Don't worry; I know I tend to get esoteric from time to time, but the title of this post is, for the most part, exactly what it advertises, despite the -- Warning: Disturbing(?)* -- image above. Because who doesn't like to talk sports? Granted, some are better at it than others, and this spectrum of analyses ranges from "That was a fucking sweet pass!" to as far as "Lynn Swann nestled the ball in his arms like the woodcutter did the baby at the end of Rashomon." But isn't that what makes sports (and film, and food, and the female figure) so fun to discuss? It's universal, baby; and, like the universe itself, although no man will ever come close to a definitive exposition on the inherent beauty of either subjects, we all try. Some better than others.
Things I Noticed When I Wasn't Looking**
-- Word to Idealjetsam, basketball does not, in fact, suck. Nor will it ever. That's like saying water tastes unpleasant, or that grilled kimchi causes birth defects in pregnant mothers. To quote Charles Strickland (Psychedelic Kimchi like a motherfuck, by the way), you funny little man.
-- It was nice to actually watch KG's first game as a Celtic, even though I woke up with A HANGOVER THE SIZE OF THE NATIONAL DEBT/A RADIOACTIVE MUTANT CATFISH, caught the game halfway through the third quarter, and genocide is still a major worldwide issue. It's hard not to root for Boston's big three. They're all such likeable, dedicated, handsome, selfless gentlemen (reminds me of some people I know). I bet Garnett doesn't even masturbate.
-- Some running back for the Vikings -- a rookie, no less -- broke the NFL's regular-season record for rushing yards. And I would have remembered his name were it not for the fact that A) the NFL and I amicably split seven years ago when I moved to Korea, because long-distance relationships of that persuasion never work out, B) I read about it today in the Korea Herald, and, as a principle, I automatically swipe everything I read in that waifer-thin piece of journalistic dog food from my mind the instant I put it down and log onto perezhilton.com, and C) I'm a little jealous, in all honesty. Dude rushed for 296 yards. My biggest accomplishment of the week is clearing 166 lines in Tetris and not spelling accomplishment incorrectly.
-- If Gilbert Arenas were a fad, would he be:
A) an 8-ball jacket
B) school shootings
C) Ren & Stimpy
D) The Da Vinci Code
I don't want to hex the man, but he's sorta becoming a joke. An unfunny one. (Reminds me of someone I know/am.)
-- Bring me the head of Francisco Garcia. (Case in point.)
-- This, from the Is Roger Ebert Really All Better? file:
You Don't Know How Good You Are
In my opinion, Rog gets Tommy points for taking shit out of the box. PK, as I've stated here (and haunted your dreams with the following maxim), is often inside baseball. You, Constant Retard, are probably used to it. The casual Chicago Sun Times reader, however, is probably not. Kudos to Roger Ebert (Psychedelic Kimchi like a motherfuck, by the way) for switching it up for a sec. I do it every other day; but when a living monolith of journalism takes a chance (this is the man who co-wrote Beyond the Valley of the Dolls and gave Speed 2: Cruise Control a thumb up, remember), it cannot be overlooked or unappreciated.
(Even though the article kinda/sorta/really did bite.)
-- I'm trying to decide which is the fourth-best North American sport: the NHL, or Hell's Kitchen with Gordon Ramsay.
-- The Boston Red Sox won the World Series. That was nice. Feel good story, and all that. I bet Jonathon Papelbon doesn't even manually arouse himself.
-- Tony Parker, despite many contrary claims, is not, in fact, a pussy. So stop making fun of his accent already.
-- Oh, the Miami Heat? I suppose it's my duty to write a little missive to The House That Spark Built. It's just that every time I try, I get this sharp pain in my knees, shoulders, and ribs. Blame Stan Van Gundy, denz, and the voodoo doll they share. And Ricky Davis.
(Although, Ricky, if I could love the unlovable -- see: Walker, Antoine -- I might find a place in my cold, cruel heart for you, too. If you don't intentionally grab a rebound from your own team's basket, that is.
...
This is going to end badly.)
* For the record, that's a photo of a [fucked up raccoon? A dog? A fucked-up raccoon dog?] on a taxidermist's table, and not some inhumane form of animal torture porn (it can't be inhumane if the beast is already dead, right? Unless you're cremated -- and, really, who's to say you're not? -- they'll stuff you, too. You know who's inhumane? God, that's who). It probably wouldn't matter either way to the good people of PETA, but I'd like to think that stuffing a dead animal is just a little less monstrous than tying down a poor, helpless creature and tormenting it until it gives up the goods as to whereabouts Scruffy Squirrel is stashing his acorns. Just a little.
** Write that on my epitaph! (Along with the subscript: "I Ghost Wrote the Titles of Modest Mouse's Last Two Albums").
No comments:
Post a Comment