Posts Tagged ‘Boston Celtics’


Stanley Cup Finals Game 7 Need-to-Know

June 15, 2011

By now, you’ve been gripped by the Stanley Cup finals if you’re living in New England and have a pulse. Growing up a New England sports fan, I root for every hometown team, and the Bruins have always been “The Thing” in the Fantastic 4. You know about them, but they don’t really fit in, they don’t have a very cool power (other than being turned into a human rock), and the other three steal most of the glory. This year, though, the Bruins are the team who is making the magical playoff run. Much like the Patriots of ’01, the Celtics of ’08 or even the Red Sox of ’04 and ’07, the region has shifted all of its focus to a foreign place in June: the ice. I won’t sit here and berate fans who just recently jumped on the bandwagon. I myself am a pink hat Bruin fan. However, I started watching in the first round of the playoffs and have watched every game since (except for the game 7 against Tampa Bay when I was in a Brooklyn Law apartment complex with no Versus, and had to watch on ESPN gametracker). While the Red Sox are like a wife, the Celtics are like a steady girlfriend, and the Patriots are like that smoking hot hook-up you get on weekends all the time, the Bruins, in these playoffs, have been my one night stand. I hardly knew more than their names before the playoffs started, and after these playoffs I’ll go right back to my wife, but for this one time, I’m cheating, and fully invested in the moment. So, since I know more about sports than you, I’ll tell you all you need to know about this series, from the plots to the players, as we head into tonight’s deciding game 7 (oh, and here’s a potential one night if I had to cheat on my hypothetical wife).

Diora Baird: You remember her from when she flopped onto the bed in the opening Wedding Crashers montage. Like I said, amazing one night stand.


In six games thus far in the series, the home team has won every game. The Bruins won their home games by a combined score of 17-3. Fortunately, the Canucks have looked far more vulnerable at home, with just a 5-2 goal advantage. Unfortunately, that means the Bs have scored just twice in three games north of the border. Fortunately, none of this makes any sense, the Bruins have been the clear-cut better team, and at some point, you figure one of those fluky one goal games will finally go in the Bruins favor. If the Bs can get an early lead tonight, look out. Roberto Luongo has been, in a word, a shit sandwich once he gives up one goal…


The Italian-Canadian sleezeball has looked like Swiss cheese in Boston, and a block of Cheddar in Vancouver. Okay, so I’m not sure if the block of cheddar analogy made sense, but go with it. The hilarious part is after he gave up 12 goals in two games, he won 1-0 in game 5 and ripped Tim Thomas for the goal he allowed, saying “it would have been an easy save for me.” The Bruins came out in game 6 and scored 3 goals in 8 minutes to chase Luongo to the bench. I would have said showers, but he didn’t have enough time on the ice to require more than an Axe body spray. Look for Boston to come out shooting pucks like Darryl Strawberry’s baseball career: fast, high and on the short (glove) side.


He’s already the Conn Smythe winner for MVP of the Stanley Cup Finals. No, you didn’t miss that award ceremony, because it’s given out tonight, but regardless of who wins game 7, Thomas has it locked up. His numbers, while not quite historic, have been heroic. Like Emmanuelle Chriqui at a bar, Thomas has turned away everything that’s come flying at him. It’s not simply the shots he’s turned aside, but the amount of games he almost single-handedly won the Bruins. Even as their play was shoddy in front of him, Thomas stood on his head to keep games close, or leads in hand. He has made Luongo look foolish on the opposite end of the ice all series long, and if the sports Gods do exist, the right man in net will hoist Lord Stanley’s Cup as well.

It's just been far too long since Emmanuelle has been featured on the Revolver.

THE BITE SEEN ‘ROUND THE WORLD (just not in NHL headquarters)

In Game One, Alexandre Burrows got in a scuffle with Patrice Bergeron and while a ref held them back, he bit Bergeron’s finger. Yes, like a toddler bitch with no other thoughts, he BIT him. While a penalty was called for the bite, the league offices took no action in suspending Burrows. In the very next game, with Burrows playing, Canucks henchman Max LaPierre taunted Bergeron by poking his fingers in his face. Then, Burrows scored the game-winner in Overtime, and the shit had officially hit the fan. It didn’t help in Boston that his name is spelled French-ly and that hockey fans all hate Montreal, French-Canadians, and the French in general. This bite only set off the start of the hatred developed between these two teams.


