No, you may not have fruit snacks before noon

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Everyone in college basketball is awfully huffy and puffy about the situation in Bloomington, Ind., which, I might add, has the nicest strip mall anywhere in the Midwest. Mike Davis, who cries more than my son did when he was two, is leaving, and everyone wants dreamy, borderline steamy Steve Alford to assume the head coaching role.

I don't understand why colleges want people who did their undergrad work (or didn't do their undergrad work and flunked out because they were too busy playing basketball and sleeping with co-eds) at the same place. Perhaps this will allow the coach to more easily find the gym from the halways of the athletics complex, and I suppose that's a big deal. Plus, he'll already know some of the math and science teachers so he can establish a solid relationship when it comes time to adjust transcripts every semester.

The problem in this case: Steve Alford hasn't even been as successful of a coach as Mike Davis has, in the same league. That's like someone settling for a beautiful dress in the wrong size because it happens to be in stock at the local, familiar JCPenney, when the JCPenney across town has the same dress in your size. You know it's your size because you've tried it on before, but it just isn't available at the local vendor. Of course, none of that takes into account the fact that Cyndi Lewis two houses down might buy the exact same dress and wear it to the same PTA meeting as you because she is an atrocious, city-renowned harlot.

If the school is so dead-set on someone from Indiana University, why don't they hire someone with more success?

For example: Mark Cuban is a successful NBA owner and IU grad, and he's sort of good looking in an impossibly rich, slightly older man sort of way. Mark Spitz won many gold medals as an Olympic swimmer. Dick Enberg is an adorable old man. Kevin Kline has won Academy Awards. Raju Narisetti is the managing editor for the Wall Street Journal's Europe edition. Jane Pauley is good at what she does.

All these people graduated from the illustrious Indiana University, and all of them have the success to lead the program in the right direction. I have to think Robert Vaden would stay on board if someone like Dick Enberg was cracking the whip in practice. Mark Cuban would not only make the program more successful, but he would probably throw chairs at the ref -- which is, let's face it, exactly what Indiana wants. He's rich! He doesn't need to worry about fines. He would probably arrange for a "bring a chair to throw at the ref" night at a home game.

Also, it just seems silly that Steve Alford would want to leave Iowa, since the people there all seem really happy. I know this after watching the Windbrook High School performance of "State Fair," when they sang that nice little ditty "All I Owe Ioway." It must be a nice place. I hear the city "Davenport," and I just think comfort.

On the other hand, I hear "Indiana" and think "vast, impenetrable wasteland." So, there is that.

Vince Young, Wonder-boy

By Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Honestly folks, I have slept for 76 of the last 90 hours. I don't even know why, but I just keep falling asleep. I guess I wake up for brief, fuzzy moments and then drift back into the nightmarish hell that is Marv's sleep. I had a dream at some point during this stretch in which I looked down to see my dead grandmother was crawling up my leg with a knife between her teeth. Or maybe it was Hunter S. Thompson. I can't recall.

I'm mildly concerned about this, but then again, things like this seem to clear themselves up just fine with me. Remember when my urine smelled like chicken noodle soup? Yeah, that was a problem, too. But it's back to normal now.

Now that I'm awake, I see that various news outlets are reporting that Vince Young is an idiot. So? What's your point? We told you he wasn't going to be any good about a month ago. And now he scores a 6 on the Wonderlic test, retakes it and gets a 16.

Speaking of Wonderlic, I spent some time with Ellen Degeneres a few years ago, and whenever I called her "Ellen" she would cut me off and insist I call her Wonderlic. I find this to be a strange coincidence.

The Wonderlic is not hard. Here's a sample question:

If a pad of paper costs 21 cents, how much does it cost to buy four pads of paper?

The answer, of course, is "21 cents for a pad of paper?!? Where do I sign?"

Probably on the pad of paper, I imagine.

If Vince Young can't do basic multiplication, I have no idea how one expects him to successfully run a Norm Chow (normchow) designed offense in Tennessee. I was never high on Vince Young (but I was high on mescaline just a few hours ago), but this drops his stock even lower on my Big Board.

If any of you ladies out there want to see my Big Board, shoot me an e-mail.

Other Flotsam

There is no substitute for butter ... This crust simply will not come out of my left eye ... If I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, I'd choose macaroons ... I met a strange cowboy yesterday ... Sometimes the best medicine is not laughter ... Anyone want to see my pet goat, Fisty? ... There's a large pile of steel wool in my living room ... Do not put Ben-Gay on your testicles ... I wonder what the "M" in M. Night Shyamalan stands for. I bet it's "Movie" ... Wheat Thins came out with chips, and they're just brilliant ... Boooooooode Milllllller .... Diane Keaton has the voice of an angel ... If I had a son, I'd name him Wilbur ... Why do you close your eyes when we make love? ... The saddest movie I've ever seen is Homeward Bound ... I generally go through an entire tube of chapstick in 2-3 days ... I've never met a fortune cookie that I didn't agree with ... Someone take out the garbage ... Bill Walton's breath smells like onions.

Goodbye from the Grand Turismo

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

My homies, I am writing as I wait for a plane back to the City of Angels, a little earlier than I had hoped after being ejected from the Closing Ceremonies in the Grand Turismo. Man, I am glad to leave that cold caucasian Siberia behind, my bitches, but I wanted a little fun before I went.

Perhaps you read about that cool customer who strolled onto the closing ceremonies stage? The Italian po-po's were saying the dude was Spanish. Dog, do I look Spanish to you?

Anyway, I missed most of the closing show, but I saw highlights from the TV in the airport. I couldn't turn up the sound since Enrico, the dude from customs, won't really let me leave the chair. Hater. Anyway, the Olympic Games are over, and what have we learned? DeJuan learned a lot.

We have learned that even though they look like CDs, a gold medal will not play properly in a standard CD player. I think you have to have the Italian player version or something. Whatever, all god's children have iPods now anyway.

We have learned that the mary jane should TOTALLY be legal in the U.S., since it was like a pre-requisite to be stoned if you wanted to win a medal. My boys in the hashpipe and the snowboard cross brought home the bling, indeed.

We have learned that the best remedy to remove the stench of bad blood (Shani and Chad, I'm talking to you, even though I know you're sitting poolside together in Maui, having spent some of the millions you just earned in Olympic-publicity-generated endorsement shit to reward yourselves ... good show homies) is a good can of Fabris.

