Flotsam - We'll tell you what to think

Flotsam's greatest hits

2008-07-04T10:29:00.000-05:00

Avoiding words like "hiatus" and "side projects" and "broken up," some rock bands simply need some time away, and now is one of those times for Flotsam. There are far more pressing matters in the world to explore, like JOBA MANIA and omgjobaisgoingtostart.

Like all bands in downtime, it's never a bad idea to release a Greatest Hits, especially after just one or two CDs. That's capitalism, people.

But fret not, we shall return soon, with even stupider opinions from stupider people. In the meantime, enjoy some of Flotsam's Greatest Hits.

Our greatest post ever: tangibilizing the intangible. Heart, desire and grit ... people will tell you those are things you can't discern with numbers. So terribly wrong.
You want the endtimes? Of course you do. When the Colts met the Patriots in the regular season last year, it was Flotsam's blowout coverage that made the event so special.
There's nothing quite like Thanksgiving at the Marv Blackstone household.
The BCS is a fangled mess of tom-foolery. Professor Ipswich, however, after months of analysis, has cultivated the perfect plan for reform.
Bandwagon Burt makes his cases for the Baseball Hall of Fame. A lot of cases.
Pacman Jones seems to be in the news every day, and at least one legendary icon is ready to move on.
Why do people have to hate so much on future Hall of Famer Kwame Brown?
How does one navigate winter's coldest month, February? Flotsam witchcraft expert Agatha Moonfry gives you a guide.
Young Dakota Brezinski addresses the people.
If only Memphis could make a free throw ... Libby Perkins tells it like it is

Brains!

2008-06-11T10:09:00.000-05:00

Flotsam may be dead for now, but the possibility for reanimation always exists. Perhaps if Marv ever gets out of rehab or DeJuan returns from his "DeJuan Does Resurrection" Tour, we shall be back to poison your brains with stupid opinions. Now go wonder the world aimlessly like these friendly zombies.

600 THINGS ABOUT GRIFFEY!

2008-06-11T07:40:00.001-05:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

I love Ken Griffey, Jr., and last night he hit home run No. 600!! I know people think it's an arbitrary number, but people also think that Michael Jordan's six championships is also an arbitrary number. GRIFFEY IS THE JORDAN of baseball.

To honor the 600 homers that Griffey has parked, I give you my list of SIX-HUNDRED THINGS that make me think of Ken Griffey, Jr.!

1. home runs
2. the Topps rookie card that I lost when I was in high school
3. Norm Charlton
4. Left-handedness
5. Ken Griffey, Sr. and PLAYING IN THE SAME OUTFIELD with his son.
6. Knee pain
7. Future Hall of Famer Barry Larkin
8. Sid Bream sliding into home plate on Francisco Cabrera's RBI single
9. HOME RUN DERBY, FOLKS
10. Barry Bonds
11. Super Nintendo
12. The Kid
13. In 1988, 277 aspirin and a Providence hospital
14. My bathroom tile, fusing Mariners and Reds colors in a cornucopia of awesome.
15. Willie Mays
16. Wheaties cereal and 2% milk.
17. Additional knee pain
18. The warehouse at Camden Yards
19. Scoring from first on a double
20. gloves dipped in gold
21. The Space Needle (no NOT RYAN ANDERSON, HAHAA).
22. Mike Cameron, Brett Tomko and Antonio Perez
23. Back Home Again in Cincinnati, a variation on some song about another state.
24. the disabled list
25. Father's Day! My kids better get me something electronic this year, or I am going to go POSTAL. The Lord of the Rings DVDs they got me last year were LAME. Just because they're six and eight doesn't mean they can't figure out what daddy wants for Father's Day.
26. Comeback Player of the Year
27. Adam Dunn's hilarious outfield play
28. Bilbo Baggins
29. Reggie Jackson, MR. OCTOBER
30. Pleurisy
31. Ryan Freel and his imaginary friends
32. Jay Buhner's business goatee
33. Randy Johnson's MASTERFUL MULLET
34. A groin strain, suffered on my walk to the supermarket last fall.
35. The television show "Scrubs"
36. The Simpsons. DON'T HAVE A COW, MAN
37. OH MY GOD, I'M ONLY ON NO. 37
38. Will Smith and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air
39. Commissioner Bud Selig
40. The number 30. Also, the number 3.
41. Tomatoes filled with poisons
42. Knee pain
43. Little Big League and Angels in the Outfield
44. SUMMER CATCH WITH FREDDIE PRINZE, JR.
45. Other people named Jr. Like Dale Earnhardt, Roy Jones and ROBERT DOWNEY IRON MAN.
46. The tearing down of the Berlin Wall
47. the National Anthem
48-95. The members of the 1997 Seattle Mariners baseball team, especially Paul Sorrento and Paul Spoljeric. MIKE BLOWERS!
96. A smooth swing from the left side of the plate
97. My kitty, Buttons
98. Freshly cut grass by my irritating neighbor
99. Deadspin
100. HOME RUNS

Wow, that's a lot of stuff already, so I think I'll just multiply all those by six and you have SIX-HUNDRED. I LOVE KEN GRIFFEY, JR.

The Strahan Legacy: EXPOSED?

2008-06-10T08:00:00.001-05:00

By Donald Winchester
Private Eye

The stench of a rat has lingered over Michael Strahan's career for seven years now, and it's up to me -- Donald Winchester, Private Eye -- to reveal the truth about the toothless wonder. See, back in 2001, Strahan was approaching the single-season sack record when fellow retiree Brett Favre laid down -- laid down like France in an international conflict -- and Strahan fell on top of him like a gentle lover. It was this accomplishment that made Strahan a celebrity.

As Strahan retires, it seems everyone remembers that fateful moment, but everyone also wonders whether or not Favre and his merry offensive linemen allowed it to happen. I had an itch to know the truth -- like the itch one might experience after a night in a Mississippi whore house -- and took it upon myself to dig up the details.

For no man's legacy is complete until Donald Winchester, Private Eye, says so. The facts are these:

In the final game of the season, Strahan needed one more sack for 22.5, a mark that would pass Mark Gastineau on the all-time list. Late in the game, Favre's little tumble allowed No. 92 to get the credit, and history was made. History is great and all if you like the Aztecs and Revolutionary War. But this conspiracy was on par with the government's experiments in Roswell, and everyone knew it, especially me.

How suspicious, I think, that the two greats are retiring in the same year. Perhaps Strahan knew Favre would tell his side of the story in a tell-all novella, possibly called "Vicodin, Interceptions and My Night in Bed with Michael Strahan -- Three Things I'm Not Proud Of." I ventured to Kiln, Miss. to find out the truth.

I traced Favre to a swampy townhouse in the rural sticks. It was muddy -- muddier than the set of that new show "Wipeout" -- and smelled like grits and jumbalaya. I could see Favre on the porch, sitting in a rocking chair with his shotgun, waiting for stray cats to scurry by. One unlucky tom whom I shall name Whiskers came to survey the scene, and Favre shot him dead -- deader than a tomato-eating McDonald's patron. I'd have to be delicate with this one, for Brett Favre's aim was stupendous and violent.

I came forward with my hands raised and begged for mercy, that I was here on friendly business. He surveyed me and then asked if I was a member of the media, never letting go of his shotgun. He was mistrustful -- like a child who's been promised three candy bars by daddy if he would just come down off the roof and brush his teeth. I told him I was no pressman. I merely had one question, one question that could change the world.

Did you do it? I asked. Did you let Michael Strahan have his day, without playing the game in good faith? He gave a dramatic pause -- John Wayne at the OK Corral dramatic -- and thought about the question for a bit. He smiled wryly -- that freaky Ben Linus in "Lost" wryly -- and I could see the memories of that day come flooding back like a Biblical flood.

No, he said softly, but then he winked once, twice, wrinkled his brow and gave the "OK" sign with his left hand. Nope, that was totally legitimate, he said.

He had a drawl -- Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias drawl -- and I couldn't be sure if I heard him correctly. For he had refuted the plain truth, but had done so with a series of mysterious hand gestures. I couldn't be sure his true intent. I was confused. Confused like a peace-spewing hippy at Altamont.

I asked him again. "There are facts, sir. Visual facts. It doesn't look good for you, see. I ask again, did you lay down like a lamb for the slaughter?"

He looked at me with puzzled eyes, and then repeated "Nope, that was perfectly legit." He strained his voice on perfectly, drawing it out in a tone that sounded like sarcasm. But I couldn't be sure. I needed fact, not conjecture. I shook my head and demanded the truth, screaming that the world needed to know before Michael Strahan walked off into the sunset with his legend intact. I was desperate -- Tom Cruise after the split with Nicole Kidman desperate.

One last time, he reiterated that he was innocent, and did so while winking six times and nudging his head in a series of directions. It wasn't enough. I told him I was on to him, and I would tell the world my findings. It was then that he pointed his shotgun at me and told me to get off his land. He was serious -- the bad guy in No Country For Old Men serious -- and I retreated like a girl scout running from a grizzly.

The question remains, and the Strahan legacy shall be tainted until I get the answer I require. But the truth is out there, just waiting for Donald Winchester, Private Eye.

Crown me with carrots

2008-06-09T08:00:00.002-05:00

By Big Brown
Horse

You see me run? I the fast. CARROTS!

I like to thank Eight Belles, this is all for you babe. I'll holla at you when I head to big horsetrack in the sky. Meantime, I get to eat BUCKETLOADS of carrots, cuz I'm the fastest horsey three times. I'm a bad man.

I get three crowns, like the We Three Kings of Orient Are, whole bunch of flowers and lots of mares to share my stable. I'm gonna be getting it on til I die now! Carrots. Do you see them there, thanking me for all my fast. I farted. Little elfman Kent sure likes to do the whuppin, but I don't gotta run no more cuz I already showed how fast I am.

Give ms some carrots! Is that butterscotch? Freaking BUTTERSCOTCH? Nope, just some deck stain. Still yummy. Would taste good on carrots.

Can't wait to go on Outside the Lines or Sunday Conversation with Andrea Kremer to talk about how I'm the fast. Can't wait to see myself on TV. All for you, Eight Belles. You and carrots are my inspiration. I love you, kind of. Would have loved to make sweet speedy babies with you. We could have listened to Usher's new album while gettin' it on.

I should be sportsman of the year now, Sports Illustrated. No more Brett Favre. All me! Give me those carrots, and I won't kick at your face.

Wait, where you taking the carrots? What you doing over there, why you look so sad? I ran the fast, trainer said I would win and ain't nobody can stop me. WHERE YOU GOING WITH THEM CARROTS?! I'M BIG BROWN. WHY AIN'T NOBODY LOOKING AT ME NO MORE?!

Should have died after first race, like Barbaro. Then, everybody loves you. I miss carrots.

The Truth hurts

2008-06-06T15:52:00.004-05:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Today at recess, Mrs. Williams told me I had to go inside early and sit at my desk with my head down.

It's all Tanner's fault. If he hadn't fallen to the ground so hard when I pushed him off the top of the monkey bars, he never would have gotten so hurted. He was bleeding a little, but it wasn't that bad. He shouldn't have fallen so hard. Tanner is such a pre-schooler sometimes!

I told him to be like Paul Pierce and keep playing through the pain. I told him to get up on the monkeybars again (so I could try to push him off again!) and get over his owies. Recess doesn't come just anytime, so you have to have lots of fun while you can. After recess comes math, and math is the worstest thing ever. Worser than Mackenzie Burlap's breath.

I didn't want to go inside, so I tried to be like Paul Pierce, too. Daddy says he's the Truth! I don't always like the truth, but I do like Paul Pierce.

I started crying and I pretended to trip over a rock. I screamed and cried and held my knee, which I told Mrs. Williams was broken worser than Tanner's. She tried to get me to stand up, but I pretended that I couldn't stand on my leg. Ooooooohhh, it hurts, I said! Who needs the Truth when you have Paul Pierce?

Finally Mrs. Williams got Mr. Davis the principal to pick me up and carry me inside to the nurse. I kept crying and screaming for mommy, even after they brought me inside. I stayed in the nurse's office all through math class, and then came music class! We are learning Muppets songs in music class, so as soon as the clock said 1:27, I told the nurse I was ready to go and ran to Mrs. Sullivan's room, ready to be the bestest singer I could be.

I saw Mrs. Williams in the hallway. She was mad at me. I think it's because she likes the Lakers.