In game three, with all the suspense leading up to how the Bruins would retaliate against the girly, classless antics of the Canucks. Then, minutes in, it was the Canucks who leveled Bruins first-line forward Nathan Horton with a cheapshot two strides after a pass with his head down. Horton lying on the ground with his arm frozen upright like a full mailbox, was out cold: and out for the series. After that hit, the Bs went on to score 12 goals in two wins at home to send the series back for game 5. As I already discussed the results in games 5 and 6 for each home team, it brings us to game 7.


Since I can’t tell these particular rare breed of ginger twins apart, I’ll just say the Swedish Twins. Since that makes everyone think of two hot blonde chicks you’d dream about in a menage… I’m sorry. Basically, all you need to know about the Sedins can be summed up by this video: 

I mean, this dude just gets punked, in the face, six separate times, without doing anything. Just standing there like someone from a Nordic country who has never been in a fight before. Apparently Sedin is the Norse God of bitch, who knew? Meanwhile, the guy punching him repeatedly, Brad Marchand, has made a name for himself in this series. He’s even taken on one of the greatest monikers in recent sports nickname memory: The Nose Faced Killah (upside down Wu Tang logo making an “M” and all). With nine goals, and seven assists in these playoffs, Marchand has also been the lead agitator for the Bruins. Pissing off the other team is a trait not to be overlooked. He netted the first goal of the Game 6 blowout when he sniped Luongo’s glove-side and the rout was on.

Straight up gangster.


Because what’s the point of all this information without me making a bold prediction. Well, as I said, the Bruins have soundly outplayed Vancouver throughout this series, and without some bad bounces and breaks, could have already won the cup with multiple one-goal games. It says here, though, that tonight the Bs get the monkey off their backs and Canuck the shit out of Vancouver. 4-1 final with Thomas winning MVP honors, obviously, and the Sedins left to hold each other sobbing in solace during a post-game shower.

Stay tuned…


Smorgasblog: Rondo’s Elbow, Hummus, Marisa Miller and my Mom

May 9, 2011

I haven’t done a Smorgasblog in a little while, and after a weekend getting sexually assaulted by a blackjack table, the tiny asian temptress who dealt those satanic hands, the devil spawn of an ATM machine that dispensed my money, and whiskey on the rocks, I doubt I’d be able to string together enough coherent words for one awesome blog topic (like the Night Party Bus Addendum, coming later this week!). See, just then I somehow decided it made sense to write one run-on sentence with five commas in it. I even re-read it to make sure it sounded okay, and walked away satisfied with the start to this blog. Let’s just get to the smorgas’ing. This blog brought to you by British Pop star Cheryl Cole, because she looks decent etc.



This one time, I banged my elbow on a gym door latch right before warmups and wouldn’t you know, it hit my funny bone. Searing waves of pain fired across seemingly every synaptic vesicle in my brain as I thought, “sweet baby Jesus, take me now.” I thought for sure my career would be cut short. Thankfully, the pain subsided in about 37 seconds and I didn’t miss a shot in the layup line. I was eight years old in this imaginary tale being used to draw a comparison to Rajon Rondo on Saturday night.

Just 15 years after this harrowing falsified anecdote, I cannot comprehend how Rondo played with a gimp, dislocated left arm the other night. More inexplicable, is how the Miami Heat refused to overplay and deny him going right. If you watched the replay hammered drunk, you would have known an elbow shouldn’t bend like Rondo’s did. Even if you weren’t hammered drunk, you may have arrived at that fact. To compare what Rondo did to the embarrassment of the Lakers yesterday would be a disservice to homeless people. Because they try harder in life than the Lakers did on the court. So I guess, what I’m saying is, the Lakers compare more favorably to homeless people than Rondo, but still not very favorably to society?