We have learned that Italians love cross country skiing. And the Italian ladies also love getting down with a brother without much coaxing. I may miss the Turismo after all.

We have learned that Sasha Cohen is thin. We have learned that Bode Miller needs more brew before he races. We have learned that Lindsey Jacobelis needs less brew before she races.

We have learned that curling is truly the new American passtime. For ages 95 and up.

We have learned that if DeJuan breaks into the practice facility and takes a couple shots on Rick DiPietro, even he can score on the U.S. Hockey team. We have learned that the security broham's name is Gaston, and he has a motherfucking mullet.

We have learned that doing barrel rolls down the snowboard cross hill can lead to some serious dizziness and shit.

We suspect that Bob Costas, which is like the next phase in robotic development, will wait another four years before beginning his cyborgian takeover.

We have learned that Apollo Creed only sucked twice in three tries. And damn, we have learned that the South Koreans have spent a whole lot of these last four years hating his ass. I bet they watched those Rocky movies like 100 times.

We have learned that the Shroud of Jesus and the setting for the Italian Job are two equally fly reasons to love the Turismo.

Even with all the crashes this year, we have learned that a NASCAR crash is way hotter than a figure skating crash. And we have learned that both sports are always on televisions in hell.

Dog, we have learned that Enrico needs to cool the fuck out and stop looking at me funny. If you have something to say, then spit it. Naw, you can't even speak American. Oh dude, sorry, my bad, you can, but step off about my momma.

There are many things I will miss. The look in a cross country skier's eyes when he finishes dead last, like two hours after everyone else has gone home, and then has to be rushed to the hospital. The way Sasha Cohen uncomfortably says "perhaps" when asked if her path will ever cross with my boy Shaun White's, cuz my boy has made it clear that he likes the little thinbalena. The way security screams "DeJuan again!" when I'm hanging from the ski lift cables. The way Bode Miller chokes. The way everything sort of gets all hazy when I'm partying with the hashpipers. But most of all, I will miss you, my damn loyal readers. Hopefully, after I get out of jail back in the states, I will holla at you again, wearing my fine ass American flag jumpsuit.

DeJuan C3P0 loves your ass. Peace.

Pssst ... Sasha! Hook me up!

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

Once upon a time, DeJuan was a beautiful baby boy with dreams of one day becoming the most fly of fly rappers in the City of Angels. How did this dream get born, you ask yourself? It was because my momma, the fine Mrs. Cecilia Cooper C3P0, loved to read her darling little boy some nursery rhymes. This one was my favorite:

Ring around the rosy (dog, "rosy" is a another word for "ice skating rink")
Pocket full of posies ("posies" are painkillers)
Ashes, ashes (that's secret code and shit for "my gold medal hopes are in flames")
Sasha Cohen falls down.

Damn, Tupac Shakur, may you rest in peace, but go ahead and eat your heart out.

I think there were some different variations, but that's the basic gist, and I realize now that it was like a fortune telling story about the cuter-when-she-was-still-a-favorite-to-win-something Sasha Cohen. She was like America's sweetheart and shit. But not my sweetheart, no sir, that title still belongs to the fantastically smooth Surya Bonaly, who could have saved this whole figure skating debacle with her tight French backflips. Too bad she hasn't competed in the Olympics in 12 years and is probably dead.

First of all, my heart goes out to Sasha Cohen, and by heart, I mean leftovers from the media tent meal, cuz the girl needs some nutrition. Secondly, I will make sure that she does not choke on the leftover Italian beans (dog, I found one that looked just like Puffy Combs, so I'm keeping that one in my suitcase), because I know she has some issues with choking. Thirdly, I just love it when somebody says something that makes DeJuan look like A.I.! That's Albert Inestein my friend, not the point guard.

Sasha was in pain, my homies! I quote, stolen from one of these journalist people that actually do shit: "I don't even know what the correct names for all the muscles are but basically they're important ones that you need."

She went on to say she was on a "nice combination" of ultrasound, Tylenol and other painkillers. Yo, when the snowboarders put together their "nice combination," it usually leads to gold. Sounds like you need a new pharmacist, Sasha Cohen.

I guess all that falling was hard on her little legs, which is understandable cuz the girl thought she was wrestling or something (that's the summer Olympics) and had to make the 103-pound weight class. But hey, DeJuan knows to not criticize for usage of certain substances to make the day go by, or to perhaps forget every once in a while that you're trapped in White Siberia.

But soon my jet plane is a leaving for the mainland, with closing ceremonies on Sunday. If the U.S. of A can pull in front of the Germans in the medal count, I might get to bust out my American jumpsuit after all. Holla!

Jolly good, Tiger!

By Dr. Charles P. Ipswich IV
University Professor

Hello, readers. I was lounging in my office, behind my thunderous oak desk, and perusing the latest issue of Harpers while enjoying a good scone, and I was distracted momentarily by the InterWeb, upon whence I noticed a story involving golf legend Tiger Woods.

It seems that our friend Mr. Woods was engaging in competitive action yesterday at a match play event when his designated opponent, Mr. Stephen Ames, took the opportunity to partake in some pre-event bravado talk. He told the assembly of media members gathered there on the driving range that since the event was a head-to-head match play format, anything could happen, "especially with where Tiger is hitting the ball."

Researchers have noted in studies done in various laboratories that caged tigers can be teased and pestered so that they bottle up their tension and anger and store it up in simply volatile capacities. When the beasts are then uncaged, the aggression is unleashed, often with staggering and incapacitating results.

I feel that there is an extreme corollary between what happens with those beasts of nature and what occurred yesterday with Mr. Woods. When it came time for competition, Mr. Woods wasted no time in giving his opponent a good rodgering, defeating him in just ten holes. Superlative dominance at its absolute, most critical apex, one must say.

It was a thing of beauty. Tiger's aforementioned dominance was like a vast steel barge that pressed onward unfettered through the sometimes-murky waters of the Caspian Sea in late October when the gulls frolic overhead much like children enjoying their recess time near the basketball hoop on the school playground commons with shouts and hollers of unrestricted human joy and emotion.

I, of course, never experienced that joy as a lad, because I was often duct taped to the basketball hoop during recess time. But I digress ...