Joba can't hack it in Canada

2008-06-05T14:05:00.004-05:00

By Shaun Marcum
Some guy

Did you see the news in the other dugout this morning?

I bet you did. Major controversy in Yankeeland -- Johnny Damon doesn't think it's a good idea that Joba Chamberlain has been put into a starting role! The Yankees just haven't been on the same page this year and I, for one, am heartbroken. I know how important the Yankees' success is to the rest of the universe.

I was worried that we wouldn't have anything to say about Joba today. It's been almost two days since he started a game and got shellacked, helping us win the game and drain the Yankees' bullpen at the same time. That was the biggest story in baseball so far this year, so I was really excited to see how it unfolded. Joba is the reason baseball is such a popular sport in America, after all.

Not that I'd know. I'm in Canada most of the time. And let's be honest, nobody gives a shit about Canadian baseball. No, I didn't say Canadian bacon. Yeah, I saw how you stopped paying attention just now.

I know I have a 2.63 ERA and 67 strikeouts in 78 innings this year, with a WHIP well under 1.00. But ho-hum. That pales in comparison to the 50 amazing innings Chamberlain has thrown in his storied career. He's got a ton of strikeouts, a low ERA, and he kind of looks like Babe Ruth. I mean, that's why he's so huge, right? Because he's fat and kind of looks like Babe Ruth? I just figured that was the case, since he hasn't really done anything yet that should make people think he's the greatest Yankee ever.

I kind of look like that younger guy from "Married ... With Children." That's got to stand for something. But I definitely shouldn't be compared to Joba's greatness -- I mean, I'm practically middle-aged at age 26, and we really don't have much going for us in Toronto. Let's take a look at some pitchers we have, and you'll see why nobody's giving us 1/100th of the coverage given to Joba, even though we have the best starting pitching ERA in baseball:

Jesse Litsch, nine months older than Joba, 7-2, 3.45 ERA. Yawn. I totally understand why nobody talks about this guy. What a dumb name: Jesse Litsch. Maybe if his name sounded vaguely like a Star Wars character, things would be different.

Dustin McGowan, 4-4, 3.95 ERA. Also 26 though, so he's practically a grandpa. Wake me up when we start talking about Joba, who was the 75th-rated prospect in baseball by Baseball America in 2007. That means there were only seventy-four players ranked ahead of him when he became such a celebrity. How awesome!

Roy Halladay, 7-5, 2.94 ERA. He's fine, I guess. He's thrown three complete games this year and gone 8 or more innings in five out of his 10 starts, but it's not about guys who can throw whole games anymore. It's about guys who appear in one-or-two batter situations and has rules named after him. Nobody's talking about Roy Rules, dude.

AJ Burnett, strikes out just short of a guy an inning, but boring! I've always thought if Burnett would say more outlandish things in the media, people might pay attention to him like they pay attention to Joba and his crazy celebrations.

It'll be a shame when we leave New York and get away from all the coverage of Joba, because I, for one am fascinated, and am honoured to have seen him pitch first hand.

Fight the machines

2008-05-28T16:01:00.005-05:00

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

I remember when fancy technology didn't decide which team was better. Not when brute strength, determination and bucketloads of desire were available.

Everyone in the media is clamoring for instant replay in baseball just because a few pansies couldn't hit the baseballs far enough to be definite home runs. Those bleeders that barely make it over the outfield wall shouldn't count for anything, Luis Rivas. If you're a man, you'd hit it into the third deck like Mark McGwire. If McGwire were alive today, he would not stand for this discussion of new technologies enhancing and changing the way me beloved game is played.

Bud Selig feels television monitors should not take away the "human element" of the game, and I agree. Hell, what is sports but one giant "human element?" If we didn't have players and officials making mistakes, why would we play the games? Free will is something that was given to us by God, after that bitch Eve couldn't resist some tasty fruit. It's Biblical.

The slow takeover of machines has already begun in sports. Instant replay in football and basketball, machines that say whether a ball is in or out in tennis, and sensors that say when a goal is scored in hockey. I've never trusted machines -- science is the opposite of sports. Plus, it slows the damn game down too much. If baseball started using instant replay, there may not be enough time for players and managers to fruitlessly argue calls, pitchers like Steve Trachsel to take 30 seconds between pitches, or Tony LaRussa to work his micromanaging magic.

When I was young, I followed in the McGuffin tradition and became a timekeeper for Olympic track and field trials. I used a trusty stopwatch handed down through generations of McGuffins. It worked most of the time, and I was damn good at my job. Sure, I might have missed a second or two in the 100-meter dash, but nothing that would have affected the outcome. That was all before people wanted machines to tell them how fast they were, instead of people.

I say do away with such "advances" as the shot clock in basketball and all that body armor in baseball. And football for that matter -- I don't need state-of-the-art padding before I go out and hit somebody. Football is a man's game. Let them figure it out. In fact, let's just get the referees off the field in general. I remember when we played football, we didn't have a "false start," we just had a "head start."

We certainly don't need scoreboards, either. I see these stadiums with their fancy digital readouts and complicated colors and numbers. I hate all of it. The score should be kept by hand, preferably on a giant chalkboard in center field.

Preserve the human element before it's too late. I can't talk much longer. The machines might hear me.

Joakim got to be starting somethin

2008-05-27T16:45:00.004-05:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

I wish my daddy was cool like Joakim Noah's.

When I get in trouble -- like when I pee all over the chalkboard because Mrs. Burrows wouldn't let me go out for recess -- daddy spanks me and tells me to go to my room. There is nothing to do in my room! I get really bored, and cry, then throw myself against the floor so it sounds like I had an accident, and daddy will be sad for me and let me come downstairs and play the Halo game.

Boom boom! Die, aliens!

But Joakim Noah's daddy doesn't really care if his son does naughty things, like smoke the pot. I don't know why smoking the pot is so bad, but mommy tells me to stay out of the kitchen a lot, so she probably doesn't want me to do anything to the pot.

Daddy says Joakim Noah's daddy is a dummyhead, because he's French, and doesn't really understand a lot of stuff. I think Joakim Noah's daddy is Michael Jackson. Or maybe that's his mommy. It's hard to tell.

How come Joakim Noah doesn't have to say he's sorry and be grounded for two days if he does something naughty? It's not fair! Just because his daddy released all those records and danced with zombies doesn't mean he gets to do whatever he wants.

Maybe Michael Jackson isn't Joakim Noah's daddy. I think he looks like one of the Halo aliens, instead. Boom boom!

I may never care about the NFL again

2008-05-26T08:00:00.000-05:00

By David Harrison
Sports Fan

Man, did you hear the news about the NFL collective bargaining agreement? That the NFL owners might stage a lockout in 2011? That would be, quite possibly, the worst thing that's ever happened to my professional sports world.

We've already been at this stage in life, when Major League Baseball had a strike in 1994. My world came crashing down when there was no World Series, and I remembered how angry I felt. I told myself I would never watch another MLB game again. I ended up going back on that promise, but I did boycott Spring Training in 1995 successfully.

But if the NFL decided to lockout, I know I would never watch pro football again. I would be too heartbroken, smashed by this game that I love so much. These people run an entertainment business, and they reap millions of dollars every year, but they're going to shut out the little guy so they can get some wording right on a contract? You'll be sorry NFL, when you have a work stoppage. You'll never get me back.

Sure, I'll have to find other things to do on my Sundays once the NFL returns -- maybe picnics with the wife and kids in the fall and maybe I'll go snowmobiling with my buddies in the winter. I might even go to church. I'll live without that rush of anticipation as I jump out of bed each morning, and I'll be just fine without StatTracker whirring and giving me up-to-the-instant updates on my fantasy team. That stuff is all poisonous to the mind, anyway. Maybe my wife is right.

It will be just like baseball, when all those fans vowed they would never come back. Look at baseball now -- completely dormant because of all those fans they put off more than a decade ago. The game will never recover.

Neither will the NFL. There will be no gathering of 20-somethings to share beers and Doritos on Monday nights. There will be no packed stadiums with crazy lunatics who began drinking at 8 a.m. There will be no merchandise empire or sports bars filled to the brim with crazy drunken fans. There may be no drinking, period. It's just going to be another game, on par with hockey or soccer. I'd venture a guess that maybe one-tenth of American males will know who's leading the division on a given Sunday in November.

Not only that, but they're going to get rid of the salary cap, which will totally ruin football just like baseball. Can you imagine if there was no competitive balance? Where teams like the Patriots and Cowboys succeeded every year, and teams like the Bills and Texans struggled year-in, year-out? That would be devastating to the game.

It's all very disgusting, and I feel my fandom is in jeopardy just by them opting out of the contract and even making this an issue. You're on parole, football. If you perform a lockout, you're going to be locked away forever.

Pick me, OJ

2008-05-23T08:00:00.002-05:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Name: Charles Xavier "DeJuan" Curtis C3Po
Hometown: The City of Angels, CA

Objective:
Get my hands on a fine position within OJ Mayo's inner circle now that the high-flying wunderdawg has decided to select some new friends. Willing to run errands and such, and unafraid to be called part of a "posse."

Summary of Achievements
Flotsam Media
2006-present: Fly scribe. Undercover brother journalism investigation of 2006 Olympics, the Barry Bonds shit, the Winter baseball meetings, and some hockey. Developed ability to irritate other media types. Generated large palette of adjectives and nouns, so if you need someone to tell that camera guy where he can stick it and you want it to be colorful, I'm your man.

West Coast Wonderland Tour
2004-2006: Supporting act (technical title: "roadie"). Hung out with several hip hop legends on tour across America. Would have held a more hands-on role, were it not for freak pyrotechnics accidents caused by a slight, tiny oversight on my part.

Mooch
2002-2004: Saw the countryside. Mostly lived in assorted basements. Blogged.

Experience
2007-present
Watched a bunch of your games on TV. Developed strong dislike for OJ Mayo haters. Coined term "No Holding the Mayo" in the national blogosphere. Bitches, I'm like a big deal on the web.

2007
Started paying attention to college basketball. Cool shit.

2000-2002
Propensity for being fly developed, worked with large crowds. Brokered endorsement deals here and there. I've already made some calls to Miracle Whip, and they are totally interested in working something out.

1993-1997
Junior varsity basketball, Lake Elsinore High School, San Diego, CA

Education

2000-2004
School of Hard Knocks
Specialization: Sexy

1993-1997
Lake Elsinore High School
San Diego, CA

Selected Publications

"DeJuan Does History or Something," published by Flotsam Media. On-Line. May 10, 2006. http://www.flotsam-media.com/2006/05/dejuan-does-history-or-something.html.

"People I've Impersonated", published by Flotsam Media. On-Line. March 12, 2008. http://www.flotsam-media.com/2008/03/people-ive-impersonated.html.

Go European or go home

2008-05-22T08:00:00.003-05:00

By Isiah Thomas
NBA Mastermind

How very exciting that my hometown Chicago Bulls have been granted the first overall pick in this year's NBA Draft. I was hoping that my current team, the New York Knicks, had done enough in the regular season to merit the top pick, but I was disappointed when lady luck did not smile upon our franchise, which has been hit with some bad luck over the past few years.

I'd like to think if I hadn't traded all my draft picks the past couple years, I would have made some franchise-changing successes. If I presided over the Bulls -- say someone gave me a phone call and asked me to be their head coach -- then I know what I would do this year.

A lot of people are simplifying this draft down to two players -- Derrick Rose and Michael Beasley. Both are nice players, but I think some outside-the-box thinking is always a good idea when you're trying to turn your franchise around. You have to see potential where others have not found out, like in Eddy Curry or Jared Jeffries. You have to stick your neck out there to have success.

So rather than go with the obvious consensus selections, I submit another name to you, Chicago. Danilo Gallinari.

Foreign players aren't often as glamorous as the stateside guys, but there is some very simple logic here. My good friend Joe Dumars had the No. 2 pick not that long ago and had to choose between a European superstar and a college freshman who had just come away from playing in the national title game. He chose Darko Milicic -- and immediately won the NBA Championship that year. That's what it's all about. I salute Joe Dumars for making the call.

I urge Chicago to do the same. You obviously can't use the overall top pick on a guard like Rose, and there are just some non-specific things I don't like about Beasley. But Gallinari has the full package, and I think the Bulls would be wise to take my advice.