By the way, this could be the turning point in the Heat-Celtics series. KG played like it was 1999 (not to be read like that terribly catchy song about partying like it’s, well, you get it), Paul Pierce is back in a groove, and Chris Bosh has openly admitted that it’s his time of the month and the Boston crowd gave him the jitters. For the record, only an emasculated man who got turned into KG’s housewife says the word “jitters.” Sprinkle in the fact that DWade has been playing dirty and Shaq may have to knock him into the off-season, and I think we have a seven game series on our hands.

Anybody else’s skin crawling after that awkwardness? “Somethin’ like that, yeah.”


They are like the Portman-Kunis lesbian scene in Black Swan. Feeding off each other’s passion, beauty and dedication to their roles, they create one of the most satisfying feelings ever. There is literally no hummus size tub that can hold me down. Yesterday I started in on a “Party Size” tub that serves 16. If that was a “party” it would have been over fast, and no one would have gotten buzzed, let alone laid.  Since the age of six, I’ve “snack”ed in the way Charlie Sheen bangs a rock. Even though my mom regularly purchased low sodium Wheat Thins, I’d salt those bitches up and go to town, tearing through boxes like a rapper on tour in an Atlanta suburb. So, when my palate matured enough to fully appreciate the heavenly, tangy spread of hummus atop the crystalline encrusted top of a Wheat Thin, the greatest snack combo known to man burgeoned.

Hummus: meet Wheat Thins.


You're probably not as ready as Marisa is for summer...

This weekend, Twitter finally reached a level of credibility in my eyes: Marisa Miller joined. Prior to this event, Twitter essentially acted as a way for me to add one more layer of social media to my internet experience, which as some of you may know, is my Super Bowl. Now, my twitterverse has been flipped upside down. Left is right. Up is down. Ochocinco going to Target is no longer the highlight of my feed. Marisa Miller struggling to grasp the re-tweet is just another update on my timeline. Prior to this, I used Twitter like the bastard half-brother to Facebook after Zuckerberg messed around with the postman. It got to the point where I attempted to stay relevant on Twitter through people solely tweeting at me. Relevance through absence is power, after all. I know, that shit is deep, so go ahead and breathe that in once more. Relevance through absence is power. Now, I just want to tweet all the live long day knowing Marisa Miller is doing the same thing. She’s muploading fly shots of her at the Kentucky Derby, and wearing the living hell out of any article of cloth that attempts to cover her body. Just the other day, she tweeted her newest Esquire summer shoot, which you already had to cut your inseam out over.


Better late than never. Better never than late. I choose, “There is an immeasurable distance between late and too late” by American author Og Mandingo, for the obvious reason that his last name was Mandingo. Feel free to insert any other time-related idiom, but my mom is pretty awesome. She birthed me, then taught me lots of stuff along the way. Perhaps her most amazing trait, aside from the ability to dominate Jeopardy on a nightly basis whilst reading some form of literature at the same time, is her love for sports. Growing up, “bedtime” came when the Red Sox ended. For this blog’s sake, I am thankful for that. She corrected my school papers with the fine-toothed comb any English major-turned-journalist/newspaper editor would. By third grade, she held my subject-verb agreements in contempt. When high school began, passive voice gave her active rage. College applications rolled around, and she deemed me “frustrating” and “mediocre” as a writer. Two high compliments. If she were to read my blog, it would probably cause a sinking feeling that shakes her very core, similar to the realization of swallowing a full curd in sour milk. While it is doubtful she would swell with pride upon reading the Revolver, she did provide the sturdy foundation to support this house of cards I masquerade as a blog with widely delusional, humorous thoughts. Like lipstick on a pig, such is Colt’s Revolver. Love you, Mom.