And dear Mr. Woods, when asked about his dominance, would not take the bait. When asked what he thought of Mr. Ames' comments, Tiger simply repeated the score of the match! Bully, Tiger! I highly respect his ability to not give in and remain as cool as the cobblestone walks in Manchester on a crisp March morning.

This spectacle of Tiger's motivation raises an eyebrow-raising question: Does bravado talk actually increase an athlete's motivation? Or should these athletes be motivated already by the grand sums of money and fame that await them?

The answer, of course, lies in Harpers. When I read the magazine, I often feel a joyous sense of privilege that I actually have the magazine in my weathered hands. When Dr. Finnstein across the hall asks me if I've seen the latest copy of Newsweek, I can simply scoff at him and tell him, "No, Dennis, I've been too busy reading Harper's." I generally permit myself a good chuckle, which will sometimes elicit muttering from Dr. Finnstein.

Now I imagine that the muttering coming from within his office is not of a flattering persausion. So I take offense to the fact he may be engaging in shows of bravado. And I find that when this sort of happenstance occurs, I usually give my finest lectures later in the day -- I feel like a spectacular piece of art given its own exhibition at a prestigous gallery attended only by the finest people who are gathered to appreciate its perfect construction, tone and composition. Dr. Finnstein is not there at the lectures, of course, but his stifled mumbling from earlier in the morn has motivated me to prove that I deserve this copy of Harper's that lies on my desk.

Oh dear, Charles. You've gone tangential again. Time to digress, I must say.

I digress, readers. In conclusion, do not supply your fellow man with motivational incentive that could one day come back and haunt you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to my strawberries and cream.

Sophia and Barry, please come swing with me

By Dakota Brezinski
Six-year-old

For many days and many nights at recess, when we get to play, I have chosen to swing on the second swing, next to Sophia Gonzalez. She smells like our bathroom nice-smell-spray. I swing next to her for twenty times at full kick, and then I go play with the basketball. I play with the basketball until the recess lady, Bertrice, tells us it's time to go in for art class. (I don't like art, because Mrs. Washington doesn't like me. I probably shouldn't have put that frog I found in her hair. And that worm in her coffee. Tanner made me do it.)

I have done this so many times, it is probably a Mason Area Kindergarten record for swinging and then playing basketball at recess. Maybe tomorrow I will break the record. Maybe I will not. It depends. I will post my decision on my Web site.

Sometimes people ask me if I am ready to be a record-holder, but usually these people are actually just me. However, when they ask, they want to know what has allowed me to pursue this record. Is it steroids? Is it amphibians? Is it simple hard work and dedication? I don't know. Or maybe I do. I will post my findings on my Web site.

Sometimes I think people don't like me because I'm black. Or because I have a family to take care of. Or because I am a threat to history. Or because I am the greatest ever at something. Or because the media is simply out to get me. This is what I explained to Mrs. Washington when I told her I would not be cutting snowflakes today. She told me to sit in the corner. I went outside. They called Daddy. I told them they would not be treated kindly on my Web site.

I want brownies.

I don't think people understand why I wear my giant knee and elbow brace to school every day. They ask if I'm OK, but of course I'm OK, I'm greatness. These are things that help me, because I have a long injury history. They are not designed to give me an advantage.

I NEVER DID STEROIDS ALL RIGHT? WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS TRYING TO BRING ME DOWN? FINE, YOU GOT ME. YOU FINALLY GOT TO ME.

I yelled that out loud just now. The stupid media is always trying to bring me down. But I am mentally strong, so I will be okay. Sophia Gonzalez, I love you.

My nose is crinkled, for something is powerful stanky here

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

Chad Hedrick handled this shit all wrong.

First of all, he picked a fight with the first brother to ever win an individual gold medal in the Winter Olympics, which is just damn wack-a-roo. Yo, if you're in a country full of white people, don't you think the one black man is going to have the biggest posse in the place? Fo sho. And Chad, not exactly winning points by being from Texas and all, is probably going to get the B.I.G. treatment in a hurry if you know what I'm saying. And no, I don't mean inflated to 350 pounds.

Second of all, if you want to go down into history, you've got to handle the feuding thing with class. You hire your ex-husband to club the other guy in the kneecap. You get the guy screaming "Why? Why? Why?" on the ground. You make up an alibi. You go DOWN IN OLYMPIC HISTORY. You hit up Oprah. You do celebrity boxing shows and shit. You never have to do real work forever. And dog, that is the American dream.

This had all the makings of a new Tanya-Nancy, with Chad all pissy because my man Shani didn't want to hang in the team pursuit event because he wanted to get jacked for his individual 1,000K. So they go toe to toe in this 1,500 today for like all the damn marbles and everybody's all like "Damn, who's gonna win and get to sleep with more bitches in the after hours?"

And the answer is Enrico Fabris. He's named after that shit you spray on clothes and carpeting when there's stank. And dog, this has stank all over it.

This was supposed to be America's 1-2 punch, but it was just a matter of which homie was one and which ugly Texan was two. Instead, they're just also-rans while Febreeze gets to make the place smell like Mystic Rain and they get to play the hometown anthem. Man, what a waste. If neither one was going to win, then there has to be some kind of violent outburst, cuz now everybody is gonna forget that there even was a feud. Cuz nobody really won.

Oksana Baiul won the figure skating gold in the 1996 Olympics, by the way. That girl knew how to PAR-TAY, by the way, but nobody remembers her. They remember Tanya trying to kill Nancy. Man, that shit was drama. This has as much drama as the 2002 MLB All-Star Game.

Of course, my boy Shani knew how to go out graciously and shit, smiling and playfully ruffling some Italian hair (dog, static electricity!) on the podium while crybaby Chad takes off his skates and looks all frumpy. Step off, dude, you're no Eric Heiden, the pride and joy of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Home of the 2002 All-Star game. Dude, that's more than a coincidence, that's like destiny.

Alright, enough of that, I'm heading back into my ice dancing-induced coma. Wake me up for the closing ceremonies.

Go to hell, Flip Saunders

By Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

I was outside in my yard last evening, yelling at this airplane that had the nerve to invade my airspace. After the commotion died down, I heard something familiar drifting from inside my cabin walls. I cautiously stepped toward the door and peeked inside, where the sound became more distinct.

Yes. There it was ... the sweet dulcet tones of Marv Albert. The NBA All-Star Game was on television.