Take it from me. I drafted David Lee. Call me, John Paxson.

Whose No-Hitter is Awesomer?

2008-05-21T08:00:00.003-05:00

By Jim Abbott
One-Armed Man

On September 4, 1993, I had one arm.

But that didn’t stop me from no-hitting the Cleveland Indians while wearing the New York Yankees pinstripes. You have to admit, that’s pretty impressive. I had ONE ARM and still worked nine innings without allowing a hit.

Jon Lester has a great story, don’t get me wrong. The dude overcomes cancer to throw a no-hitter for the Red Sox, and good for him. Nice kid, etc. But they have relays and benefits and galas and all kinds of stuff to raise money for cancer. You don’t see anybody raising money for kids with stubby arms. Hell, George Steinbrenner actually said it was an unnecessary distraction in 1993 when I was visiting disabled kids in the hospital!

So no offense to Jon Lester, but my no-hitter was way cooler. Way more interesting. I HAVE ONE ARM! I’d shake hands with you, but I can’t. Doesn’t mean you can hit my curveball.

Somewhere along the way, the world stopped caring about the New York Yankees. It used to be that they got all the coverage, but now it’s all about the Boston Red Sox. So when Lester does his thing, ESPN can’t stop talking about it. How many times have you see Jacoby Ellsbury make the diving catch, or Alberto Callaspo strike out to end the game, and it has barely been 24 hours?

Who is Alberto Callaspo anyway? These are the Royals. When I threw my no-hitter, I dominated guys like Kenny Lofton, Carlos Baerga, Albert Belle, Manny Ramirez, Jim Thome and Sandy Alomar, Jr. And Felix Fermin.

I HAVE ONE ARM!

By Dwight Gooden
Doc Feel Good

On May 14, 1996, I wasn’t exactly in my heyday. I did most of my damage before I turned 21 years old, in fact, accumulating something like 1,000 strikeouts before I could legally (tee-hee) drink. Look at my numbers in 1985, when I had 24 wins, 268 strikeouts and a 1.53 ERA. Hello, those numbers are insane! It was shortly after that when I also went insane. Thanks to cocaine.

Eric Clapton said it best when ne noted that cocaine, she don’t lie, and she sure as hell didn’t want me to keep playing baseball. I was spending time with my favorite lady when I missed the Mets’ World Series victory parade in 1986. Relationships are hard, man, and sometimes you gotta make sacrifices. I’d say I sacrificed a lot to be with coca cola.

I almost got my ass released in April of 1996 because I was pitching so badly in one of my comeback attempts, but then I no-hit the Seattle Mariners at Yankee Stadium. I sure as hell hadn’t thrown a no-hitter when I was young and awesome, but here I was – an old man who just wanted a hit, and yet threw nine innings without a single one. That’s legendary stuff, folks. Way better than Jon Lester’s story.

Since Lester pitches for the Red Sox, ESPN is behaving like he just saved the world or something. I know he had cancer and all, but they’ve got incredible medicine for that sort of thing. For me, the medicine WAS the issue. It’s hard to overcome your problems that way.

I wish ESPN paid more attention to other teams in baseball – like the Yankees.

By Nolan Ryan
Owns Robin Ventura

I threw seven.

Dakota's finals preview

2008-05-20T08:00:00.002-05:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Charles Barky is not going to gamble anymore! But Charles Barky loves to gamble. What if he goes sad because he can't gamble, and then he stops keeping it fresh? Mommy says I shouldn't eat the fruits in our fridge that aren't fresh. I don't listen to mommy very much.

I love Charles Barky, and I will also give up something I like to do to show how much I love him! Peeing. I will pee again when Charles Barky gambles again.

Even if Charles Barky is sad, this is my favoritest time of the NBA season, because there are only four teams left. Gregg Popovich and his silly face will take on Kobe Bryant, who mommy doesn't like because he never shares. And in the other games, it's a bunch of little leprechauns (I love leprechauns) against the Pistons! The Pistons are there every year. Daddy says it's easy to win every year when you're the 16-year-old repeating second grade. He thinks the Eastern Conference is in second grade. I wish they really were, because it would be cool if Anderson Varejao came to my math class. Crazy hair!

Tim Duncan is boring. He doesn't make me go whoop like Chris Paul. Boooooo, Tim Duncan. Stop being so boring.

So I am cheering for Kobe Bryant and the leprechauns. But I will show you who will win:

Guards: You know that guy Rondo? I bet he's related to Waldo Geraldo Faldo from Family Matters. Did I do that? Urkel makes milk come through my nose. The Pistons have Chauncey Billups, and he hurted himself. You can't be sore against Rondo! Or Ray Allen or that guy named The Truth. Advantage: Celtics. In the other series, Kobe Bryant is a guard. Advantage: Lakers.

Centers: Tim Duncan is boring and smells like poo. The Lakers have POW POW POW Gas-all, and everyone wants Gas right now because it's so expensive. Advantage: Lakers! In the other games, silly Rasheed and his bald head is pretty good, but Kevin Garnett drinks Gatorade! I like grape the best. Advantage: Celtics

Forwards: Kobe Bryant could be a forward if he wanted. Advantage: Lakers. In the other games, the Celtics have Leon Powe! POWE POWE POWE. He's like Pow Gas-all, but not as good because he has a silent letter. I hate those. Advantage: Celtics.

So the winners will be Kobe Bryant, and the Celtics. I have drunken lots of Gatorade, and I don't know how much longer I can be on Charles Barky's side. Gamble soon, Charles Barky!

I'm (expletive) sorry

2008-05-19T18:36:00.002-05:00

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Men normally don't admit their wrong. That's the way it's been done for 100 years, and no pansy umpire is going to change evolution.

But I had a strange sensation when I watched Bob Davidson use a series of F-Bombs to explain how he completely (bleeping) blew a call on Sunday Night Baseball, where he disallowed a home run. He did that because he was a moron, and does not know what a foul pole looks like.

Of course, the Mets still won by nine runs and the two that they missed out on because of Bob Davidson didn't really matter. It's only newsworthy because it's the annual media sploogefest known as New York vs. New York. My days of sploogefest have long since passed me by. I'm lucky just to urinate pain-free these days.

This odd apology has given me new perspective. After all, I'm going to die someday, and my kids aren't going to get anything close to the sum of money they expect. I do love stringing them along, however, as they politely come visit me every Sunday and pretend like they're all interested. Fuckers.

With the last laugh already written on a legal document, I might as well use this opportunity to apologize for all those times through the years I've been wrong. Allow me to use Bob Davidson as my beacon of contrition.

1920: I'm sorry, Harry Frazee, that I told you to sell that one fat guy to the Yankees so you could finance your Broadway show. I still maintain you can't pass up a chance at Broadway, but I concede that the fat guy was probably the wrong guy to trade. I (expletive) blew that one.

1969: I'm sorry, my beloved Colts, for getting that punk Joe Namath drunk during the week of the big game. I thought we were in good shape when he opened his big yap and started talking about guarantees. Nobody (expletive) feels worse about that than me.

1983: I'm sorry, Portland. You probably shouldn't have paid me all that money to be a consultant prior to the NBA Draft. I knew that kid from North Carolina was good, but if you had seen Sam Bowie play, you would have gotten that tingling feeling like I did. I think it was Bowie who caused all that. Anyway, I'm a (expletive) stick and totally (expletive) that up.

1989: I'm sorry, baseball. It was a very dark period in my life, and I happened to be using a whole lot of fantastic anabolic steroids so at least my body was bitching, even if my mind was not. I should have never invited Jose Canseco to my grandson's bat mitzvah. (Expletive)! I (expletive).

1997: I'm sorry, Evander Holyfield. I needed the money and paid your trainer to sprinkle some seasoned salt on your ear, hoping it would drive Mike Tyson into a furious rage of awesomeness. I wasn't exactly sure what it would do, but I can promise you that wasn't the intended effect. If I wasn't such a (expletive) (expletive), the world would be a better (expletive) place.

2003: I'm sorry, Chicago Cubs. I had a bad case of the runs when I was watching Game 6 of the NLCS at Wrigley Field, and I told this nerdy punk kid that he could sit in my seat down the left field foul line. I was in the can for 25 minutes. When I went in, the Cubs were on their way to the World Series. When I came out, everything smelled like shit. (Series of expletives). Also, (expletive).

Who needs Goliath?

2008-05-15T23:32:00.000-05:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Bitches, I was on the edge of my damn seat Wednesday night watching the elimination episode of American Idol. Dog, I love me some Syesha Mercado, but I would be damn pissy if my boys the Davids -- David Archuleta and David Cook -- did not make the big finale next week. They couldn't be more different dudes -- the Disney-loving 17-year-old shrimp cocktail (non-alcoholic of course -- boy won't be hitting the sauce for another four years) and the seasoned bartending rock dude. It's the clash of the damn titans! We're all gonna die!

So who is America's favorite David? There are so many other Davids who deserve consideration for that shit.

1. David Beckham. Y'all, he plays some game that nobody gives two shits about, but can you imagine how many times he has heard that shitty Spice Girls song "Spice Up Your Life?" That's hardcore, bitches. Can't believe he hasn't killed a man yet.

2. David Ortiz. Big Papi! According to my massive research, that's French for "Large Patriarch."

3. Dave Winfield. Remember the good old days of baseball, when all the best dudes were skinny? Man, what did they eat for breakfast before protein milkshakes got invented?

4. David Padgett. Well what do you want from me? I scanned all the Greatest Damn Athlete lists I could find, and there just aren't that many athletic famous Daves out there. For some reason, I just got hungry for barbecue.

5. David. Dog, put on some damn clothes! Yo, any dudes out there interested in feeling better about themeselves? This David is considered a work of art, and he ain't exactly Santonio Holmes.

Honorable mention: David Chappelle (funny as shit!), David Letterman (not funny as shit), Davy Crockett (furry damn hat), David Wright (good at baseball, probably should be up there instead of Padgett), Dave Roberts (fast and old).

A tribute to Annika Sorenstam

2008-05-14T08:26:00.003-05:00

By David Harrison
Sports Fan

Like most sports fans, I was stunned yesterday when Annika Sorenstam announced her retirement from professional golf. At just 37, many say that she still had a few good years left in her.

There's no doubt she's had a tremendous impact on the world of sports. I'll never forget that one time she made a putt in that tournament back in 2001, or maybe 1999. I'm pretty sure it helped her win a tournament, or finish in the top 10.

And no doubt you've heard about those times she won a major tournament, beating out other similarly talented golfers for the title of whatever it was that she won.

I still remember the day, back in late 90s, when I was flipping around the channels on a weekend afternoon and I saw Sorenstam smiling and hoisting some sort of trophy above her head. I bet that victory made her feel really, really good about herself.

And who could forget her incredible, come-from-behind victory against Lisa or Dawn in a particularly important summer tournament? I clearly recall seeing that highlight on Sportscenter the next day.

Of course, I applaud Sorenstam for leaving on her own terms. It sounds like she still wins some tournaments, so I imagine she still can hit the ball. Of course, it is always better to go out while still playing well, rather than wait until your skills have declined precipitously. Smart move, Annika. You always were probably pretty smart.

So today, let's all toast Annika Sorenstam. Toast her for her incredible drive to repeatedly enter golf tournaments, show up, and often perform well. Toast her for her easy demeanor, since I don't recall any egregious off-the-course problems. Toast her for his signature shot, the one that she could do really well pretty consistently and helped her over the course of her career. Toast that swing, which I'm guessing was probably pretty nice, since I remember her winning some tournaments.

It's hard to win golf tournaments if you suck. And since Sorenstam won some tournaments, she definitely didn't suck.

Congratulations on a job well-done, Annika. Enjoy your retirement.

Shop Until You're On Top

2008-05-13T14:22:00.004-05:00

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Good value is everywhere, if you know where to look.

I can tell you if you get something for full price at Kohl's, you've probably done something wrong. If you haven't at least considered eBay before buying something at an antique depot, you're doing your purse a great disservice. If you don't hit at least 17 garage sales per summer season, then not only are you a bad shopper, but also an uneighborly bitch.

Shopping is an essential component of any good life, and I applaud the way the Florida Marlins are able to get good deals for virtually no money at all. They're spending 21 million on their team -- far less than the Yankees are paying Alex Rodriguez to sit on the disabled list -- and they've produced one of the best records in baseball thus far.

