Sports Weekend

Item: Although I've never been a fan of the Boston Celtics, when they acquired Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen last summer, I was happy -- partly because the East needs some more like talent, and partly because Garnett and Allen are two great players and, by all accounts, good guys. When I found out yesterday that Pau Gasol was traded to the Lakers, I wasn't happy, but I was intrigued. The Lakers are now a potential championship squad, and any true sports fan appreciates great teams (more on that in a second). It didn't take long before sports writers and fans started to throw around the idea that maybe one of sports' greatest rivalries will resume this spring in the NBA Finals.

If the Celts win the East (and that's not a small assumption), the problem for the Lakers, however, is twofold. First, I'd pick them in a heartbeat in a series against San Antonio if it weren't for Kobe's lack of leadership. Kobe Bryant is many things (a jerk one of them), but he is not a great leader, nor, I believe, will he ever be. LA's second problem is Phoenix; I don't see them beating the Suns, although I hope that series happens with both teams' players healthy and not suspended.

So if you're looking forward to a Lakers/Celtics Finals, wait until next year. Maybe.

(By the way, I haven't been able to watch a full game all season, so take my NBA knowledge with a grain of salt. No, sugar.

No, cocaine.)

Item: As I mentioned, any true sports fan appreciates great teams. That said, if you're not a fan of the New York Giants, and you're rooting against the Patriots, you, sir, are a fucking asshole. Why wouldn't you want to see an NFL team complete a perfect season? Warning to any women reading this: that's some bitch shit. If you're a Colts fan, I might hear you out; but for anyone else who watches the game and hopes for an upset, I hope you get testicular cancer like Nene. Cheering for the underdog is cool (see: Rocky films, presidential elections), but in this case -- again, unless you're a Giants fan -- it's the same as begrudging others' success, and it says a lot about the person who does so. Such people are evil: the type who would smile at a car wreck, or wish testicular cancer on others (word to me and Vincent Gallo).

NB: What with the upcoming shortage of English teachers in Korea, here's a tip for anyone negotiating a new contract: demand days off on Superbowl Monday, the morning of the Academy Awards, any game seven (let's say between 3 and 6, like sick days), and the day after one of your favorite bands or singers comes to Korea for a weekday concert*. I firmly believe that this can, should, and will happen. Don't let me down, fellas.

Item: I finished Contra 4 on Saturday. Then, like that time I gave you a multiple orgasm and parlayed it into an exponential orgasm to prove it wasn't a fluke, I finished it again today. Now, I'm pretty confident I could finish that shit in my sleep.

Acceptance speech: I'd like to thank myself for being mice elf, again. To quote Egg Shen, it wasn't easy, but it was necessary. A lot of times, we see ourselves as unworthy of greatness, as though it's a fearful burden. We think, "I am but one man with a gun, without a shirt or a save function. How can I ever hope to defeat this teeming alien horde? I can jump acrobatically; maybe I should join Cirque du Soleil and leave this hero shit to someone else." But still that drive compels us. And by "us" I mean a very select few. I'll be honest, I don't like most of you; and, to be completely honest, a lot of you deserve to be slaves to alien overloards. But Momma Rizer didn't raise me that way. Growing up in my household, she instilled in me the belief that we are all special, all worthy of life, and that Red Falcon, Black Viper, and Purple War Helmet deserved beatdowns of the critical variety. She was like Atticus Finch that way.

It is to my mother that I dedicate this award.

Furthermore, I would like to thank my proficient and equally-skilled life partner, Lance Bean; although even at this moment I can't help but wonder where the fuck you were, bro, when I was knee deep in bug juice (that's an industry term), fighting for my life and the continued existence of our species. Reading Swank, right? You horndog.

Mad shoutouts to my sensei, the illustrious and eloquent K-Hot. These past 2 months I've tried to ignore remonstrations that I'm too old for this shit. Thank you, master, for helping me stay focused. You showed me that it can be done. You encouraged me to overcome my fear. You're the meaning in my life. You're the inspiration**. We will celebrate together soon.

I don't care; this moment is too big to me for your commercial break. Fuck it. Play your orchestration while I shout louder. You're only making this moment more memorable, Mr. conductor. Word to Cuba Gooding Jr. and Jim Valvano.

Fuck Probotector. I have skin as my armor, so I can understand why a single enemy shot might kill me. Dude, is your robot gear made of tin foil? You blow. You kick ass like old people fuck.

Mandy Moore, have your people call my people. You have a great smile, and I have a huge penis.

Who's that guy with the taser? Wait, what the fuck is going on?

Perfect. Just perfect.



* This happened to me back in 2002. Why'd you have to perform on a Tuesday, Roger Waters?

** No one needs you more than I.