new meaning to commercial watching. Whether riding the horse or chillin out in the rocking chair, Wilford continued to intrigue us with his knowledge on diabetes. Doctors scurried with their notepads and pencils everytime Wilford appeared on our TVs, hoping to learn something new from the Ultimate Wilford. Diabetes without Wilford is like MJ without Scottie. Whoever said "One hand helps the other" could not have been anymore right here.
The debate is over. Stone Cold Steve Austin lays the smackdown on Cold Stone Creamery. And that's the bottom line!
Let's admit it, life without Cold Stone would be ok with me. Truthfully, I don't even think I've ever stepped foot into a Cold Stone, let alone sniffed their ice cream during a frequent mall visit. I pretty much ignore them completly and turn down all the free samples because, let's just face it, Cold Stone to Rita's Water Ice is like comparing Shaq's free throw to a Kobe fade-away jumper. As the Southerners would say, "Dat aint nuffin, I'mma Nascurrr fan." Rita's Water Ice runs laps around Cold Stone like an offspring from Usain Bolt and Speedy Gonzales. That's all I have to say about that.
Stone Cold Steve Austin. Need I say more? Yes, otherwise this wouldn't be interesting. After pondering what life without Stone Cold would be like for months on end, I've come to the conclusion that we just wouldn't be the same without the man. How many people do you know that can break thru glass, chug a beer (with 3/4 of it missing your mouth and landing on the front 5 rows), smash that can of beer on your forehead, then throw the Stunner on your boss (Vince McMahon)? That just doesn't happen in everyday life. Life without Stone Cold is like Bob Barker surviving 35 years on The Price is Right without Plinko, Rod Roddy and Wilford Brimley. Let me break that down for you in Stone Cold language. Plinko was rigged, we all know it. The zero slot had tiny magnets that attempted to draw the chip to it, slightly missing the $10,000 slot (just kidding). Even with that sick knowledge, we continued to watch and cheer obnoxiously on every drop of the chip. Rod Roddy (RIP), and his silly crowd jittering "Come on down" celebration, never failed to amaze us. Barker would have been screwed if he was stuck with that slob they dumped on Drew Carey. Wilford Brimley brought a new meaning to commercial watching. Whether riding the horse or chillin out in the rocking chair, Wilford continued to intrigue us with his knowledge on diabetes. Doctors scurried with their notepads and pencils everytime Wilford appeared on our TVs, hoping to learn something new from the Ultimate Wilford. Diabetes without Wilford is like MJ without Scottie. Whoever said "One hand helps the other" could not have been anymore right here.
The debate is over. Stone Cold Steve Austin lays the smackdown on Cold Stone Creamery. And that's the bottom line!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
McQuestions
I have 2 questions. These 2 questions have been on my mind for an awfully long time and I really need to crack down and get some answers. First off, the year 2010 is quickly approaching. Times are tough and money is scarce. The weather is playing mind games on us like a sick David Blaine. As we reach this milestone that hits us 10 years after the Y2K bug bit so hard that El Nino got pissed and dropped a Mentos into a bottle of Coke (that was a metaphor, you should know the result; If you don't, you haven't lived), we ask ourselves important questions day in and day out, driving us crazy like the "breakfast mcmuffin bum" from Big Daddy. Honestly though, how do you go from co-staring in Armageddon with Bruce Willis to sleeping in a shopping cart and watching roller skaters trip over sticks? Where am I going with this?
Question 1: In the year 2010, will you say "Twenty-Ten" or "Two thousand and ten"? In 1910, we said "Nineteen ten", not "One thousand nine hundred and ten". That sounds silly, doesn't it? So I ask again, "Twenty ten" or "two thousand and ten"? For the sake of time, and based on our countries extreme level of lazyness, I'm going to jump on the phrase with less syllables. It's a tricky situation, I understand. I almost wish that congress would pass a bill on the proper way to address the year, and take that responsibility away from me. I just don't know if I could handle that pressure. Not that this is a matter of life or death (or maybe it is), but we should have some sort of rule set in stone. Go ahead and test yourself by saying random years in the 20's and see how it sounds. Nine out of ten times, I bet you'll choose the "twenty twenty" version. I suppose it's only a matter of time before we all must decide. The single digit years have to be pronounced "Two thousand and nine" because "Twenty Nine" would just get confusing. Do I make myself clear? Ask yourself, WWGWBD, then do the complete opposite.