They are America's discount darlings, and a great template by which a good shopper can base her decision making. After all, expensive goods (Barry Zito, Andruw Jones, Eric Gagne) seldom bring happiness, especially when they are unceremoniously ripped to shreds by the family pet.

Sidebar. There is a new bassett hound -- available for free -- at the local humane society. Now that's a bargain. She responds to the name "Rosalita" and "get away."

However, when a person makes a bargain purchase, they can't help but feel proudly attached to their goods. I have made the mistake of going fancy, buying an expensive blouse only to discover a massive flaw in the stitching on the back. This is akin to what happens everytime someone buys Mike Hampton. But I didn't really like the sweather anyway. On the other hand, the gorgeous pants suit I found at Sally McNee's garage sale is one of my favorite items, and it was only 10 dollars. We'll call it the Rule 5 Garage Sale, and we'll call the pants suit Dan Uggla.

Obviously, sometimes it's about being ahead of the curve. Nobody thought those mosquito alarms (with the torturous sound that can only be heard by young people) were ever going to amount to anything, so I bought one online for 20 dollars. Now, I'm encouraging all the women on the block to get one, but they have to pay through the nose. I knew those things would eventually catch on, allowing women like me everywhere to get a midday nap while forcing the children to stay outside, rain or shine. This is like buying Hanley Ramirez. He's useful to no end -- maybe invaluable -- but if you get him before he becomes expensive, you're really doing yourself a favor.

Shoppers also never take a day off. Sure, the Florida Marlins may only have 5,000 or so people at each game, but that's because the smart fans are out pounding the pavement, looking for that next deal. No good shopper is satisfied with what they already have in their sanctuary at home. It's a hunter-gathering society.

While you're out scoffing at the malls of America and instead finding your deals at smaller, better places (or Wal-Mart), think of the Florida Marlins.

Joba Chamberlain creates new words

2008-05-13T10:16:00.004-05:00

ESPN has apparently invented a new word to describe middle reliever Joba Chamberlain, the darling of the network.

The word is "expessive." It appears that ESPN has combined the demeanor of the reliever (expressive) with their own coverage of him (excessive).

I applaud ESPN's continuing innovation.

King of nothing!

2008-05-09T09:17:00.001-05:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

Nike (SWOOSH!) says I am a WITNESS, but if I was called to testify, the prosecution would be very disappointed, cuz I ain't seen NOTHING from LeBron James!

I've got my right hand on the Bible and I solemnly swear that Mr. French-For-The-Bron has not made a single shot since this round of the playoffs began! OBJECTION! No, better yet, REJECTION -- as in the Cleveland playoff chances! Have you EVER SEEN LEBRON SO BAD? He's pleading NO CONTEST.

Someone tell the people to stop smoking at the Boston Garden! It's so hazy!

SMACK THAT GAVEL, JUDGE, and declare your verdict: LeBron is past his prime! That's right, it's over. The guy is just too old now, I mean LOOK AT HIM, HE'S FORTY and has all that chest hair and it's somebody else's time now. THIS IS MY TESTIMONY. I SWEAR TO TELL THE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

I tell you what I am a WITNESS for -- CHRISTOPHER PAUL! He's amazing! When does he get a multi-gajillion dollar Nike contract and a bunch of crazy shoes? He's the GREATEST POINT GUARD EVER, according to some former player on ESPN, and he's got the Spurs on the ropes in the West. And who cares about the Eastern Conference anyway? As they say in court, the East is IMMATERIAL EVIDENCE -- cannot be admitted into court! It's all about the WILD WILD WESTERN.

King James can't be king of the court (HAHA, DOUBLE MEANING) if Paul is in session. He would be MVP if not for Kobe-Won-Kinobe (STAR WARS REFERENCE! -- Kobe has the FORCE!), and LeBron is just some guy on some irrelevant team. I PLEAD THE FIFTH! I MOVE FOR RECESS. v

A-Rod sucks at public relations

2008-05-08T09:35:00.002-05:00

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

God damn it, A-Rod.

I've spent the last several years defending you against critics, telling them that they had you pegged all wrong. I said they couldn't possibly know you. They don't know how you tick.
But still, you kept doing things to embarrass yourself. And I kept defending you.

But damn it, man. Passing out during the birth of your kid? What the hell? That's the last straw. You're dead to me.

See, I'm not sure you're aware of this, but there is a thing called public relations. It helps control how you are viewed in the public eye. Your image.

When you slap at Bronson Arroyo's glove, or talk about how you and Derek Jeter don't sleep over anymore, or get caught hanging around with burly strippers, or pass out during fucking childbirth, it hurts your image.

LeBron James understands this. His handlers carefully control his image and his likeness. He's a brand right now. When people think of LeBron James, they think of a cool badass who dominates the game. When they think of you, they picture a pretty boy passed out on a tile floor while his wife gives birth.

You and LeBron both play your sports at incredibly high levels. So why the difference in public perception?

Because you suck balls at public relations.

Back in the 1980s, during a brief respite from journalism, I worked in the PR world. I had just been fired from the San Jose Mercury News for stealing the break-room fridge, and was looking for a new gig. Thanks to an old connection, I landed at Nike.

At the time, Nike was known as a running shoe company. That was their niche. But I barged in and told Nike that no one gave a shit about Steve Prefontaine and running. They nearly threw me out, but then I told them -- sign Michael Jordan. Sign that rookie from North Carolina and let's build a shoe for him.

They listened.

So we created the Air Jordan line. In fact, I designed the first shoe. I decided that Spike Lee was the perfect complement for Jordan's first television commercials. I said we should pony up the cash to get these ads on prime-time TV.

The ads were a huge hit. Kids loved them, and begged for the shoes. I remember a meeting I had with him, where I told him he needed to keep his image squeaky clean. And if he did, parents would embrace him as a role model for their kids.

He listened, and the Jordan brand took off. The man knew how to market himself. He was savvy. People adored him. Eventually, the man became the second recognizable face in America, behind Jesus Christ.

All because of me, really.

But that's beside the point. The point is that you, A-Rod, need to get some PR help. I'm available, should you need my services. I can also negotiate deals for you, cook great Lebanese food, and make balloon animals that look like genitalia. Contact me for an all-inclusive package.

Remember "Be Like Mike?" That was my idea. And really, who would actually want to be like A-Rod at this point?

Stop looking like a douchebag, you douchebag. Get an image.

Call Marv today!

Bury Barry. Bitches.

2008-05-07T06:00:00.001-05:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Are you a hippy? If so, you're probably damn annoying.

Let me give you some advice, hippy. Stay out of San Francisco.

Bitches, none of those tooty-fruities in the Golden Gate City want any more hippies in their village, cuz Barry Zito has ruined the fun for everyone. Dawg, it is cute and adorable that you're a zen master and wakeboarder and guitarist and shit when you're also throwing the craziest curveball in baseball. But when you're grooving 84 mile-per-hour slowpitch softballs, nobody wants to hear about your inner damn Buddha.

The Giants should probably stop dealing with Barrys altogether, my bitches. They're going to let Dr. Z make his next start after sending his regularly-tattooed ass to the bullpen, even though he didn't stay long. None of this would really matter except for those 7 years and 126 million dollars hanging out on an official piece of paper locked somewhere in some secret vault, probably in some Hindu temple or voodoo cabin.

I wonder if Brian Sabean and Matt Millen hang out once a year for a shitty GM's luncheon. They can invite that guy who runs the Memphis Grizzlies, too, whoever that is. Dog, if I was that bad at my job, and still employed, I would have luncheons every damn day, and I would charge all goods on the company card. I'd still be doing that now, if my purchase of that pink disco ball hadn't raised a red flag on last month's credit card statement. Marv's gonna flip when he sees I bought an alligator before my privileges got revoked.

Bitches, Barry Zito is terrible. He's 0-6, has like a 7.53 ERA and his WHIP is like 1.93. Shit, give me a baseball and I'll keep two dudes off the basepaths per inning. Actually, that's probably a damn lie, but Barry Zito! Get your juju or jobu or whatever together. Jobu loves the curveball, I know that for sure.

Giants ain't even that bad! I mean, don't get me wrong, they're going to lose hella lot of games, but they're better than the two damn teams who tied for the Wild Card last year, and they're only a few Should Have Pitched Some Other Guy Instead of Barry Zito starts away from .500 and shit.

Let that be a lesson, that you can't trust hippies. Always on your damn lawn.

Up here in horsie heaven

2008-05-06T11:47:00.002-05:00

By Barbaro
Martyr

Dear fans,

I write to you once again on the anniversary of my big win in the Kentucky Derby. Can you believe two years have passed since then? Lots of exciting things have happened in my life since then, and I have been enjoying my time in Horse Heaven.

The newest development has been the arrival of a lovely lady in my life. I haven’t known Eight Belles for long, but already I feel a very strong connection. She’s a little younger, of course, but her energy and beauty has brought me great joy. We’re already talking about a life together, perhaps with runs through the endless Horse Heaven pastures, sipping from the gold-rimmed troughs that are filled with mint julep, and maybe even starting a family.

(I kind of missed out on all the fun breeding that was supposed to happen after winning the derby, and now I finally have my chance. Since, you know, there’s no gravity here, it’s kind of cooler than on Earth, anyway).

Otherwise, things are pretty much the same in Horse Heaven. I’ve been supping diligently on my personal salt lick, which remains the size of a 1971 Buick Skylark despite my many fervent lickings. I like to have friendly races with other past Derby winners, gliding effortlessly through the scientifically-perfected field turf. It looks like real grass (and TASTES like real grass), but it’s actually synthetic! Can you believe that?

I never have to sleep, so that gives me ample time to catch up on my favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts, and play a little fantasy football. Since we are granted omniscience here in Horse Heaven – and since you damn well better believe he’s on my fantasy team AND my real team – I can tell you whole heartedly that Marvin Harrison is innocent.

Also, I pee liberally.

I have been reading the Earth-bound newspapers since last Saturday’s race, and I see PETA is already calling for heads to roll. Eight Belles and I share a laugh about that a lot. I’m pretty sure they’re the only organization in the world that actually gets noticed every time they say something, just because what they have to say is so hilariously off base. The only way to make the crazy guy on the street corner stop begging for change is to ignore him. I wonder why America hasn’t done the same thing with PETA.

Seriously, if PETA hadn’t gotten everyone to think that animals had equal rights, maybe my long, agonizing drawn-out death would have been a little shorter. But that’s all water under the bridge. I’m in Horse Heaven now, and it rocks. Just the other day, I was talking to Secretariat about how crazy PETA was, and we both agreed that we could totally go for a gyro with pita bread.

Eight Belles says hi to everyone back home, and wants you to know that she wishes she could have won the race and made a statement for girl power everywhere. Keep your letters coming, little children!

Love,
Barbaro

Like, I guess she liked the Yankees

2008-05-06T06:00:00.001-05:00

By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite

There's like, so many better ways to make a person sorry. Running over them with your car is so 1980s, back in like, the stone age when that pony-tailed man Steven Seagal was popular.

First of all, let me just say that I am deeply saddened that this woman was allowed to roam the streets without some kind of makeover. Like, you know those really old commercials that are like, "friends don't let friends drive drunk." Well, there's also like, "friends don't let friends look like dead witches and talk about the Yankees a lot." Like, that's so unflattering on a woman. And it hurts me that her friends didn't just stand up and say, "oh my God, Ivonne, you are hideous and bad in conversation. Let's go to the spa and do something about it!"

Ew. If I knew how to delete pictures, I so totally would, because that is like a scar to humanity. That hair! Totally unkempt. Hello, Herbal Essences! I wonder if the state of New Hampshire has an Adopt-an-Ugly-Inmate program ... I can totally be of service here. It makes me kind of want to do something good and righteous. If it wasn't prom week, I would SO look into it.

Stop staring at me, bitch!

Secondly, if you really want someone to know like, how much you love your team, there are way better ways to deal with it. You can totally talk about them behind their back, get access to their facebook page and change their interests to "whoring casually," throw eggs at their cars, or pretend that you like them, when really you don't and you just want to stomp on their heart. Oh my god, I just had an epiphany -- can we go back to the facebook thing for a minute? If you can totally steal their password, you can also make their interests say "cheering for the Yankees!" or whatever team they really hate.