Marv and I go way back. Hell, we became blood brothers simply by virtue of owning the same name. When I was sports editor at the New York Times, before I was fired for stealing carpet from the office, he and I hung out quite a bit. We'd golf together, race go-karts and even have lunch sometimes. But it was the nights that really seared Marv into my brain. He would throw some wild parties at his house on the Upper East Side. I recall one night with a goat, a yo-yo, a $6,000 an hour prostitute, a high school quarterback, a crate of tangerines and a bottle of Southern Comfort. I probably don't even need to tell you what happened.

OK, sure I do. Marv got the high school quarterback terribly drunk and accidentally hit him in the face with the yo-yo. Drunk and bleeding, the kid asked for help. I took a physiology class at Columbia and recalled that vitamin C stopped bleeding, so I shoved an unpeeled tangerine into the kid's mouth. He didn't seem to be getting better, so I just left him on the floor. Then I noticed that Marv was riding out into the front yard on a goat, stark naked and holding the bottle of Southern Comfort high above his head with his legs splayed. Waiting for him was the expensive hooker (her name was Twilight), who climbed onto the goat with Marv and made love to him. I still recall his bombastic shrieks of "YES!" piercing the night air like a dart thrown in a smokey bar.

And his voice last night in the cabin brought me warmth and excitement. I watched with enthusiasm as LeBron James, Tracy McGrady and Dwayne Wade galivanted about on the floor, alley-ooping and dunking and putting on a personal show for me. I clapped my hands and squealed like a delighted infant with shit in his diaper. There was so much action and enthusiasm on the floor -- it was good to watch basketball.

And then, East coach Flip Saunders substituted in four Pistons at the same time. And what the hell happened? The Pistons started RUNNING PLAYS. And playing defense. And hustling around on the floor, stopping West players from dunking.

Fuck off, Flip.

I watch the All-Star game so I can see grandiose spectacles of athleticism from the most lively and talented men on the entire planet. I don't watch it so I can see Chauncey Billups signal a play with his right hand and then hit Rip Hamilton WITH A BOUNCE PASS off a screen for a 15-foot jumper.

If I wanted to see that shit, I'd go watch the WNBA.

And poor Paul Pierce got stuck being the "fifth Piston" out on the floor last night. He didn't know any of the plays and was essentially the second male in a three-person porn scene -- just standing around, swiffering his shalayley and observing all the action.

So I'm pissed. I feel jilted, cheated and screwed. And I sure as hell will no longer endorse anything Pistons-related. Go to hell Motown. Go to hell Big Ben. Go to hell Red Wings. Go to hell Eminem. Go to hell Jerome Bettis. I used to admire them for their team basketball, but I'm now on the Fun Basketball Train.

Did I just say "fun" and "train" in the same phrase? Who am I, Curtis? Damn you Detroit, you've temporarily turned me into a gay man. And angry, dunk-deprived gay man. An angry, dunk-deprived who needs his Valium. Where is my Valium?

This really frosts my nuts.

These guys are AWESOME!

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind sock

The NBA Dunk Contest is back! I saw it with my own two eyes Saturday night, and it was easily the greatest dunking contest of all time! NOTHING can top it. Nothing, zilch, nada, holy smokes!

First of all, did you SEE Andre Iggodala? The man is a man among little skinny boys, jamming and slamming and doing all kind of crazy junk. The behind the back slam was AWESOME, but nothing compared to the Alley-Oop from A.I., his main man, off the BACK OF THE BACKBOARD. Iverson lobbed it up, Iggo grabbed the ball, swung it under the hoop and Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh! Sweetness! Best dunk ever!

Then there’s little Nate Robinson, who’s like 4-foot-11, and he raised the roof, Arsenio Hall style! Woo, woo, woo, woo, woo! Out of the crowd he brings none other than the LEGENDARY SUPERSTAR Anthony Jerome Webb, better known to the masses as Spud. Spud’s even shorter than Nate, so he brought the legend out onto the court, had him toss up the ball, and Nate vaulted him like he was NOTHING and took the ball to the hoop and Oooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! It’s over! No questions asked! End the debate! Nate Robinson, the midget, the mighty mite, the little fella with the big heart brings home the bacon. Best dunk ever!

So then the two were in the finals – in OVERTIME – and Nate tried this running under-the-legs alley-oop to himself off the backboard and it was so fantastic, but it took him like 1,000 tries and I didn’t even get to see the dunk because I was getting another beer from the fridge but I saw the replay and Ooooooooooohhhhhhhhh! Best dunk ever! Then it was Iggo’s turn and he did a reverse slam-a-jamma and BOOM SHAKALAKA Ooooohhhhhh! Best dunk ever since the semifinals ... and the judges originally gave him a tying score. But then, somebody changed their score it was Charles Barkley I think that Auburn American Bad-Ass! And that’s how it ended, in SCANDAL CITY, but that doesn’t take away from the fantastic American adventure that is the NBA Dunk Contest.

Of course, there is lots more going on like D-WADE schooling everybody in the skills challenge and Everyone’s Favorite German Dirk Nowitzki raining threes like a German army was raining artillery on the Americans in the 1940s! Was that insensitive! Kendra Wecker and Tony Parker winning the 2-ball thingy was awesome too. And that’s all before the big, big, big game tonight, it’s gonna be a throwdown and I am cheering for the Western Conference! I think Kobe’s gonna score NINETY.

I will NOT proudly stand up

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

Yo, I officially sent in my papers to South America so I can become a citizen of Norway. I've got my birth certificate right here, some credit card applications and my media pass, which I assume is enough ID to make the damn switch. I can't take this shit no more. I am not an American.

Dog, I'm ashamed of the stars and stripes, which is too bad cuz I was all set to bust out this bitchin jumpsuit of the American flag for the closing ceremonies. Screw that. Did you know in Norway you can get universal haircare? Or healthcare or something, same thing. You can also ski to work, during those times of year when you aren't on vacation, which is mostly always. They don't have any brothers, but sometimes you gotta bite the bullet. Or shoot the bullet, which is how it works in Los Angeles.

Have you seen what the United Statesninnies have been doing at the Olympic Games lately? I mean Johnny Weir, who hangs on the East Side in a World of Westsiders, if you know what I'm saying. Plays for the pink team. Likes to enter the house through the backdoor. Shops well. Drives on the left side of the road (or whatever is opposite of normal in the Turismo). Bites the dragon. Rides the fleshy popsicle. Dude, you get my drift.