Question 2: Social Security Numbers. I'm no math wiz, but won't we eventually run out of 9 digit combinations? Then what do we do? Add a 10th number? Add letters? This is mayhem. Not nearly as important as the whole pronounciation of the year question, but still extremely necessary to have an answer. If Einstein were still alive, he'd just multiply 9 times something and get an answer, but sadly he's no longer with us. If anybody knows of another math wiz with the likes of Big Al, please ask the question. With hundreds of people in the world already ("in the world" or "on the world" - damn, another question), we only have so much more time before a decision is needed. Obama, if you are reading this, WWGWBD? My vote is to switch to letters. That could be fun. I hope my future child is born with a SSN of 9 letters and it spells out "GOODSPORTS". I know, that's 10 digits, but you get my point.
Question 1: In the year 2010, will you say "Twenty-Ten" or "Two thousand and ten"? In 1910, we said "Nineteen ten", not "One thousand nine hundred and ten". That sounds silly, doesn't it? So I ask again, "Twenty ten" or "two thousand and ten"? For the sake of time, and based on our countries extreme level of lazyness, I'm going to jump on the phrase with less syllables. It's a tricky situation, I understand. I almost wish that congress would pass a bill on the proper way to address the year, and take that responsibility away from me. I just don't know if I could handle that pressure. Not that this is a matter of life or death (or maybe it is), but we should have some sort of rule set in stone. Go ahead and test yourself by saying random years in the 20's and see how it sounds. Nine out of ten times, I bet you'll choose the "twenty twenty" version. I suppose it's only a matter of time before we all must decide. The single digit years have to be pronounced "Two thousand and nine" because "Twenty Nine" would just get confusing. Do I make myself clear? Ask yourself, WWGWBD, then do the complete opposite.
Question 2: Social Security Numbers. I'm no math wiz, but won't we eventually run out of 9 digit combinations? Then what do we do? Add a 10th number? Add letters? This is mayhem. Not nearly as important as the whole pronounciation of the year question, but still extremely necessary to have an answer. If Einstein were still alive, he'd just multiply 9 times something and get an answer, but sadly he's no longer with us. If anybody knows of another math wiz with the likes of Big Al, please ask the question. With hundreds of people in the world already ("in the world" or "on the world" - damn, another question), we only have so much more time before a decision is needed. Obama, if you are reading this, WWGWBD? My vote is to switch to letters. That could be fun. I hope my future child is born with a SSN of 9 letters and it spells out "GOODSPORTS". I know, that's 10 digits, but you get my point.
Brad Pitt
The most (well, one of the most) amazing moments in sports history relating to the score tracker on the top left (or right on some channels) corner of the television screen came in 2006 during the NCAA Tournament. This monumental score tracker moment occurred the same year that #16 seed U of Albany almost (had an 11 pt lead at half) upset UCONN (U-Can't) in the 1st round. This would have (and should have) been the 1st #16 win in NCAA Tournament history. That's not the point of this story though. The point is, in fact, that in round 2, 3 or maybe 4, Bradley played Pittsburgh. Funny, huh? It gets better. The score tracker on the top left (or right on some channels) corner of the television displayed BRAD above PITT. Who cares what the score was or who won?! Brad Pitt became an overnight NCAA Basketball sensation due to this sillyness. Never again, to my knowledge, has a team played another team and together their abbreviated names on the score tracker made up a real person, let alone someone with the star-studded celebriance (it's not a word, i know, but it fits) to the likes of Brad Pitt. Sure, Tom could play Cruise. But Tom and Cruise are not abbreviations for NCAA Tournament hopefuls. Think about it. I assume if Archbishop Ryan High School (abbreviated "Ryan") played Howard University in Virginia (I think that's where it is) that would mean Ryan vs. Howard. But I highly doubt that Howard could fit into the score tracker unless they made the font really small, which would make it look weird. It'd be more like Ryan vs. How, and that's just not funny. Not to mention, people outside of the Philadelphia area probably have no idea what Archbishop Ryan is (it's a lame Catholic high school that charges way too much for tuition). Also, they'd probably never get invited to the NCAA Tournament, hence NCAA, not High School. Also, Howard, no offense, is not good at basketball. They, too, will probably never play in the tournament. Brad Pitt, you are the man! Good luck to Bradley and Pittsburgh this year. I hope you two meet in the NCAA Tournament again in the near future, purely for comedic enjoyment.
http://sports.espn.go.com/ncb/recap?gameId=264000006 (i'm not lying, this really happened)
http://sports.espn.go.com/
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