Driving over people has like, so many drawbacks. Paint could get smudged, it could like, affect the transition or whatever that's called, or it could cause a flat tire. Hello, I am SO not interested in changing a flat tire. In this dress? My car is way too new and shiny for homicide.

Anyway, I forgot the moral of the story, but school is almost over! Omg, I'm going to have so much fun this summer! Like, I should probably start applying to colleges and stuff.

From the vault: Harvey and Julio

2008-05-05T14:35:00.002-05:00

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Editor's Note: With the official announcement of Julio Franco's retirement, Flotsam's Harvey McGuffin was too verklempt to offer new insights about his favorite baseball player of all time. Since McGuffin can't be sure if it's 2008 or 1998 anyway, we reflect on a past post adoring the late, great Julio Franco.

An event happened yesterday that took me back to a better time, a better place, a better state of mind.

Gone was the talk of steroids, potential asterisks on home run records, any images of Astros pitcher Ezekial Astacio and quibbles over revenue sharing. Instead, in my head, was a simple tune.

Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo DooDooDooDooDooDooDooDoo.

That's the sound of RBI baseball on Nintendo, you punks.

Julio Franco, older than I am and still hitting baseballs out of ballparks, became the oldest man to ever homer in a game when his 47-year-old eternally-young-because-of-voodoo corpse went yard for the New York Mets. He should be collecting social security and taking Sunday drives with his wife down to the flea market, preventing me from speeding up beyond 25 miles per hour on a 35 mph one-lane backroad. But instead, he is showing whippersnappers who weren't even born when he started playing how it's done.

But here he is, a Tuck Everlasting relic from the days of yore, when everyone was small, white, stocky and caught the ball by raising their hands to the sky and praying for the best. It was a time when every struck ball -- fair or foul -- sounded like the highest key of a xylophone. Fans cheered for you no matter which team you played for. And there weren't so many goddamned teams at all! Just eight of them, all good ones.

I remember the way it felt to see Vince Coleman fly up the first base line, unstoppable unless the ball was hit directly to the second baseman. I remember the way Jack Clark was guaranteed to hit a homer with runners on base, or the way nobody could touch a Bobby Grelts fastball. I loved the way players cried and acted momentarily stunned as they committed an error or the way every outfielder scampered with his little legs, showing teamwork with his other fielders as they moved in concert toward the direction of the musical baseball.

This was the golden era. Julio Franco, bless his soul, is a staple of that era and when he dies, probably within the year, he's going to leave a gaping hole in the hearts of throwback baseball fans everywhere, like myself. We salute you Julio, for hearkening back to that time, and for not dying yet.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to prove Mrs. McGuffin wrong when she says the AL All-Stars cannot be beaten by the 1988 Boston Red Sox.

Revving up for summer

2008-05-01T16:30:00.000-05:00

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Spring has sprang and y’all know what that means: the birds are singin’, NASCAR’s in full swing, and baseball’s back.

It also means the weather’s gettin’ warmer and the air’ more humid-er and you know what that means: the sweating of my crotchal and buttal regions significantly increases which leads to uncomfortable chafing and exponentially more butt pimpling.

But that’s besides my point, really. What I’m gettin’ at is that I’m particularly excited this spring and it’s mostly because of how pumped up I am about baseball.

Ya mighta thought that I didn’t like anything but NASCAR and football, as far as sports go. You’d be wrong as gun control. Baseball’s one o’ my most favorite sports. You already know what my most favorite one is, and baseball’s third -- sandwiched between college football and the World’s Strongest Man contests. Fishin’s fifth if you’re wonderin’ how my top 5 rounds out.

But I kinda got away from baseball maybe just a little bit until this year. But somethin’ got my dander up this year. It was this little baseball documentary that I watched right before openin’ day.

It’s this little story about some little summer league in the north (I know, but it was still all right) and it followed this left-handed pitcher from the wrong side of the tracks with a great fastball, no control, some strange European accent, and, judgin’ by his facial expressions, some sort of digestion problem. Seriously, the kid was making constipated faces all through the thing. I can only presume on the ferocity of his farts, but I’m presumin’, by the looks on people’s faces while they were talkin’ with him, that he was cuttin’ some pretty righteous cheese.

If he wants to be accepted in dugouts, then he’s gonna have to stifle that funk a tad. Fartin’s funny, but it’d get old after a while.

Anyway, the movie follows the kid around as he stinks up the summer (on the field and in a 7-foot bubble around hisself) and it was awesome. It hardly feels like a documentary at all, which is good because those usually suck.

There were a lot of subplots, too. One of the more interesting ones was about a guy that likes fat girls. I didn’t see nothin’ wrong with that. I spent my formative years chasin’ fat girls. I didn’t have a choice. Every single girl at my school was pretty fat. At least the ones that would talk to me were. The dude in the documentary woulda been in heaven here because those were some champion eaters. Some of ‘em did with only half their teeth, too. That’s dedication, y’all.

Another interestin’ subplot was about a little Mexican kid that did it with an old lady. I didn’t see the big deal or think anything was wrong with it because you know how them Mexicans fudge their birth certificates. The guy was probably pushin’ 40, which kinda made it a pretty little love story, I think.

Now, I don’t wanna be one of those guys that gives away the end, so I won’t be. I’ll just say that if you wanna get your baseball love-fire re-kindled, then go watch this documentary. I never did catch the name, but I’m sure my description will suffice for any respected video store chain worker person. It had to’ve made a ton of money.

One more thing, if you still ain’t convinced you wanna see it and you’re kinda a pervert, then there was a pretty hot little number in it that chased the pitcher around and, apparently, had no sense of smell. She gets in a bikini at one point and it was danged sexy. And she looks a lot like Momma. Which adds a sense of comfortableness to the sexiness.

Anyway, that’s all I got. Don’t worry about Junior in NASCAR. His win’s comin’ any week now.

Y’all be good.

Carrots derby carrots

2008-05-01T08:44:00.004-05:00

By Big Brown
Horse

Love me some carrots, eating carrots all day thinking about big race, lots of horses and I’m Big Brown thinking about carrots. Carrots. Kentucky Derby driving to Churchill Downs and running all day cuz they’ll give me carrots if I win and roses or something smells nice.

Eight Belles. She the first philly in big race in a long, long time. I wonder what she’s doing later, she’s pretty but not as fast as me. Want to win because (CARROTS!) then they’ll let me get with whole lotta mares and maidens and make Little Brown babies. Love me some lovin. Not sure what the big fuss about Kentucky Derby is, but folks love it and so do I cuz I run fast thinking about oats and wheat and carrots.

Why my name Big Brown anyway? Named after Santonio Holmes. He's not hung like a horse, cuz I’m hung like a horse. Hear that, Eight Belles? Racing against Z Humor and Z Fortune, they brothers or something? They’re gonna team up and try to stop Big Brown, but not worried cuz I’m the fastest horsy in the stable.

Eight Belles looks good in the sunlight. Can’t see at night, else she might look good then, too. Hot mama. Not as fast as me though, cuz I’m Big Brown running and MOTHERFUCKING CARROTS! Stop whipping me, elfboy. I go fast, and you keep whippin.

Hungry.

Grading the draft

2008-04-30T09:24:00.003-05:00

By Murphy Kramer
Punters win championships

Like everyone else, I get excited about the NFL Draft, handing out my grades each year to the teams I felt did best. I’ve been ranking players since 1982 using the Murphy Oliver Kramer System for Intelligent Engineering (MOKSIE), so I get awful irritated when those punks on TV tell me how hard it is to grade out players right now, that we have to wait a few years to really know. Screw that.

The best part of the NFL Draft is the grading process. My particular favorite grading handouts come from Mel Kiper, Todd McShay, CNNSI, The Dallas Morning-News, CBS Sportsline, the USA Today, the Chicago Sun-Times, the Los Angeles Times, Pro Football Weekly, Dave Finn’s Football Bloggy, The Boston Globe, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Drudge Report and Vanity Fair. As an American, my heart swells when I have the privilege of analyzing a longterm investment the second I make my first deposit.

For example, I dusted off my previously-unpublished 2004 draft rundown, and as you can see, the MOKSIE works pretty well. Check out some of my observations:

Buffalo: B-. I think Lee Evans will become a quality big-play receiver, but I have serious questions about J.P. Losman down the road. He’s the type of guy who gets thrown into the mix and gets replaced by some no-name free agent a few years later.

Miami: F. There is just something anonymous about first-round pick Vernon Carey, Will Poole, Tony Bua, Rex Hadnot, Tony Pape and Derrick Pope. I predict that the Dolphins will struggle in the future. They’ll be so bad in a few years that one of their best players will become more well known for a reality television appearance than actual football.

Baltimore: D-. Dwan Edwards and Devon Darling. Too many D’s. They just got another one.

Cincinnati: C. Call me crazy, but I have a bad feeling about running back Chris Perry in the first round. I’m no doctor, but I have concerns about his health. I also am very fond of fourth-round choice Robert Geathers. When they took him, it made me jump out of my seat. From here on out, I will call him Jumpy Geathers, and hope it catches on.

Cleveland: C+. Kellen Winslow is a solid first-round choice, but his fiery demeanor makes me worry that he’s going to do something stupid, like get into a motorcycle accident or something ridiculous. Also, I think Luke McCown is going to be the league’s next big thing.

Pittsburgh: B+. Never a bad thing when you get a guy who has the potential to be your franchise quarterback, like Ben Roethlisberger. I like him and think he can take the team all the way to the Super Bowl. Bold prediction, I realize. Every now and then, you have to applaud a team for their work signing undrafted free agents, as well. There’s this little guy out of North Carolina named Willie Parker, and the Steelers took a good gamble on him.

Houston. Incomplete. When did Houston get a football team?

Indianapolis: C. I know Bob Sanders gets a lot of criticism for being undersized, but I love his heart and motor. I think he might be a player who succeeds surely on willpower and dreadlocks alone.

Kansas City: C. I can’t get inspired by second-round choices Junior Siavii and Kris Wilson, but my pure football instincts tell me that Sammie Parker and Jared Allen will make very nice mid-round selections.

Oakland: D. Robert Gallery will not be all that great for the second overall pick in the draft, mark my words.

San Diego: A. Look, I’m not crazy about the Eli Manning for Philip Rivers trade. In fact, I think Manning’s charisma and spunky charm is evidence that he’s going to lead the Giants to the Super Bowl someday. But it’s not like Rivers is terrible, and even though they were crazy and drafted a kicker (Nate Kaeding) in the third round, I like that pick. I also think Igor Olshansky, Nick Hardwick and Michael Turner were good picks. I have a really good feeling about this draft for the Chargers.

Dallas: C. Julius Jones might amount to something, but the real steal was the seventh round receiver Patrick Crayton out of NW Oklahoma State. I think Jones will be the type of guy that gets hyped for a few years, but ultimately shucked aside in favor of a running back with balls.

Chicago: A. Two words: CRAIG KRENZEL. Genius selection. Otherwise, Tommie Harris, Bernard Berrian and Nathan Vasher will add very nice roster depth.

New Orleans: B-. Devery Henderson has the potential to serve as a team’s No. 2 or three receiver, and first pick Will Smith is named after the Fresh Prince.

Arizona: A. I really like what Larry Fitzgerald brings to the table, and I think Karlos Dansby was a smart second-rounder. I also think tackle Darnell Dockett will make the Pro Bowl someday. Great draft, but eventually, the team is going to have to pay Fitzgerald and risk alienating their other players. They should trade him a couple years down the line.

St. Louis: B. Even though he was the 24th overall choice, I think Steven Jackson is going to be a fantasy football must-have in a couple years. Oregon State produced a gem.

Seattle: B-. I think Michael Boulware, Sean Locklear and DJ Hackett will all have better careers than first round pick Marcus Tubbs. Just one of those hunches I get it my bones.

San Francisco: F. Failures. Punter Andy Lee is the best player in this class.

An affair to remember

2008-04-29T08:09:00.005-05:00

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Perhaps the worst part about the Roger Clemens saga is the sheer volume of information. First, the American media insisted on telling us what he was doing with his ass. And now, we are forced to learn what he's been doing with his penis.

Whether or not Roger Clemens was a dirty, naughty, spank-worthy cheater probably has nothing to do with him being dirty, naughty and spank-worthy with a country music singer whose major contribution to the pop culture lexicon was a frightening ditty called "Guys Do It All the Time," in which she outlines gross behaviors often exhibited by men and laments the double standard to which women are held.