Anyway, Johnny Weir was a BUST in the Fagure Skating (shit, was that a typo?) and all the critics started talking about mental toughness and what not, which is wack for a sport that requires you to be all tender and elegant. Dude, Johnny Weir disappoints me bad. If you're gonna be a few curves short of straight, the least thing you can do is be gay and a gold medalist.

Then Lindsey Jacobelis tried to get extra "high" (dog, do I really need to play on words anymore? I'm getting tired) in her snowboard cross and took a major bummer of a crash, basically missing out on some surefire bling. Shit, last time I tried partying early, I popped out of the closet in my birthday suit for the fine Ms. Shawanna Douglas back on a tour stop in Anaheim, thinking I would bed the damn belle of the ball. Too bad it was Ms. Shawanna Douglas's older brother Gary, who was a fan of our show. And as it turned out, protective of his sister. Dammit, Gary Douglas.

Lindsey, the moral of the story is to not get naked before you reach the bed. Or just play it safe until you're across the line. I don't know what I'm trying to say, but I'm pretty sure it culminates with "what the fuck?"

I love the snowboard team, homies, LOVE them. They are my kind of people. They don't judge, mostly because they're stoned constantly. But I can't look myself in the mirror and say I come from a country where SIXTY percent of our medals are coming from this posse. The sober folk are not winning any bling, y'all. So I'm leaving on a jet plane.

Then there's the women's hockey team, who was supposed to dominate and such, and they get beat by Sweden. Looks like there won't be any tank-top-ripping-off like with women's soccer a few years back, which is a major, major drag. Nah, not really, cuz those chicks are out of sorts, if you know what I mean. Hideous. Ugly. Terrifying. Yeah, it's much easier when we drop the made-up expressions.

I'm changing my name to Simon Fjord C3P0 and and heading to the Norway for my new life, bitches. It's a new world for me, and I leave a fine ass legacy behind in the States. But dogs, you will overcome without me in your presence. Much love.

Dog, I just found out ain't no weed in Norway. Man, I was warming up to the name Simon Fjord.

I am in a damn hurry

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

Not lots of time today bitches, so this is gonna be short and sweet. Had myself one hayyyyllll of a day, anchored by some brews purchased for yours truly by new gold medalist Seth Wescott. We got tight at Shaun's party a few days back. Or was that yesterday? Dog, it gets cloudy in the Turismo.

Anyway, Seth was in the snowboard cross which is CRAZY FREAKING AWESOME. Four dudes, four boards, downhill, lots of crashes, lots of ass-kicking, all fun and games until a fired up DeJuan tries to barrell-roll down the hill and gets through two verses of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" before realizing he may be in some deep shit, after all. But damn, what a ride. And some medical expenses, which I'm hoping Marv covers in the Flotsam benefits package. Yo, dude, I'm coming home if I don't get medical.

Also checked out the Skeletor today, including this German lady named Diana Sartor, who is like two months pregnant. Now in a hypothetical, if I was pregnant, I would not want to be chilling at 90 mph riding on my grandma's wood sled, on my stomach, down an icy waterslide. Shit, that fetus is gonna be pissy. And probably a daredevil, because her boyfriend (premarital sexual relations warning!) is a competitor in the doubles loogy.

Dog, don't tell me you're not thinking of a stellar opportunity here. Some backdoor doubles-loogy loving at speeds of 80-plus? That's pretty hot, holmes.

Took a trip with some of the hashpipers to see the SHROUD OF JESUS, which is right here in the Turismo. That's the blankie the big JC was buried in before he decided to rally and ascend into heaven. That was cool, like a deep religious experience and what not. Then, even better, is we went to see a location where they filmed part of the Italian Job. Awww yeah, Marky Mark is my boy.

Finally, dog, it's getting cold here. My hand warmers stopped working, my dreads are constantly icy, and you know what Dusty Baker says about a brother in the cold. Well, I guess nothing, but I was sort of extrapolating his fascinating theories about brothers in the sun. I'm just miserable, and I'm sick of hearing about that Yefgeny Plinko or whatever, who was named after the Price is Right game in Russia, because figure skating is a BORE. I need a new career, man. Or a woman. Peace.

Now just hold up, all right? Hold up.

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

Sometimes I wake up late at night with like this vision, usually in the form of a rap lyric, and last night was one of those times. Sometimes dreams are sort of hard to remember, so this shit is rough around the edges, but this is what the voices in my head were laying down:

Zhang and Zhang, falling with a bang
Leaving the ice but blingin it, dang
Silver, but stopping the show in the middle?
(Dog, I don’t remember the last line, but it was tight)

So yeah, I know it’s been a couple days, but I think this vision was telling me that I was missing something, that I wasn’t really thinking hard enough about that figure skating throwdown a few days back. Probably because figure skating is brutal with a capital Bru. But also because I’ve been busy lately. Dude, you think the hashpipe crew is just gonna party for one day after winning four medals? You think DeJuan is gonna be the one to go home early? Does DeJuan LOOK like Michelle Kwan? That Kwan-kw-kw-kw-kwan.

First of all, ain’t nothing but problems when you work with somebody that has the same first name. Zhang Hao and Zhang Dan…damn, that sounds like a bitching new act on the L.A. stage, but still, you don’t want that same first name garbage. At some point, there’s gonna be a debate as to which Zhang is the better Zhang. And dog, if I had to choose between them, I don’t know which one I’d choose. But there would probably have to be a fight to the death.

Anyway, Dan (who is the lady of the pair, I can’t make that shit up) was doing this big ass Sow Cow with like 12 flips in the air or something and then fell on her face and everybody was like, damn. But not me, homie, I was clapping my hands, cuz ain’t nobody going to tell me that when those little dancing divas fall down that it ain’t entertaining. It’s like NASCAR, I don’t watch that shit for the circle action ... I watch it for the fiery crashes. Too bad there ain’t no fiery crashes in figure skating. Yet.

Whoa, did I say I watch NASCAR? Obviously I meant MTV Cribs. Step off.

So they stop their mad action figure skating, bail off the ice to get some herbal tea or whatever it is those figure skating folks enjoy and then come back and they actually get the silver medal! Look, I don’t know jack about figure skating and technical jazz and loop-de-loops and Triple Axl Roses or whatever, but I know one thing: you can’t win the damn game if you stop in the middle.

