Posts Tagged ‘Kobe Bryant’

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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.

Le'go.

RONDO’S ELBOW

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.”

HUMMUS & WHEAT THINS

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.

WELCOME TO THE TWITTERVERSE, MARISA!

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.

MOTHER’S DAY

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…

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Deep Thoughts on the NBA Playoffs Rd. 1 (Pt. 2)

April 26, 2011

Phew, I thought Part Deux would never get here. Not sure this NBA blog is more anticipated than Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part Two (HP7b) since only like a few hundred people have read my site since yesterday. I think a couple more people read Harry Potter, but I’m holding out hope that I can one day create a mythical world that renders me a billionaire. Until then, you should read about the 10 neat things happening out in the Western Conference playoffs so far. Without further ado… I give you…

Somewhere, Eva Longoria must be smiling after her ex' first four games.

Tony Parker’s Curse:

Don't even get me started on this backstabbing, Benedict Arnold whore. What's worse than your wife cheating on you? Cheating on you with a little French prick.

Simple concept: you don’t cheat on Eva Longoria. All of a sudden, crazy shit starts happening like Tony Allen becomes a star, Mike Conley turns into the left-handed Steve Nash, Zach Randolph is Moses Malone, Marc Gasol plays like George Mikan and you’re the star point guard of a number 1 seed about to get bounced by the 8 seed.  Just goes to show you can never trust the French. One day, this slimy bastard wakes up, spreads some jelly on a hot loaf of brioche and decides, “I want to les bang zie white lady with zie cute little kidz who iz married to my les teammate, Brent Barry.” You get what you ask for man. Karma’s a bitch, especially when it comes to the French. I mean, those poor little fairies actually helped us win the Revolutionary War, then over the next 200 years we allied with England and made the French lick our collective baguettes while we saved them from speaking German.

Memphis Grizzlies’ Collective Balls: Eight guys are combining to score 90 points a game for Memphis in the playoffs. Three others chip in six points a night and all 11 of them sprint everywhere all over the court for every minute they are on it defensively. Another classic example of what happens when your supposed “best” player (Rudy Gay in this instance), gets hurt or leaves the team, in the NBA and it becomes just that: a team. Denver did it too, but Memphis is perfecting it against San Antonio right now. In their 104-86 throttling of the Spurs to take a 3-1 advantage Monday night, Memphis had nine guys score eight points or more, including the ridiculous line Darrell Arthur had off the bench: 17 mins, 14 pts, 7-10 shooting, +13. The play that best exemplified the Grizzlies advantage over the older Spurs came midway through the fourth quarter. Arthur recovered from the defensive free throw line to block a layup attempt, landed out of bounds, then dead sprinted 90 feet to catch an alley oop from OJ Mayo in transition, five seconds later. The emphatic finish essentially drove a stake through the Spurs in this series, and more likely, their dynasty of the past decade (until they rally to win the next three in one of the best comebacks ever).

All that serious basketball analysis made me thirsty. You can look at her while I go grab a drink…

You didn't think Adriana would only be in yesterday's ode to NBA girlfriends did you?

Chris Paul’s Got Great Skills: Napoleon Dynamite knew it. Chicks only like guys with great skills. Bowhunting skills, nunchuk skills, computer hacking skills. Chris Paul’s got ballhandling, shooting, defensive and every other necessary skill on a basketball court. Homie is literally toying with the Lakers in this series and he’s doing it with four backups who masquerade as starters on the Hornets. On any given possession, he dribbles in three circles, head fakes three different jumpers, then either buries one, or finds an open man who will. Paul has somehow transformed a group of certified scrubs into a cohesive unit of giant slayers who look poised to take the Lakers to seven games, if not shock the world and win the series. Personally, I’d love nothing more than to see Kobe to lose this series on a buzzer-beating 3 by his positional counterpart, and fellow Italian citizen, Marco Bellinelli.

Kobe’s Lowtop Mambas:

Hey uhh, Nike, you might want to work on these “basketball” shoes. How many times is this guy going to roll his ankle like a double-jointed Cirque de Soleil performer before we realize this little fashion statement isn’t working? I blame Kobe for being a pompous ass, obviously, but it would be amazing if the most recent injury hobbled the Black Mamba enough to trip up the Lakers in this series.

Idiot.