NSFW due to an F bomb, obvi. Is it even worth warning you guys at this point? I mean, if your boss walked by while you were reading, he/she already knows what’s good…

Stay tuned…


Deep Thoughts on the NBA Playoffs Rd. 1

April 25, 2011

I’m sick of doing previews.  I’m sure all my loyal readers were stunned when they didn’t see an NBA Playoff Prognostication blog, but quite frankly, I didn’t think there would be much predicting required.  The Spurs couldn’t possibly lose a series to the last seeded Grizzlies without Rudy Gay, and starring Tony Allen.  The Lakers would blow by the Hornets like an Aston Martin at a red light next to a Kia (the official car of the NBA!). Orlando would beat Atlanta by 20 every game like last year and the Bulls and Heat would sweep through to the second round. Only, somewhere along the way, none of that stuff has happened. Easter Sunday featured half the playoff teams in action, and I watched all or parts of every game. Along the way I’ve watched every other team play, and I’m ready to share my thoughts on the 20 most interesting players, teams, styles and storylines for this year’s NBA playoffs. With only the Knicks currently dead, every team has a chance, Nicole Ritchie buhlimic slim as that may be, to advance to the next round. I’m doing this in two parts because, well, it will be Titanic long otherwise. Eastern Conference thoughts today. Western Conference tomorrow. Ten thoughts a day. Get after it.

Today’s hot pictures will be brought to you by the girlfriends/wives/baby mamas of players that I can find. Except for LaLa, because I cannot respect a woman who made her fame under the name “LaLa” and who isn’t hot. Here’s a sub for her…

Sick as it may be, Adriana Lima married Marko Jaric, then made his babies. Google him if you want to feel better about your chances to land an "Angel."

Rajon Rondo’s Ugly Side- The third highest jersey seller in the NBA. Crazy right? That should tell you all you need to know about Rondo. People who love his flashy play go out to buy his jersey. Meanwhile, people who know basketball also know he gives you the Kim/Khloe. Exactly. You either get a near-perfect performance of dominance, or a sloppier related version of that display. Maybe it’s nitpicking, but all the Celtics need is a steady point guard who can actually knock down jumpers and stay in front of his man every single night. Starting Mike Conley Jr., the Cs would have won the NBA title last year and are the heavy favorite to repeat. After the first series against the Knicks, Rondo didn’t really change my opinion on this matter, but it is a step in the right direction from his horrid post-All Star break/loss of his bromantic lover, Perk.

Amar’e Stoudemire’s Back: So, when’s surgery, bro? I mean, when you snap your spine and it’s ripping through your ass like a tail, you need surgery, right? Wait. It was a what? Muscle spasm? Like, you slept on it funny? I would say more about the Amar’e spas’m costing his team the series by sitting out almost all of Game  2,  but I’d rather just direct you to this Youtube clip.

Obviously, Amar’e isn’t Basketball Jesus, but come on, man. You’re embarrassing yourself.

 Heat-Sixers Series: If these were NFL games, they’d be playing two-hand touch. Honestly, there’s more violence in a pre-pubescent pillow fight. Every time down the court, somebody calls for a clear out, and one guy dribbles at the top of the key until they either get shutoff from driving to the hoop, or pull up for a jumper that clangs off the rim. If the latter happens, someone gets a kickout pass for a contested three, which similarly ricochets off the iron like a Revolutionary naval battle. Either way, the game then automatically shifts into a fast break drill where Lebron and DWade try to perfect the alley oop like Jackie Moon passing to Coffee Black. Some of the worst playoff basketball I’ve seen in a while, the Celtics couldn’t have asked for a better series to get Miami into all the bad habits necessary to get mopped by a veteran team who runs an offensive set, and plays the best defense in the league.

Shaq's girl Hoopz, of Flavor of Love fame. He's 7'1.'' Her ass is proportionate. Match made in Heaven. Shaq will be ready for the Heat.