Figure skating doesn’t have any timeouts, dog. That would be like Erick Dampier getting to stop the action when he sees Shaq going up for a dunk. That would be like Barry taking a mulligan when he sees the pitch is a curveball. That would be like Tiger saying "Oh, shit, that drive definitely looks like it’s going into that retention pond off to the right, I better just pause the action right here." Dog, real life ain’t TiVo. And dog, quit looking at me like you don’t think I know some shit about golf.

So what are they handing out bling to the Zhang twins for? You can’t pull that crap and still get to bring home the bacon. I want a recount or something, and I don’t care how inspirational it is when you fall into a wall and get back up without needing to be carried off on a gurney. It’s not like they overcame some crazy ass degenerative disease or whatever. How come nobody got angry about this shit? I’m pissed off.

Whoa, Sasha Cohen! There she is, on my TV. Suddenly I’m placid and shit.

Ode to Bode

By Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

I decided I should probably watch the Olympics, since I sent that loopy-haired black man to Italy to cover them. But I can't understand him now that he's there, his syntax is poor, and he's always talking jiveback to me on the phone. It was a mistake to empty the tin can for him, I tell you.

I was excited to hear of this Bode Miller, skier supreme. He comes from the woods and does his job while drunk. In other words, he's me, but 25 years younger.

But you already knew that.

He grew up eating nothing but berries, he skies while drunk, his parents were hippies, he is a media bad-boy, he has plentiful endorsement deals, he has his own website, he grew up on $600 a year, he skies recklessly like a blindfolded cowboy on meth riding down the mountainside on a drunken horse in a driving Oklahoma thunderstorm. He also fucking sucks.

After failing to live up to expectations in his first Olympic run, he was disqualified today for straddling a gate. Agate? What? That means he's either crashed or been disqualified in six of his last eight races. That sort of failure chaps my balls.

I expected so better from you, Bode. You disappoint. Much like the time I was promised a date with Farrah Fawcett and it turned out to be Rosie O'Donnell. And then she was a lesbian. And wouldn't bring her friends. And completely dominated me. And then stole my shoes. And then punched me in the face repeatedly until I couldn't see for three weeks. Yeah, Bode's kinda like that.

Now, Bode, get off of my damn television screen and come on up here to Montana so I can piss in your corn flakes.

Other flotsam

I got a new dog. I won't shoot this one ... there's a hole in my stomach for some reason ... Did you hear that, Fred? ... Deion Sanders retired? I didn't know he still played baseball ... Tony Kornheiser on Monday Night Football? Howard Cosell must be really pissed right now. Or dead ... I ate nine cans of cream of mushroom soup yesterday ... When Bode Miller chaps your balls, chapstick doesn't fix anything ... Why doesn't the DMV give out free toasters anymore? ... Cream of mushroom soup gives me awfully fierce gas ... Dick Cheney shot me once, then told me to go fuck myself ... Cranberry juice and green beans aren't all they're cracked up to be ... That Sasha Cohen is whirling dervish of a wet dream ... My new mouse is wireless ... I kissed Chevy Chase on a dare once ... If you invented the color magenta, I want to shake your hand ... Tiddlywinks ... Someone take this penguin out of the room ... Spring training is coming up soon and I like the smell of dirt ... Ray Lewis doesn't want to play in Baltimore anymore, but I'll take him on my team any day ... Jerry Seinfeld noticed something once, and told me ... I could eat macaroons for the rest of time ... Dwayne Wade doesn't really look like a Wayne ... that Ron Artest sure can defend ... Peyton Manning's face is shaped like a chicken nugget ... stop fiddling with my toes ... is that Olympic torch still burning?

Someone is trying to murder my ass

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

Someone is trying to kill me. How am I supposed to survive in the Grand Turismo? Y'all didn't have enough cash flow to send my homies to look out for this brother, so I'm flying solo and I'm probably going to die. Fuck!

There's like this giant-ass conspiracy determined to get all Americans to drop out or disappear, which is why some South American nation called Norway is leading in the medal count here at the Olympics.

First, it was Michelle Kwan backing out of figure skating. Yo, figure skating is the least dope thing the Games has in the first place, and how am I supposed to watch when I can't refer to the top American as "That Kwan, Kw-kw-kw-kw-kwan" in an homage to my main man Sisqo? Dude, ain't nothing that rhymes nice with "Cohen." Screw that, I ain't going to watch the figure skating, unless that fine Surya Bonaly from French makes an appearance and does some more of those backflip thingies. That's tight.

Then, the worst damn thing of all happened when Apollo Creed went down in the Fast Figure Skating and didn't even qualify for the finals in the 1,500 meters. If you're gonna show up with that nasty-ass facial thing you've got going on, the very damn least you could do is stay on your feet and make the last heat of your event. HOW-EV-AH, I should point out that my homeboy Shani Davis (holla at your boy, Chicago!) is still around for the final event, which is probably the best thing that's ever happened since God created curling.

Dog, seriously, I'm just playing. That curling shit is like watching Gilmore Girls.

What the hell? You got me all distracted. Back to my damn orignial point...I am going to PERISH! Cuz look, at first you see Kwan and Apollo and think, damn. But then you see all the other Americans getting nixed by whoever's leading this here conspiracy and you think, damn and shit.

Samantha Retrosi, she's in the loogy, had this hella rediculous crash that has her all banged up. Lindsey Kildow, who is like the best alpine skiier the U.S. of A has or something, had to be airlifted out after she crashed in practice. Bode Miller and Darren Rahlves didn't even take FOURTH in their first event (seriously, Bode, if they ain't servin the brew at the hospitality tent, then come on over to the chateau de DeJuan, broham. Me and the hashpipe crew be hangin, sippin, and showin off the bling they got with their 1-2 finishes in men's and women's. My boy Shaun will bring the jams...bring your buddy Darren if you want.)

Outside of the two golds and two silvers in the hashpipe, ain't nothing going right. Which gets me thinkin, what if there really is a conspiracy? It's afoot and shit. I mean, first they hit up the athletes from America, and pretty soon they come looking for DeJuan. Not my cup of gin, y'all...I'm seriously thinking about busting out of the Grand Turismo and heading back to the City of Angels. Man, my life is in danger.