Lakers Laughingstock: I just scrolled through the Hornets roster and I’m positive there were a couple typos. For one, DJ Mbenga is haunting his ex-Lakers this series haha. Sorry, couldn’t even get through that sentence without virtually giggling. For two, Patrick Ewing Jr. is on the Hornets active roster. But more importantly, the Lakers are playing terribly. Last game, when Kobe went scoreless in the first half, finished with 17 points on 18 shots and generally sucked, he was a “facilitator.” He also chipped in six death glares to teammates (Pau Gasol led with four, matching his rebounds in 36 minutes of play) with another nine glares at officials. If the Lakers don’t win the next two games, I’ll be stunned. If they lose this series, Chris Paul should have to average 40-10-20, because he is all they have to worry about.

Mavs-Blazers Series: I’d like to write more about this series, but it has been banished to the NBA_TV second string broadcasts, and neither team really has done much to inspire me. Dallas should win the series, then lose to the Lakers, but who knows. I’d much rather just make up a conversation Dirk and DeShawn Stevenson had in the locker room recently:

It's all about the Lincoln's baby.

Dirk: (between bites of Knockwurst) So DeShawn, did it hurt when you tattooed Abe Lincoln’s face on your Adam’s apple?

Deshawn: Nah, dawg, ain’t nothin but a tickle, my brotha from anotha Germanic motha.

Dirk: Interesting. Since the whole internment camp thing us Germans kind of gave up on the tattoos.

Deshawn: The fc*k is an internment camp? That like training camp?

Dirk: You know, like Hitler… ahh never mind (angrily throws out remainder of Knockwurst)!!!

Blazers Bitching: Portland players are upset that Brian Cardinal laid out Patty Mills on a screen with the clock winding down and the game in hand. You know what I say? Don’t play this bush league “press and play D for the whole 48 minutes until the final buzzer blows,” Portland. This is the NBA. Everyone knows when the game is out of reach, you give up under a minute. Scrubs come off the bench and jack up threes or maybe catch a banger. Patty Mills should be embarrassed that he’s ball-hawking for a steal, trying to embarrass a fellow tiny ass point guard in JJ Barea. You want to do that sort of crap? Fine, here’s Brian Cardinal’s brickshithouse frame knocking your ass over. There you go Patty, let whoever the hell is even on Portland nowadays peel you up out of the floorboards.

I’m all fired up now, time for a dime piece.

Elsa Benitez, former SI cover model, and wife of... yep, you guessed it... RONY SEIKALY! They aren't together anymore, because Elsa realized he had no low post game. Badump bump!

Nuggets Tattoos: Because you literally cannot notice anything else during a Nuggets game. Every time up and down the court, there’s a close-up shot of one of these psychopaths. So, I’m going to highlight my two most impressive tattoos, and let a picture of a tat be worth a thousand words. Or just one silent jaw drop. (Honorable mention to Kenyon Martin who was forced to cover up the lips tattoo of his now-ex rapper girlfriend Trina, otherwise, he would have made my cut).

Chris "Birdman" Anderson: "Free Bird" Neck Tat, amongst other things.

JR Smith "Swish" and "YM" young money tattoo. How excited was George Karl when he found out JR became a young money athlete, by the way?

Scotty Brooks is Liam Neeson: While I’m not sure this has any impact on the series, if I’m the Nuggets, I’m definitely concerned when I have to beat not only Qui Gon Jin, but Kevin Durant and Russell Westbrook, too. Seriously, check out the comparison between the two.

You’re confused aren’t you? I know, it’s like, did the guy on the left teach Obi Wan or Serge Ibaka his craft? Is the guy on the right giving speeches to Kevin Durant in the huddle or tracking down Albanian human traffickers? Either way, Brooks has Oklahoma City poised and ready to make a deep playoff run. They are even getting the bonus of not having to face the Spurs in the next round (most likely), who they do not match up well with. Expect the Thunder to roll past Memphis, as they are both young energetic teams, only Memphis is far overmatched in talent. Unlike this chick…

That's not Tara Reid... it's Devin Harris' Playboy girlfriend Meghan Allen, and her underboobs. The NBA: I LOVE THIS GAME!

So, for those who counted yesterday, or today, I only did nine stories for each Conference. I didn’t plan it, just somewhere along the line I thought “eh, nobody will notice” and “I don’t write too well as it is, especially if I’ve got nothing to write about.” If you were really looking for two more thoughts from me, here they are:

1- Oklahoma City is the best home-court in the NBA.

2- Miami is the worst home-court in the NBA.

Stay tuned…