The first time I heard that song, I killed a man in fixated agony.

I won't deny flirting from time to time with the dark side -- country music, if you must call it that. During a particularly epic week in the Catskills with Richard VanLandingham, I granted his request to use Lynrd Skynrd as our soundtrack for a steamy Tuesday night. It was a moment of weakness, I suppose, as I had previously vowed only to make love to Slayer or other bands embraced by a committee of gothic gentlemen running the web site hellssoundtrack.com.

But for Roger to spend 10 years with country music makes me seriously question his candidacy for the Hall of Fame.

It also compels me to present my annual Wildly Speculative Sports Affairs, pairing A-List celebrities with A-List sports stars in lusty congress.

1. Joba Chamberlain and Paris Hilton. He is a johnny-come-lately who has been glorified by the media despite a limited base of accomplishments. She is a johnny-come-sleep-with-me who has been glorified by the media despite a limited base of accomplishments. They're like twins. Speaking of twins...

2. Tom Brady and the Olsen Twins. He is a pretty boy superstar quarterback who has already accomplished bedding the best in singular women. Time to up the ante.

3. Tony Romo and Cameron Diaz. He is a heartthrob quarterback with a list of blonds on his bucket list.

4. Ozzie Guillen and J.K. Rowling. He is the major league manager closest to sheer madness, and she is the author of a series of fantastical novels featuring wizards and various other unreal creatures. I feel the attraction should be immediate.

5. Michael Strahan and Heidi Klum. He is a goofy looking black man, and she obviously has a thing for that sort of substance. I wonder if Strahan can sing "Kiss From a Rose" with any level of harmony.

6. Pete Incaviglia and Agatha Moonfry. Come back to me Pete. I admit to my mistakes in my youth, latching on only because I thought you were going to be a superior baseball player with the Montreal Expos, then leaving you because I was stupid and petty as it turned out you were really not very good. Remember when we learned naughty French Canadian expressions together? Remember when you won the World Series in 1993 and we bathed in champagne before you swept me up in your wooly arms and carried me to your bedroom? Even if these things never happened, they nonethless fill my heart with joy.

So, how was the Draft?

2008-04-28T10:59:00.004-05:00

Mel Kiper
Regular Guy

So how did the NFL Draft go?

Normally, as many of you know, I'm on it like Sonic. It's how I made my name. But not this year. Nope, you'll never guess what happened this year: My daughter decided to schedule her wedding for the weekend of the NFL Draft.

Can you believe that?

Out of all the weekends of the year, she decided this weekend was when she wanted to get hitched to that boyfriend of hers. Well, I guess he's her husband now. Whatever.

After everything I've done in my career, working my tail off to get scoops and watch thousands of hours of film, all to make a name for myself, just so I can put food on the table for my family -- this is how she repays me? By setting a wedding date for the NFL Draft? Did she do this to rebel against me?

I bet most of you woke up Saturday and lounged on the couch, eating delicious junk food and watching all the relevant analysis of each player selected. You groaned at certain picks. You ooh'd at others. Oh I bet those crazy Jets did something wacky again.

Well, I didn't get to watch like you did. I spent Saturday morning getting final alterations made on my tuxedo, and running around to make sure that there were enough prawn wontons for the reception. Then I zoomed over to the church and helped lug around flowers to get things in place for the ceremony.

After I gave my daughter away (a bittersweet moment!), I had to get to the reception and mingle with the 300-plus guests in attendance. There was so much talking, I barely had time to eat hors d'oeuvres. I managed to get in the dance with my daughter, pay the DJ and then see the happy couple off on their honeymoon. Finally, I collapsed into bed.

Sunday, we still had dozens of family members left in town, so we had to endure a brunch in the morning, then go for a drive around town so they could see what was new. By the time that was over, it was time for dinner at Fuddruckers. Then I had to drive the grandparents to the airport so they could catch their flight back to Boca Raton.

By the time I got back to the house, the Draft was already over and I had missed everything.

So, what happened? Did Glen Dorsey go to the Rams like I predicted? How far did Brian Brohm fall? Where did Limas Sweed wind up? San Francisco? Philadelphia?

Damn this empty feeling in my stomach. I feel so incomplete and so without purpose. Will my career recover from this? I hope people missed me on Draft Day. I missed you, after all.

Well ... I guess now that the draft is over, I'll just retire to the basement for a while. I've been meaning to catch up on some films. I hear "Juno" was pretty funny.

If you'll still have me, I'd like to talk about the 2009 Draft. I think George Selvie will be a surprise top pick. And watch out for Michael Oher. He's a good one.

Well. I guess I'll catch you guys later. Have a good year.

Bye.

I want to be a reverend, too

2008-04-28T09:56:00.001-05:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

I like David Vobora, even though he is from Idaho. I don't like potatoes, and they are from there. I bet David Vobora eats a lot of them.

David Vobora is a linebacker, and he was the very last pick in the NFL Draft yesterday. He is Mr. A-Reverend! I think that means he gives lots of speeches about Jesus and doing unto others.

Not only is he Mr. A-Reverend, but he also gets to to go California for a week, all because he was the last pick in the draft! MICKEY MOUSE LIVES THERE! And also, there are earthquakes, which are really scary! The Mr. Reverend at our church says they are caused by men who like other men. I wonder what Mr. A-Reverend thinks about that.

Last week, when we played kickball, I was picked last and that made me sad. I am really good at kickball the other kids don't like me, and nobody wants me on their team because I try to kick home runs all the time and always end up kicking it back to the pitcher. I also kick kids in the privates when I am playing first base and they run by me on their way to second base. I cried. Then I told them some things that I heard my daddy say to the neighbor once, and they called mommy.

But David Vobora was picked last and people love him! He has to play for the Rams, which is stinky, but I think it is nice that people want him to be happy. Sometimes when you are young, things are different than when you are old. Maybe being last in kickball is bad now. But in the future, people will like me because I am last! Mr. A-Reverend says the last shall be first and the first shall be last! Yay.

I don't know if David Vobora is any good at football, but someday I hope he comes to talk at our school about how cool it is to be Mr. A-Reverend, and he can play kickball with us. And then I won't be the last one anymore.

Let the Madden Curse reign supreme

2008-04-25T09:51:00.006-05:00

Pigskinius
Football God

I am Pigskinius, Football God! Ye shall feel my wrath!

For years, one of my duties has been to properly administer punishment against horrendous football commentator John Madden by smiting he who is bestowed with cover honors on the annual Madden video game. I have fulfilled my duties with precision and great success. But now! Now comes an attempt to thwart my authority. And I am angry.

This year, the creators of the video game have adorned Brett Favre on the cover, even though Favre recently proclaimed his intent to retire. How can I ensure the Madden Curse if the man has already promised to never play again? It's a conundrum that defies the Cosmos, and for this, there will be consequences.

The world is not in balance as long as John Madden is allowed to speak into a microphone, where he insults the game of football with exasperated expressions and meaningless mumbo jumbo. The Football Gods are most displeased that he is allowed to desecrate our favorite game.

The subversion shown by the video game community will not be tolerated. Each year, I expect a sacrifice to be made on the Madden cover, but this year is a significant skimming of penance. And so my vengeful wrath shall be felt in totality.

You do not want to isolate a single player to feel the Madden Curse? Then I shall find a way to bring suffering to each of the league's 25 best players, as I deem them to be. Pay heed, league executives, for you will need to address your future needs in this weekend's NFL draft. The following players will be stricken with season-damaging ailments:

LaDainian Tomlinson (broken ankle), Petyon Manning (concussion), Champ Bailey (broken fibula), Ed Reed (pulled hamstring), Shawne Merriman (drug suspension), Brian Urlacher (wounded in Lance Briggs dragracing fundraiser), Antonio Gates (stabbed by Philip Rivers), Troy Polamalu (hair fracture), Julius Peppers (achy back), Tom Brady (remarkably persistent case of syphilis), Jason Taylor (teninitis caused by dancing), Walter Jones (ACL), Larry Fitzgerald (broken kneecap suffered in attack by Anquan Boldin), Orlando Pace (foot fracture), Osi Umenyiora (torn knee cartilage), Carson Palmer (Chad Johnson), Reggie Wayne (broken hand), Brian Westbrook (broken ankle), Terrell Owens (head explosion), Kevin Williams (broken arm), Patrick Kerney (fractured sternum), Mike Vrabel (ingrown toenail), Randy Moss (arrested for murder), Reggie Bush (broken ribs suffered during hit by Mario Williams) and Steven Jackson (playing for Rams).

You will learn from your misdeeds. I am Pigskinius!

I'd rather be young than beautiful

2008-04-24T00:18:00.004-05:00

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

I remember when beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and I was the beholder. You didn't have to have a smoking body and nice hair to win an automobile race.

But times have changed on Harvey McGuffin. Man invented awful things like the Inerweb, satellite radio, Starbucks coffee and televised poker. People like Harvey -- purists who love this great land -- were forgotten and pushed aside simply because they favored "old school" arrangements, like no women outside a 20-foot radius of the kitchen. How can that be closed minded? It's science, dammit.

Along comes Danica Patrick. Now, to be an important racecar driver, you have to look like this:

Wow that's kind of better looking than I was imagining. Still, how I long for the days of Emerson Fittipaldi.
Look at that man. That winning smile. What Emerson didn't have in good looks, he had in desire and heart and determination. You hear me, Danica? Just because you have a tremendous, angular body and happen to drive fast enough to win a race (back in my day, we called that "unladylike") doesn't mean you can win my heart away from Emerson, a two-time winner of the Indy 500 and legitimate Brazilian.

I'm so sick of these teary post-race exchange of feelings. Quit crying, you're a racecar driver! You're supposed to be tough and covered in gooey, slippery grease, talking about how some gidget worked better than expected and some crewman made a great call not to gas up until after a certain mile marker. You're not doing any of that. You're looking like this:

Jesus Mary and Joseph. That's not possible, is it? I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'll be a racecar fan no matter how pretty the faces ... I don't need to be swayed by that sexy, gorgeous hot mama and her really fast ride. ... I don't have to listen to you .... siren.

What would Emerson Fittipaldi do if he were here today? He would be outraged, of course! Outraged that the great American sport of racing overseas has been tarnished by whatever it is that's going on in the above picture. And also, in this one:I wouldn't have to ... I can't even stand to think of ... open wheel racing ... go vroom ... Forgive me, Emerson Fittipaldi.

I invented mock drafts

2008-04-23T06:30:00.004-05:00

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

The NFL Draft is this weekend, which means you've probably spent much of your week wading through the various mock drafts all over this Internet. Well, if you love them, you can thank me. If you hate them, you can go frost my ballsack.

See, back in 1973, when I worked at the Dallas Morning News -- before being fired for conducting a 14-person orgy in the newsroom -- I got the idea to try and predict how the picks would fall in the NFL Draft. This was before Mel Kiper made his pathetic living from forecasting draft picks. I paved the way.

It was just a flippant column, but I did a little research and ended up nailing 22 of the 26 picks that year, including the surprise pick of that Mormon, Burgess Owens, to the Jets. It was a big hit with people, and the concept caught on.

That was the last mock draft I wrote. But this year, my head filled with remembrances of orgies in newsrooms, I decided to forecast the top 10 picks. Here they are, hombres.

1. Dolphins: Glen Dorsey (DT, LSU). All this blithering talk about Jake Long, blah blah blah, contract details announced, blah blah blah. Bill Parcells is an enigma, so go ahead and put me in the camp of believing it when I see Long's name escape the thinly-parsed lips of Roger Goodell. I know the Dolphins like the Long brothers here, but I think they're going to go with the black guy because they'll value "talent" over "work ethic."

2. Rams: Jake Long (OT, Michigan). He's a big motherfucker, and I hear he trains by dragging tractors around by his johnson. He'll anchor that line for a decade. Only a 5.17 40 time though? Weak.

3. Atlanta: Matt Ryan (QB, Boston College). In 1983, while with the Tacoma Tribune, I wrote a feature story about a 6th grade boy with cerebral palsy who was allowed to play quarterback for one series for his Pee Wee football team. It was heartwarming and inspiring, and the boy was a better quarterback than Joey Harrington. Ryan is the pick here.

4. Raiders: Chris Long (DE, Virginia). Howie Long always seemed like one of those guys who, if I were a woman, I'd really enjoy getting to know. Great smile, big hands. He really seems like he'd know how to take care of you.