Doc. Gilbert Sam Arenas: Did you know Arenas’ full name is an anagram for:God bless America rant”! Bet you didn’t know he received a night school PhD in Anglo-European Studies, did you? I know, crazy, but hold on I’ll make this work. Only in America do you get to sign a contract for $111 million, then brandish a firearm to settle a gambling dispute with your teammate in Washington, get traded to the Magic, become a shell of your former talent, and still make $111 million. You can’t even blame the dude. How can you try at life, let alone a game when you are making $111 effing million. Give me like, a million dollars and I’m dropping everything, moving to Hawaii and opening a fruit stand. Give me $111 million and I’m opening 111 of those fruit stands and calling it a conglomerate. Plus, it’s also not Gilbert’s fault the NBA doesn’t require one-handed shooting (Youtube it if you haven’t seen him beat DeShawn Stevenson in a 3-pt contest with DeShawn shooting normal). As a final note, only in America can you invent both an educational background, and Arenas’ middle name of “Sam” to make this anagram work and trick your reader into thinking it was true until now.

So close, yet so far.

Dwight Howard’s Goatee: I started growing actual facial hair sometime around 19 years old. You know, not those weird wispy goat hairs, but actual, shave-required hair. Four years later, try as I might, my whole beard does not fill in or connect all the way around. Due to this genetic inconvenience, when my beard gets beyond thick stubble, it gets shaved.  Common sense. In my expert estimation, Dwight Howard is two full years away from having his goatee connect all the way around.  This means, for the next two years, he should not be modeling the gross, patchy, sophomoric looking goatee he currently is. Wouldn’t surprise me if chicks start withholding sex from him just because of that sparse chingina. I’m not trying to hate on Dwight, he just needs to realize some dudes can grow a full Grizzly Adams in time to dominate Little League, and others have to wait around until they’re 30 to pull off such a feat.

Tyler Hansbrough’s ADHD:


Everyone remembers the big goofy white kid in their recreation basketball league with mongoloid strength, who traveled all the time and smelled like ass. Hansbrough almost certainly acted as this kid in his rec league. You don’t get the nickname “Psycho T” unless you have “ADHD” stamped  onto your school records. Since then, he made it to the NBA, where he’s no longer the biggest, but he is super goofy, not quite a mongoloid, and still traveling relentlessly. Thankfully Psycho T found the perfect league to travel on almost every possession. He has somehow mastered the stutter-step without dribbling into a double pump fumble into his own chest ending with a banked in 8 foot layup.  His team should be up three games to one on the Bulls in an 8-1 seed upset. Somehow, the Bulls have the 3-1 series lead, mostly because of this guy…


Kyle Korver’s Hair:  You thought I was going to say Derrick Rose, didn’t you?! Well, call it my penchant for recognizing the rarest of species in the NBA: white guys with Bieber haircuts who water threes all day long. For a while, people were giving my man Tom Brady shit for his Bieber cut. Little did they know he simply wasn’t cutting his lettuce, ever, until he could tie it into a Brazilian pony tail and just kill it at street parades. Korver, on the other hand, legit fashions his moss into this glorious transgender style en route to burying dagger threes into his opponents hearts. Korver hit the go-ahead three with a minute left to win Game 1 of this series after the Bulls trailed all game. In Game 2, he hit the three to put them up five with a minute left that ended up being the difference. Sure, Rose is the MVP and I could have wasted time telling you stuff you already knew like: he can’t be guarded, his eyebrows are weird, and his insane hand tattoos don’t seem to match his docile demeanor, but that’s not as much fun.

Hope Dworaczyk was Jason Kidd's hook-up thingy until they broke up for reasons I can only suspect hinged on the fact she realized he is ugly as sin. Google her for a better picture. Before you ask, yes, she did "do Playboy or something."

Joe Johnson’s Triplewide Headband:

So, research says it has "medical relevance." Whatever.