Say a prayer for DeJuan.

Spectaculagrandolicious, bitch!

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

Man, those Opening Ceremonies were the truth. I gotta tell you, the experience in Italy has already been one of the most rewarding, electrificating experiences I ever had, y'all, and we haven't even gotten to the crazy shit like Nordic Combined or Bode Miller setting world records on the booze. From my view, those Opening Ceremonies were the most beautiful of all time and shit.

Thank god I wasn't out there in the cold with all those fools, though. Nah, I was sittin' tight at a local establishment drinking some brews and watching the action on HDTV (which I didn't think you could find in third world countries, but even though they don't speak English here, I'm starting to think they ain't so bad). Plus, they even got the NBA on the other TVs, and I was catching the Nuggets and the Mavs in pristine crystal clear clarity. It was like being in America. The name of the joint was "Buffalo Wild Wings." I love this Italian cuisine, dog.

Anyway, the highlights of the ceremonies were definitely Pavarotti at the end (not that I could hear his fat ass singing the tunes cuz the sound was on mute) and Yoko Ono telling everyone, probably, to give peace a chance. Man, I've been saying that for years. Good one, Yoko Ono.

Wait hold that shit, is Yoko Ono from Italy? Is she related to that Apollo Creed guy who does speedskating? Who the hell invited her? Didn't the news travel to the third world countries yet that John Lennon and the Beatles are dead because of her? Someone should let me know. But not me, not while Carmelo is doing his thing on the neighboring TV.

Dog, did you see those speedskaters in red body suits while their hair was on fire? That shit happened to me after a show in Jersey when our pyrotechnics dude -- his name was Bob Sparks, now that shit is funny -- set a fuse off wrong or something and my dreads caught the blaze. Man, that was tight! I went into a coma, but you can't buy that kind of street cred.

How about those people doing Crouching Tiger, Hidden Olympian on those ropes and then all coming together to make the Bat Signal near the end? I think Batman is from Italy or something. And then the TORCH, which I would have seen lit but K-Mart was throwing down a mad dunk at the time. I know it was crazy cool though cuz damn, every year the next country tries to tell the one before that they can light a torch way better than you can. It's like a pissing contest. With fire. Shit, that sounds like a good time.

Anyway, the games start tomorrow, which is hella exciting. Stay tuned.

Buona sera, la femmina erotica

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

Dog, I got bitchin news! The IOCFDAFEMA or whatever the hell just announced this week that there would be no drug raids in the Olympic village. Ain't NOBODY getting tested for drugs up in here, which is damn good news if you're me or if you're on the U.S. snowboarding team. Yesterday we partied it up together in the basement of that Shaun kid with red hair. That man can shred. He cannot rap however, despite his best efforts after the jazz made it around the circle.

Speaking of jazz: The Italian cats and dogs do NOT listen to normal music around here. They ain't even heard of Dr.Dre. I tried to tell a few of them I was laid back with my mind on my money and my money on my mind, and they looked at me like I was bananas. It's probably because they also didn't speak English. Or, they don't know nothing about no dough cuz everybody here is an amateur.

Except the hockey teams. Y'all, I got myself EXCLUSIVE passes to this shootaround for the U.S. hockey team, although it turns out the practice was open to the public. I got scammed, homie. But I watched that team practice and I gotta tell you, I know zilch about winter sports, but that team is hella bad. Their two captains -- Chris Chelios and Derian Hatcher -- are a combined 79 years old and both of them were 10-time all-stars by the time a younger version of DeJuan played NHL Hockey on the Sega Genesis.

Yeah, what of it? I played video game hockey once or twice. It was a phase, dog. Don't tell me you didn't have phases growing up, like wearing women's clothes now and again. That shit happens.

So anyway, I haven't heard of many folks in the NHL, but I have no idea how the hell the U.S. team is gonna contend with the Canadians. They've got free health care and shit. And also, some talent when it comes to hockey. The U.S. team is relying on some guy named Rick DiPietro? That dude sounds square.

Anyway, I hear my new bros calling me back to the hood, so I'm out. But check back for some mad coverage of the big Olympic events, like figure skating and such. Peace.

Love is but a song we sing, hear a way we die

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

It takes a man to admit he's wrong, although my venomous hatred of him will never dissolve. When Brad says he's just friends with that hideous Donna Birdsong from work, then admits he's had a ravenous affair with her and he's sorry, it shows a certain amount of poise. And poison for that matter, which I kindly delivered into his morning cereal.

Still, you have to respect the ACC for stepping up and saying, hey you know what? The refs blew it -- similar to the way Dick Vitale blows it in regards to Mike Kzryzewski every single week. I'm a lady and I didn't mean that.

The refs called a double technical in a Duke-Florida State game where just one technical should have been called -- one on Shelden Williams when he gave Florida State's Alexander Johnson a bump in the second half of the teams' game last week. Johnson was backing away, but the refs love to please those maniacal little demons from hell that call themselves the Cameron Crazies, and they decided to call a foul on both. Johnson fouls out with nearly 9:23 to go and Duke wins in overtime. Those stupid bitches.

It tickles me that a sports body, usually the most staunch of stubborn sluts, admits they're wrong. Still, there are many other socially-recognized mishaps that I demand an apology for:

1. Jefferson Starship. We built this city on Death and Despair. How can Grace Slick, perhaps the greatest woman ever to live since Mary Magdaline, allow something so vile and disgusting to happen to Jefferson Airplane? Go ask Alice. I know what Alice would say ... "That bitch sold out."

2. The St. Anger Album by Metallica. You can pretend you're just unleashing your uncensored new direction on the world, but I know the truth...you hit writer's block and thought you could make up for it by screaming incoherently. Rehab programs had something to do with this.

3. The de-legalization of mushrooms. I mean, marijuana.

4. The BCS. I don't think we can ever declare this country to be the finest in the land until our national college football champion is determined by playoff format. I know for a fact that is how they determine their champion in other countries. I've had a lot to drink today.

5. Televised Poker. Now that we've found a way to make the most sedentary of activities into a worldwide phenomonon, my new boyfriend Butch is determined to auction off everything he owns, and my entire collection of Alice Cooper-sponsored sex toys, to finance his new habit.

6. The movie "Vanilla Sky." I would have never gotten that idea to drive my car off a bridge with Brad trapped in the passenger seat if it weren't for that movie. And Tom Cruise was just terrible.