5. Chiefs: Ryan Clady (T, Boise State). Gotta be an offensive lineman here. Carl Peterson is a dummy, but he ain't dumb enough to not fix his offensive line.

Scratch that. They'll probably draft Darren McFadden to back up Larry Johnson. Please note that this is my second giggle-inspiring reference to "johnson" in this column.

6. Jets: Vernon Gholston (DE, Ohio State).

7. Patriots: Keith Rivers (LB, USC). Oh my God, what a steal, the Patriots are so much smarter than everyone else by absolutely snowing the rest of the goddamn NFL with their great pick of Keith Rivers! They could draft Maria Sharapova and people would splooge all over New England's outside-the-box thinking. There is so much to work with in that last sentence, especially when Bill Belichick's video camera is introduced into the equation.

8. Ravens: Darren McFadden (RB, Baltimore). Same thing that happened to the Vikings last year, with McFadden being too good to pass up despite already having a strong running back in-house. Except McFadden's no Adrian Peterson. He's like Reggie Bush, only not quite as fast, and with more attitude problems, and a less-powerful running style and some other bullshit. Not as sweet a ride.

9. Bengals: Sedrick Ellis (DT, USC). Jesus Christ, mock drafts are boring to write. I can't imagine having to read this shit. What are you people still doing here?

10. Saints: Mike Jenkins (CB, South Florida). Who the hell are you?

Oh my God, I can't take it anymore. You people who update mock drafts every week from November on need to be shot. You can't find anything better to do with your time?

I'm exhausted just from the 10 minutes it took to guess on these picks. I'm dehydrated (which might be because of the alcoholism) and I can't stop sweating (which is surely because of the mescaline). But damn you people for this journalistic trend. It was so innocent when I started it, so long ago.

Power rankings, mock drafts, various lists. What happened to journalism? What happened to searching out for stories? Penning prose? Spinning similes? Writing words? Is this what we've come to?!

God help us all.

I'm drunk.

Fuck this. I'm eating a cheeseburger.

2008-04-22T08:23:00.004-05:00

By Prince Fielder
Hungry

All right, fine. I get it. Being a vegetarian was a bad idea.

I remember last year, when I'd fly-out to the warning track, I'd come back to the dugout and my teammates would say, "Should have had one more hot dog before the game, Prince." And we'd all laugh. And then I'd eat a hot dog and hit a homer in my next at-bat.

Now, when I hit it to the warning track and just miss a home run, there is awkward silence when I return to the dugout.

I don't blame my teammates. What are they supposed to say? "Should have had another scoop of hummus, Prince"? Or, "Well, chew on a few more spinach leaves next time, buddy"?

Fuck this. I'm eating a cheeseburger.

That's right. After I finish writing this article, I'm going down to Sobelman's and I'm going to have a big-ass double cheeseburger with a side of buffalo wings. I might even have some chicken strips, too, if I have time.

Then, on my way to the ballpark, I'm going to stop by the drive-through at Culver's and grab a butterburger to tide me over until after the game. I bet I rock the party to the tune of 3-for-4 with two homers and a greasy gapper double.

After the game, I'll probably make a quick stop at Fuddrucker's for a breaded tenderloin and a tall glass of Miller Lite.

No more lazy fly balls to the outfield, or weak grounders to second base. The Prince is coming back. No more popping up hanging curveballs. No more taking shit from Gabe Kapler because he has four times as many home runs as I do. I'll just be like, "Hey Gabe, remember that time you did this?"

Then I'll eat a 20-pack of chicken nuggets from Mickey D's.

Aw yeah, the Prince is coming back. Look out National League, because I'm full of protein, and I'm coming after you.

Basketballs are bouncy

2008-04-21T21:55:00.001-05:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Pau Pau Pau! It's like Batman on TV back before there were computers. POW!

I like Pau Gasol. He is hairy and shaggy and reminds me of that homeless man that we pass every day when mommy walks us to the grocery store. Mommy never lets me go near that man, even though he is really nice and always sings me a song, like "Livin La Vida Loca," "We're An American Band," and "Silver Bells."

I bet Pau Gasol doesn't need spare change like the hobo man, because he gets to play with basketballs and get paid lots of money to drive Kobe Bryant's limousine. The Lakers had a really good day today and beated the Denver Nuggets, who are first place in the league in elevation and thugs.

Remember last year when the Golden Warpeople beat the Dallas Mavericks and Dirk the crazy German was so mad? I think the Golden team will win the whole thing again this year. There are many other exciting things I noticed during the NBA playoffs:

1. Rasheed Wallace is missing hair on the back of his head! That's silly. I hope Richard Hamilton and his scary mask didn't shave Rasheed's head while he was sleeping. I did that to Muffins the Hamster once.

2. Tim Duncan made a 3-pointer! He doesn't make that many, but I don't either, so I think Tim Duncan and I are pretty similar basketball players. The basket is so high up! Daddy says three things need to happen when I try to make a 3-pointer for it to go in. I have to have bending knees, a smooth release off my wrist, and Jesus.

3. LeBron James went boom with a big dunk! I am a witness, but daddy says I will not have to testify, because I am a minor.

4. Lots of coaches were told to go home and never come back. Donnie Walsh did not want Isiah to coach anymore, but Daddy said Donnie Walsh kept Isiah around to be his jester, so he could juggle and sing songs at board meetings. I don't know if Isiah can sing very well, but if he can't, I think the hobo man needs a job. And some blow.

5. It is sad that there will be no more basketballs in Seattle. Mommy says she doesn't care, just as long as there is still Grey's Anatomy in Seattle. All my favorite shows are new again this week! I would have gone super crazy if American Idol wasn't on my TV every week. I am cheering for that little elf named David, who sings a lot about rainbows and hope and ponies!

I can't remember how old I am, either

2008-04-18T09:02:00.004-05:00

Doris Tipton
Grandmother

Good heavens, all of you people. The last 24 hours have shown the picky nature of the human race.

Don't tell me you've never forgotten anything before. I know many of you have forgotten where your keys are, or what you had for breakfast, or your daughter's name at Thanksgiving dinner.

So I want you all to lay off that nice, young Dominican boy who says he didn't know how old he was.

You baseball fans are riding his behind like he's some sort of murderer or something!

Good golly, cut the young man some slack. Personally, I have no idea how old I am. And so I have total empathy for Miguel, or Juan, or whatever his name is.

Besides, he was only saying he's 31 when he's 33. That's nothing! That's a fart in the wind for an old biddy like me.

Each day -- as I drag my creaky ass out of my bed and grab my walker so I can spend the next 10 hours shuffling around this goddamn forsaken "retirement home" what's-her-name put me in after my dear Russell died, as I just bide my time until I die, at which point my children can forever be rid of their guilt-riddled obligation to visit me each Sunday afternoon so they can stay on my good side and collect their inheritance, which I imagine what's-her-name's husband will probably blow on some uptown whore -- I forget how old I am.

People tell me different things. I've heard I was born as early as 1902, the year the very first movie theater in the United States opened. That would make me 106 years old, depending on when my birthday is, which I think is sometime in the late spring, possibly May. But then again, maybe my birthday is in August. Sometimes it seems awful humid around my birthday because my hip flares up to the size of a musk melon.

Then again, I was recently told I was born in 1927, the year of the great Mississippi flood, which would only make me 81 years old.

See? I have no idea how old I am. And none of you baseball fans are futzing around and being concerned about my age So why waste your time with Pedro, or Rafael, or whatever his name is?

Age is just a number, children. Don't let it run your life, because you are only as old as you feel. And today, I feel 174 years old. So leave me the hell alone.

Chasing the Dolly Llama

2008-04-17T09:03:00.002-05:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

I'm pretty sure when those British dudes cloned a mammal for the first time, its name was Dolly Llama. Cool shit, I'm not gonna lie. But dawg, it's not like that had any broader impact on anybody's lives. Ain't no great deep peace and understanding that came from Dolly Llama.

But dude, some of these folks take it all too seriously, cuz they keep talking about the Dolly Llama while chasing the Olympic Torch around the world, protesting and shit. Stupid teenagers. Get a job, hippies!

The Beijing Olympics are upon us this summer, which are not nearly as cool as the Winter Olympics, where there were lots of sexy Italian missies in various forms of undress and plenty of exquisite gateway drugs. Dawg, I'm pretty sure if they catch you with weed in China, you get your foot cut off.

I would be more excited if the summer Olympics had snowboarding. To express my displeasure, I decided to follow around the protesters, hitting up London, Paris and San Francisco. I love it when Marv is too damn pasted on whatever drug is in-season in his garden, that he ends up approving whatever expense account cash I ask for.

I had a really good time. I rapelled down the damn Golden Gate Bridge -- haven't had the pleasure of doing that in at least three years -- and I bedded the fine Victoria Arceneaux at the base of the Arc de Triomphe while traffic whirled around us in the stirring Place d'Etoiles in Paris.

And you thought DeJuan wasn't cultured. Served.

But turns out all these protesters want is some crazy Free Tibet shit. I don't know why Tibet deserves to be free -- I guess he didn't do what he was accused of -- but there sure are a lot of people who want him out. Like that dude Rage Against the Machine wanted out of prison.

But neither Mr. Tibet or the Dolly Llama really inspired me to keep at it. I mean, why hate on the torch? I love fire. Torches, in fact, were an integral part of my epic 1997 Circus of Fire tour, which was the coolest shit on Earth until a minor safety oversight led to the death of two Bengal tigers and seven angry clowns. Thank god the cotton candy machine remained intact.

I did enjoy some of the protester signs, though, including one that showed the Olympic rings as a bunch of handcuffs. Most folks saw that as a statement -- I saw it as inspiration for another magical night with my belle Victoria. Viva La France and shit.

Get your calendars ready

2008-04-16T12:44:00.002-05:00

By Sue Snow
Sandusky Rec Dept. Secretary

Folks gathered in front of the Rec Department office window this morning at 8 a.m. when the official Sandusky Monday Night Men's Softball League schedule was released, as mandated by league commissioner Harvey Wilcox, Jr.

As always, there are several highlights to discuss with this year's schedule, which features 10 teams hungry for a championship. Rec Dept. employee Martha Burgess presented a live blog on www.sanduskyrec.com during this morning's proceedings, and Harvey answered questions online as part of a live two-hour chat.

Unfortunately, we had to share our schedule release with another league, but that didn't dampen our enthusiasm. We went right ahead with the festivities.

Probably the most exciting matchup of the year will pit Bob's Bakery against Fireman's No. 323, in Week 3. As you know, the second week of May is often a rainy one, so there is some concern that this game could get moved to a week after the originally-scheduled regular season. If the Farmer's Almanac is correct and we do get the showers, this would set up one heck of a season finale, against teams that took first and third in last year's standings.

That Battle of David Coulthard will take place in Week 7, when Enetek Systems (having recently fired David after a heavily publicized sexual harassment lawsuit) battles with David's new team, IniPro. David hit .689 last year with 20 home runs in 42 plate appearances, making his offseason move the most significant in the Sandusky Rec Softball League. There's bound to be some bad blood and I, for one, am simply in a tizzy.

Rivers, Johnson and Schlosser and Associates, one year after suffering through several injuries and finishing just 1-9, will return with renewed optimism. They get the featured 9:10 p.m. game next Monday in Week 1, taking on The Watering Hole, which was able to re-assemble a team this year after a series of DUIs cost the team its infield last year, compelling a series of forfeits. Remember that if your team fails to show, you forfeit your 200 dollar deposit, and you also get an angry Sue Snow on the case! Tee-hee-hee.

Sue's Game to Watch: Week 6 -- Bantam Corp vs. Enetek. One week before facing old foe Coulthard, will Enetek look past a Bantam team looking to jump into the league's upper tier? Pitcher Bill Villalobos, who issued only 6 walks last year, returns to Banta.

As always, stay tuned to sanduskyrec.com for updates.

Give away the hardware now!!

2008-04-15T22:31:00.000-05:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

WHAT AN EXCITING SEASON OF BASEBALL. There have been surprisingly bad seasons (DETROIT ROCK CITY), surprisingly good ones (The BIRDS are back in BALTIMORE) and some amazing feats (Some guy putting a jersey in Yankee Stadium! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? Seriously, if Burt ran the world, that would be grounds for imprisonment. I know murderers and rapists are really bad people, but that’s someone who is SERIOUSLY demented).