This thing is just awful. I’m not even going too in-depth here, but Joe Johnson is wearing some form of thick circular cloth that covers his head worse than an old school dental surgeon’s wrap. I’ve seen skirts that barely cover a latin club rat’s ass with less material than whatever Joe is wearing on his head. Regardless of his lame style, the Hawks are dismantling the Magic in a remarkable turnaround from last year’s 20+ point average loss, mostly because of this…

Jamal Crawford’s Warm Up Gear: As soon as this stuff gets ripped from his body, he just immediately goes nuts. No, that last sentence is not describing a gay porn. Crawford has come off the bench to score 20 or more in all four of the Hawks games against Orlando. Sure, it helps when JJ Redick’s fauxhawk and Gilbert Arenas’ corpse are trying to guard you, but Crawford has been unreal. One respected former D1 basketball playing source of mine hates on Crawford, saying how awful he is, how he plays no defense and is an absolute pig when it comes to taking shots. I’d counter by saying when you get 20+ from one player on your bench, let alone the whole unit, nobody should complain about your defense. Keep hoisting, Jamal! Vinny “Microwave” Johnson would be proud.

You mean D Wade left his insane, overweight, high school sweetheart for Gabrielle Union?! I don't buy it...

Stay tuned for the Western Conference edition, tomorrow.


Valentine’s Day Smorgasblog

February 14, 2011

I’m not going to expand on why I haven’t blogged in over a month. Just know that the thought of writing about sports, or even hot girls made me sick after recent life events (mainly, a Patriots playoff loss, but some other stuff, too). Sprinkle in the fact that it has snowed twice a week for the past month and my fingers have been rendered useless for large stretches, and you get the point. Thankfully, pitchers and catchers officially reported to spring training today, eternally lifting my spirits.  The clothed orgy of insanity known as the Grammy’s took place last night, the Celtics once again beat the Heat yesterday afternoon, and on top of all that, I’ve got Valentine’s to give out! So let’s jump right into this. This Valentine’s Smorgasblog is brought to you by none other than Ana de la Reguera! If you missed her and her ass on Eastbound and Down this past season, you may suck. However, HBO is re-airiing seasons 1 & 2  Friday nights at 9:30. Ana…

It's as if someone photoshopped Penelope Cruz into a hotter version.


1: Eminem– I posted the following Facebook status as his performance happened: “Eminem just consistently murders awards shows. He should be contractually obligated to appear at them.” All my white friends “liked” it, and my friend Tunde, who isn’t white, said he was lip syncing. This isn’t about race, but seriously, dude just goes absolutely ballistic during his raps, and consistently outshines all the poplets who try to sing on live shows. Katy Perry tried singing last night, and it just made us all yearn for her to be in a studio getting auto-tuned into an unrecognizable fembot. Eminem goes out and nearly breaks blood vessels in his eyes while ripping the veins out of his neck like a constipated frat bro on a Sunday morning toilet binge, but in a good way. If you can imagine that, now.

2: Lady Gaga– She has officially transcended freak. First, she filmed her 60 Minutes interview with Anderson Cooper in underwear and

No words.

people thought “well that’s freaking weird.” Then they saw her in the embryonic stage during the Grammy Red Carpet and turned weird into outright insane. I used to be oddly attracted to Gaga, probably because “Bad Romance” became our anthem during senior year Spring Break and I only associated amazingness with that week.

Nowadays, I would honestly fear for my life if I was in a close space with her. She just seems like the kind of chick who would chloroform the hell out of you before ripping your genitals off and dining on them with a glass of “Red Wine” just as you gained consciousness and could watch. I hope I didn’t just give her ideas for next year. Nah, who am I kidding, she probably does that on a tame Tuesday night, not Grammy Night.

3. Esperanza Spalding– The most hated woman in America with girls ages 8-25. If you didn’t hear the shrieks of tweens everywhere as she won the Grammy for best new artist, you weren’t listening. This was easily the most hilarious moment of the night. Bieber was out there just pop n’ locking the taste out of girls mouths, singing his little lesbowl haircut off. All was right in the world. Until Esperanza had her name read for the Grammy. Immediately, Twitter started eating itself, while Facebook vomited non-stop, irate, pro-Bieber fever tweets and statuses. Esperanza was having her name tweeted as “Esmerelda” and girls in training bras watched in horror as this chick started playing a bass and jazzing her ass off. Meanwhile, the right thing happened. Did nobody else wonder how Bieber was even in the category for “Best New Artist”? Dude had his first album released in 2009, and it went “Platinum.” Go count your money and tongue Selena Gomez, this is Esperanza’s day, Biebs.