Until these wrongs can be accounted for, I accept the ACC's apology and look forward to the day that brings us fairly-called college basketball games, the return of Airplane and the revocation of Brad's restraining order.

Will someone please answer that damn phone!?!

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

I normally don’t feel the need to chastise a player for his off-the-field behavior, but I made my son throw away his Ben Roethlisberger jersey this week.

The reason? Mr. Roethlisberger made some terrible life choices in the weeks leading up to the Super Bowl, namely getting drunk with some local hussies and getting his photograph taken to prove it. Here we see him pouring a bottle of liquor down a young lady’s throat and smiling with a look of pure stupor on his face while wearing a T-shirt that proclaims "Drink Like A Champion Today."

I’m not angry that Ben was drinking, as I know all young, rich, famous athletes must like to do now and again, followed by occasional drug use and the occasional orgy. But I look at these pictures and I can’t help but think ... why is Ben Roethlisberger partying with such ho’s?

First of all, judging by the low ceiling, I’d say Ben is in a basement somewhere. Some sorority chicks were doubtlessly throwing their annual foam philanthropy event, and Ben just had to be there, hanging out with ... unattractive women! I know for a fact I’m better looking than most of them, and I could find three better-looking options at the local Fashion Bug.

Remember how you’re about to quarterback a team into the Super Bowl? You should be partying in massive clubs where only the rich and famous are allowed admittance, and all the women have passed a rigorous 12-point screening exam that judges them based on hotness and character (by "character," I mean "capabilities").

Secondly, your T-shirt is appalling. You’re not a college dropout, you’re a Super Bowl quarterback. Your shirt should say something hilarious, perhaps tailored to your specific exploits (I’d even settle for "Want To Find Out Why They Call Me Big Ben?") and nothing so generic as "Drink Like A Champion Today And By The Way I Bought This Shirt In The Clearance Section At Kohl’s." You’re such a disappointment. How can I expect you to be a role model for my children?

You could learn something from your fellow quarterbacks. Look at Eli Manning, drunk off his patoot, but dressed in a somewhat classy fashion and hanging on the arm of a gorgeous looking blonde who makes your women look like sea urchins. Sigh. I used to have skin like that.

Even Kyle Orton, who has no talent, found some semi-attractive option to be near while at a bar in September. Hmm ... maybe we should avoid using Kyle as an example after all.

Look, Ben, I’m going to make a couple calls. I still have some girlfriends who live near my old campus, and I’m sure they can find you some nice, hot beauties that you can take out to eat, have a couple drinks with, and then maybe step behind center if you’re a gentleman before heading home. I just can’t bear the thought of someone in your position bringing yourself down to such a level as you have ... how are you supposed to be World Champion if you can’t even be champion of choosing the right accessories?

Irrelevant sports roundup

By Elliott Brock
Give me a real assignment and I'll actually try

HOCKEY: The Carolina Hurricanes and the St. Louis Blues have agreed upon a multiplayer, multi-draft picks trade that centers on Doug Weight going to the Hurricanes in the most disinteresting stories to ever grace the top of ESPN.com’s link bar.

Heading to the Hurricanes are Weight and 27-year-old Finnish forward Erkki Rajamaki, who shares a name with the popular underground masturbatory mechanism, in exchange for Carolina's first-round pick in 2006, Toronto's fourth-round pick in 2006, previously acquired by the Hurricanes, Chicago's fourth-round pick in 2007, previously acquired by the Hurricanes, (pausing for air) forward Jesse Boulerice, forward Mike Zigomanis and Magnus Kahnberg, 25, an unsigned Carolina draftee from Sweden who will become an unrestricted free agent on July 1.

"I'm very excited to be going to such a great team," Weight told Sportsnet.ca, an organization which knew who Weight was due to some quick research on the Web. "I believe I now have as good a chance as any to win a Stanley Cup and there was no way I was going to pass this up."

Because nobody follows hockey, nobody knows whether or not he is lying.

HORSE RACING: Jockey Jerry Bailey headed into retirement with a sore side and a rueful smile following a second-place finish in his last race, in which he defeated the younger, less experienced munchkins down the yellow brick straightaway. Bailey's feisty ride Silver Tree was three-quarters of a length short in a bid for a come-from-behind victory Saturday – though it’s believed his subsequent career as a sire will not have such limitations – in the $500,000 Cloverleaf Farms Turf Stakes at Gulfstream Park.

"I hope more people bet to place than to win," Bailey said, and everyone looked at him like he was speaking his native Munchkin tongue.

TENNIS: Always in control on the court, Roger Federer lost control off it and cried like a little skirt while accepting his Australian Open trophy from one of the few people he's still trying to match.

The top-ranked Federer fulfilled overwhelming expectations by beating unlikely finalist Marcos Baghdatis, which is another name for this burning sensation I have on my thighs, 5-7, 7-5, 6-0, 6-2 in Sunday's final to claim his seventh Grand Slam title and third in succession.

He tearfully embraced tennis great Rod Laver, who sang such hits as "D’ya Think I’m Sexy" and "Maggie May" in the 1970s, while receiving his trophy. Laver twice swept the Grand Slams, a feat Federer will try to emulate this season -- if he finally can win a French Open and bag a couple French chicks in the process.

IN THE CLASSROOM: Almost two dozen Division I schools reported Graduation Success Rates of at least 95 percent for athletes who enrolled from 1995 to 1998, though nobody cares as long as they can hit a jump shot. All were higher than their general student populations and significantly higher than the rates reported by the federal government, according to NCAA figures released Thursday, even though nobody cares if they can throw the football 50 yards on a dime.

The average for the 318 Division I colleges, including the Army, Navy and Air Force academies, was 76 percent, though nobody cares because those schools have terrible sports programs. Other GSR averages included 69 percent for men, 86 percent for women, 82 percent for whites, 59 percent for blacks and 68 percent for Hispanics, though nobody cares if they can hit the ball a country mile.

The figures compiled by the NCAA are generally higher than those reported by the government because the GSR counts all athletes who earn a degree within six years of enrollment or, while still in good academic standing, transfer to other schools or turn professional, though nobody cares because that was all gibberish and impossible to comprehend.

Bob Huggins was on hand to announce the findings.

The Associated Press and ESPN wire services contributed to this report