If none of what I wrote about the Grammy’s made you laugh, there’s always this…

If that didn’t do it for you, this should…

I'm not sure what's going on in this picture, or what happened to the female anatomy, but it's neat.


At one point, after Big Baby flawlessly executed the worst missed dunk in NBA history and before Paul Pierce finished the game 0-10 with 1 point, you still knew the Celtics were going to win. One of my more trusted friend’s sports opinions commented that at this point, the ceiling for the Heat this season is Eastern Conference Finals. He really could not be more right. Their talent alone lets them run roughshod through the rest of the meek NBA (there might be four teams with a chance at the title, and that includes the Heat). But, when they face Boston, the difference in championship caliber is as clear as water in a fishbowl under a magnifying glass (in a glass bottomed boat? Too much, too soon?).

An offense based around two great players (Lebron, Dwyane) going one on five, and one good player standing around 18 feet from the basket waiting to hit kickout jumpers (Chris Bosh) just won’t beat Boston. Yesterday, Rajon Rondo even decided to guard whoever dribbled the ball over half court, regardless of their size, and it worked! Nobody on Boston played extremely well, (Rondo had the most nondescript triple-double in league history), but they still beat the “Heatles”, the hands down winner for lamest self-ascribed nickname in sports history.


Dianna Agron: You Gleek’s know her as Quinn Fabray, the cheerleader who took Finn on an emotional roller-coaster while baring Puck’s child during season one (what up Wikipedia). I know her as the blonde-haired flawless chick who just consistently saves scenes in that show by being so damn hot. Like, she’s got the girl next door looks, a voice from heaven, an ass from hell, and based on her Glee character, she’s DTF. What’s not to like? I’ll tell you what… NOTHING.

Sex on fire.

Since she’s not my Valentine, I’m going to watch “Serendipity” starring John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale. Don’t judge me, brah!

Stay tuned…


NBA Opener is a Giant Fart

October 28, 2010

Well that was awkward. Last night, the much anticipated season opener of the Miami Heat’s version of a dream team took place, and in a word, sucked. Featuring an offense smooth as Seal’s face, the Heat stars took turns playing one on five and turning the ball over at a grotesque rate and firing up more bricks than the sphinx at the Temple of Ramses II. Over the course of the game, yours truly obviously had thoughts running through his mind. I mean, at one point, seven surefire future hall of famers were on the court. Marv Albert was announcing. Lebron had his 90 second Nike commercial taking up entire commercial breaks. Charles Barkley kept being hilarious as he always is. This game had more plotlines than “He’s Just Not That Into You” only it didn’t make you want to gouge out your eyes and ears halfway through (not like I’ve seen the movie before, multiple times, after 2am on HBO). Thankfully, Scarlett Johansson is in it. Otherwise, this next picture might have been something lame like a sphinx.

Easy guys, there's no way she's into you...

PLOTLINE #1: Lebron James

When millions of people watch for one hour as you awkwardly announce your free-agent decision in a made for TV special creatively called “The Decision,” you earn plotline #1 in my blog. Having harped on the merits of this publicity stunt for months, I won’t rehash how narcissistic/awesome it was, so I’ll just talk about Lebron’s opening night.

First off, Lebron just looks funny in a different uniform. Picture a hot girl deciding to cut her hair really short, and you have how odd Lebron looked. Sure, we’ll eventually overlook the aesthetic change and get back to realizing how pretty the girl really is, especially how she’s able to pull off short hair, but for a while there’s that awkward phase. He may have scored 31 points, but Lebron also had eight turnovers to just three assists. While on the court, his team outscored the Celtics by one. Which is far better than Chris Bosh’s -17 and Dwyane Wade’s -18, but still. After night one with the Miami Heat, Lebron is best equated to the Sinead O’Connor buzz cut.

PLOTLINE #2: The Old Big Three

With the NBA being the only sport that refuses to think of a different nickname for a group of three really good players being on one team, the Heat are now the team with “The Big Three.” That makes the Celtics the team with “The Old Big Three.” Even though Rajon Rondo has become arguably the Celtics most important player, The Old Big Three still includes just Paul Pierce, Ray Allen and KG. With the combined age of Betty White in ten years, these guys still know how to play. Pierce took just seven shots, yet he scored 19 points. Ray Allen led the team with 20 points, and five three-pointers, including the backbreaker to put the Celts up by six with 30 seconds left. KG held Bosh to just eight points, while registering a 10-point, 10-rebound double-double. Meanwhile, Rondo facilitated 17 assists to all his old buddies. After one game, the new-look Heat may have the sizzle, but the old Celtics are the steak.


He’s too big to share a plotline. Both literally and figuratively. The oldest man in the NBA, with more nicknames than New York City, took less money this off season just to play for the Celtics. What they also got is one of the best personalities in all of sports. Any time a guy records a summer TV series where he challenges other athletes in their sports of dominance, just because he’s so popular that a network can actually make money off that concept, you know he’s awesome. I just spent the past six minutes trying to think of a comparison to this. The best I could do is to have Jennifer Aniston on “The Bachelorette” and have two guys stay on the show long enough to realize she has an advanced form of Halitosis (bad breath) which makes her mouth smell like a porta-potty at a state fair in Kentucky (Because, honestly, at this point that’s the only plausible explanation for how she’s still single). Amidst all this awesomeness, the newest statue in Harvard Square can still kind of play basketball. He had nine points and seven rebounds in the opener, so he’s useful to at least clobber small dudes going in the paint.

Reason #397 When you're too famous: You can go to Harvard Square and pose as a statue, motionless and mute for an hour, while people take pictures with you.

PLOTLINE #4: Marv Albert

The most famous, recognizable basketball announcer in the game has written the playbook on how to recover from one of the most embarrassing sex scandals of all-time. Known for amazing expressions like “He’s on FIRE”, “JORDAN, YES!” and “WITH THE FACIAL” (no I didn’t make that last one up), Marv avoided career catastrophe seamlessly. In case you’re fuzzy on the details, Marv was “accused” of forcing a woman into sodomy, along with assault in the form of biting the woman’s back. Via my most reliable source, Wikipedia: A 42-year-old woman… accused Albert of throwing her on a bed at the Ritz Carlton, biting her on the back 15 times, sodomizing her, and forcing her to perform oral sex on him. She also claimed that he would force her to “face sit” him for periods of up to 45 minutes.” I know you’re first question and the answer is, yes: “She also claimed that he would force her to “face sit” him for periods of up to 45 minutes” is in fact the greatest sentence ever written on Wikipedia. I know you’re next question, and that answer is also, yes: 45 minutes of face-sitting must be at least 38 minutes too long before it becomes unhealthy. After all that, the dude is still announcing the most important basketball games in the NBA. You have to respect this fact of how good an announcer he is.

In the end, the Celtics prevailed 88-80 in a game best compared to one of those really loud farts that never carries a smell with it. Sure, we all jumped, or in this case, watched, but the final buzzer only made us question what all the fuss was about. The Celtics played their classic “get a big lead then blow it by the fourth quarter, only to hit clutch shots and finish the game with a win.” Lebron’s team played their usual “Lebron is on the court, so I’m not sure whether I should ever take a shot, but we don’t run an offense, so maybe when I get the ball I can do it?” So we were left with nothing but answers, which isn’t a bad thing since this was only game one. Plus, the next night, the Celtics went out and lost to the Lebron-less Cavaliers, and the Heat won by 10 on the road. With both teams tied in the standings at 1-1, this whole blog post has been rendered pointless. Unfortunately, you’re going to have to deal with it because it took me a while to write and I’m not deleting it. Hopefully you laughed once.

In case you didn’t, here’s Danneel Harris, of One Tree Hill fame. Not that I’ve ever seen her on there…

Mmm, look at those... scoops!

Stay tuned…