Now that 12 games or so are in the books, it’s time for the year-end awards!

NATIONAL LEAGUE

MVP: Pat Burrell, Philadelphia. PAT THE BAT, PAT THE BAT, PAT THE BAT. The former No. 1 pick is FINALLY living up to his billing with four homers, four doubles, 13 RBIs and 12 walks in 39 at-bats, good for a .359 average and .528 on-base percentage. YOU CAN’T STOP PAT BURRELL, YOU CAN ONLY HOPE HE TAPERS OFF. He won’t. Also, is Justin Upton the next Albert Pujols? Yes!

Cy Young: Tie (Jake Peavy, San Diego; Ben Sheets, Milwaukee; Brandon Webb, Arizona; Cole Hamels, Phladelphia). I CAN’T CHOOSE. They all have really low ERAs, they all have lots of strikeouts, and they even have a low WHIP, which should please the hippies of the world. More importantly, they each have two or three wins. Cole Hamels has a loss though, so he’s probably disqualified.

Rookie of the Year: Johnny Cueto, Cincinnati. HELLO, 18 strikeouts in two starts before he gave up a walk. The next Juan Marichel, book it!

Manager of the Year: Tony LaRussa, St. Louis. Everyone thought the Cardinals would be super, super bad, and all they’ve done is DOMINATED THE LEAGUE. They’re going to win 113 games this year, and it’s all because of Tony “.093” LaRussa! A toast to the Cards!

AMERICAN LEAGUE

MVP: Joe Crede, Chicago. FOUR home runs and FIFTEEN RBIs, all while having the third largest OPS in the league. I don’t really know what OPS means, but AJ Pierzynski is No. 2, and he’s AWESOME, so it must be a good stat. I think they tried to fire him before the season, but Joe came back bigger and better and stronger to prove all the haters wrong. NOBODY LIKES A HATER.

Cy Young: Brian Bannister, Kansas City. IS IT EVEN A CONTEST? He’s 3-0 with an 0.86 ERA, and last time he pitched, he was forced to wear POWDER BLUE. That’s seriously overcoming obstacles to succeed. Most people don’t even try when they get to KC – they just go there for the BBQ and the opportunity to play where nobody cares about baseball.

Rookie of the Year: David Murphy, Texas. Who is this guy? I BET IT’S DALE MURPHY’S SON. I loved Dale Murphy growing up. He was ambidextrous! Kind of. Also, he’s in the Hall of Fame, I think!

Manager of the Year: The Orioles guy. The Orioles are awesome, and they don’t even need Erik Bedard and his achy breakiness to get there. Also, Jay Gibbons had his suspension thrown out, which will really help them down the stretch!

A dilly of a pickle

2008-04-15T09:00:00.006-05:00

By Michael Beasley
Droopy-Eyed Basketball Wonder

Let’s be honest with ourselves. I’m pretty awesome at basketball.

I’ve been lucky, I guess. Blessed with people who have pushed me in life and blessed with natural gifts. I have a big decision to make: Whether to go pro or stay in college for another year at Kansas State. I gotta tell you, it’s a really tough call.

I know a lot of people think I’m going to be the top pick in the NBA Draft and make millions of dollars, but I have to think about the big picture. Education is really important to me, and it’s something the coaches who recruited me really sold me on. Kansas State has some incredible programs, and you can’t put a price tag on a degree. Not even a really big, eye-popping price tag.

Sure, I’ll be playing with against lesser competition, risking injury and thus a lot of money, and probably not even getting the same TV time I would if I were in the NBA, but there are a lot of intangibles that people don’t understand.

If I stayed in college, I could eat Ramen noodles with my friends at 2:30 a.m. while watching re-runs of The Simpsons. That’s priceless, man, and most people get to enjoy four years of that stuff. For me, it would just be one. Plus there’s getting up at 8 a.m. (sometimes – haha, even I miss a seminar or two) and walking to class. You don’t even need a car to get around, because everything is so close. It’s the perfect life. Man, those communists had it good. I learned about them in Prof. Hillman’s history class.

Water gun fights on the weekends? Playing sandlot baseball in an open field by the dorms? Man, that’s awesome stuff. Sure, playing basketball before thousands of people calling your name in an arena and earning endorsement deals has its appeal. But it doesn’t have the heart, ya know?

I always tell myself I’d never be that guy who should declare for the NBA Draft, but takes forever for no good reason, and then declares anyway. But now that I’m at this crossroads in life, it’s just not that easy of a decision.

Yeah, I had a nice year in college and I’ll probably be OK when I get to the pros. But there will be a learning curve – and maybe I’d just rather spend my formative years learning about philosophy and how to be a good leader and friend, instead of how to slam dunk between three 7-foot-2 guys.

Nah, fuck it. I’m going pro. Who’s ready for the Bease?

I cast spells. Freaky ones.

2008-04-14T09:15:00.002-05:00

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Most people -- namely those insidious Cubs or Red Sox fans who bemoan their team's lack of success in the numerous irrelevant years before their own birth -- feel that curses have befallen their teams. But readers of Agatha Moonfry's weekly column in "Spellbinding Spells for the Amateur Witch" know well that the key to any good curse is a buried treasure of sorts.

Take, for example, any good haunting. Almost always related to a series of unmarked graves nearby. Furthermore, every documented satanic possession in American history is conjured in part because someone had the foresight to plant an unseen pentagram in the immediate environment. Objects unseen almost always correlate with the demonic. It's physics.

I've never met this construction worker who secretly planted a Red Sox jersey in the new Yankee Stadium, but I am eagerly pleased to meet him. He's obviously a fan of mine.

Sadly, the Yankees sniffed out his attempt at amateur witchcraft, which speaks to his inability to keep quiet about his flirtations with the dark side. As I mentioned, Red Sox fans like to jabber, and it will ultimately be dear Gino's undoing. But it is a valuable lesson at how seriously the world has begun to take witchcraft. Let's take a brief look at Agatha's history of casting sports curses:

1980: Barely two years old, I discovered an early passion for spell-casting when I took my Russian nesting dolls and buried them near the Olympics hockey arena in Lake Placid, New York. The Russian coach lost his mind, pulled his goaltender, and a "miracle" came thereafter. That was no miracle, Al Michaels. It was the rising star of young sorcery.

1996: After a dynamite Atlantic Ocean sailboat tour with old boyfriend Brad -- featuring several intimate maneuvers deemed illegal on the mainland -- I took it upon myself to capture a small shark nursing in the coastal waters. After killing it, I buried fragments on each of seven holes at nearby Augusta National in Georgia, in an attempt to thwart Greg Norman's six-stroke lead heading into the final day of the Masters. He choked, of course, and fired 78. I had a thing for Nick Faldo at the time.

2003: Even though I spent years of my life and countless black market resources tormenting Brad after he left me for some blond bimbo, I wanted one last sucker punch against his beloved Cubs. I scoured high and low for a primate's ulnar collateral ligament, which I could bury at the Friendly Confines in hopes of damning starting pitchers Kerry Wood and Mark Prior. Unable to find what I wanted, I settled for a Niles Renegades Little League T-Shirt (similar to the one worn by this gentleman), which I buried just outside the outfield wall on Sheffield Avenue. Sadly, my spell had no bearing whatsoever on the outcome.

2007: Experimenting to discover the effects of elevation on the human orgasm, I found myself shackled in the mountains with Dr. Jens Tjaaden, a Dane with remarkable dexterity. He had become a Colorado Rockies fan since his days in Denver, and vowed to continue his research with me as long as the Rockies kept winning -- a circumstance that caused his undying arousal. I scrawled a series of ancient words on a baseball and buried it at the base of the Rocky Mountains, though I decided to let the spell expire after he became "too tired" following the NLCS. Nobody gets too tired for Agatha. Not if they want to keep themselves unharmed. Or ever have children.

Take that money, Billy

2008-04-11T09:03:00.004-05:00

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Bill Self is dumb.

Despite a rumored offer from Oklahoma State that would include a $6 million signing bonus, and many more millions of dollars per year in salary, Self is staying at Kansas.

Sportswriters everywhere are happy about this. Except for me (full disclosure: I was booted from the National Sportswriters Association after I set fire to Bill Plaschke's shoes during a conference in 1981).

Sportswriters always get really upset when players and coaches leave their current locales so they can make more money. As if these writers, fat on free pizza and bad metaphors, wouldn't do the same thing. I know I would.

And you know what? I have.

I totally understand Bill Self's situation; I do not understand his decision. Back in 1973, I was working in Arizona as the sports editor of the Bisbee Union. It was a nice little paper, and I worked my ass off getting all the relevant scores, updates and occasional provocative photo of myself in the newspaper.

Late one night, I was sitting at the local pub, The Mono Borracho, when I was approached by a man in a dark overcoat and bowler hat. He had stinky breath and a thin mustache. I immediately suspected a rapist.

"Marv," he said.

Drunk, and still horny from watching high school girls play volleyball, I growled at him.

"Who are you?"

"Let's just say I'm a representative of the Pima Weekly Press, over in nearby Graham County."

I paused. I thought. I responded.

"What the fuck is that?"

I took a long swig of cheap whiskey. It burned like syphillis.

"It's a weekly newspaper. Circulation of about 2,500 people," he said.

I dismissed him. "My newspaper reaches almost 8,000 people. I'm not interested. It'd be a step down."

He smiled at me. He touched my leg gently, but in a manly way.

"What if I told you we could offer you -- how shall I say it? -- a more comfortable lifestyle?"

I farted loudly. Several bar patrons looked in my direction.

He continued, unfazed. "My sources tell me that you're currently making $8.85 an hour here in Bisbee. Eight days vacation per year."

"Uh huh."

"Well, what if we offered you our sports editor position, along with a salary of $10.15 an hour. And 10 days vacation. That's two full weeks, Marv."

I turned to face him. I looked into his beady, rapist eyes. Thoughts of working for a lesser paper filled my mind. It'd be a step backwards for my career. The paper's operation had fewer resources. It'd be a bigger challenge. I'd have to work even harder just to achieve the same results.

But, that gleaming thought of an extra $50 a week. I couldn't get past it. It offered promise. Security. Hope.

And shortly after, I accepted Pima's offer. I was a journalistic whore. But I made a lot more money. And I was damn good at my job. I turned that newspaper around in three short months. Boosted circulation by 20 percent. That was until my managing editor found out I was using the break room freezer to store my sperm bank donations. I was immediately fired.

But the same principle remains: Always take the money. No one can blame you.

You're no different, Bill Self. If T. Boone Pickens is still interested in giving you all that cash, take it. Take it and don't you ever feel guilty.

Don't you ever feel guilty.

Oh wow, women's basketball is really awesome

2008-04-09T11:04:00.005-05:00

By David Harrison
Sports Fan

Man, did you all watch that Tennessee-Stanford women's basketball championship last night? It was sooo awesome. I love watching basketball players cut backdoor and to sometimes make layups and also fall down a lot.

Nothing gets me more excited than a team winning the championship game with a blistering .393 field goal percentage. That just glues me to my fuckin' couch. Cancel my plans for tonight. Women's basketball is on, and I've got set-shots from 12 feet to watch.

Brick.

Really though. I'm being too harsh here. Because Candace Parker is probably the Leonardo Di Vinci or Sidney Crosby of women’s basketball. A star like her –- the Tiger Woods and the Barry Bonds of her sport -– can really bring the masses to this incredible, enthralling game. Did you know that she’s dunked the basketball before? You can even find footage online, I’m pretty sure. But unlike footage of Bigfoot, it’s actually real! And you know what, even her dunks are fundamentally sound! If John Wooden liked dunks, he'd like Candace Parker's.

At first, I admit I was skeptical about this women's basketball thing, and didn’t even watch the constant coverage on ESPN or ESPN.com. I didn’t pay attention to all the casual discussion, featuring the long-legged Stacey Dales and some other people. I kept my fandom focused on the men’s tournament. But that was before Stanford’s Angela Wiggins made a believer out of me.

Remember when Diana Taurasi played for UCONN? She was a dude, right? Her face was so aerodynamic.

You know what? I don’t even care that these women aren’t hot. That’s chauvinist thinking, anyway. These women are athletes and put as much blood, sweat and tears into their sport as anyone else. I can’t imagine why people don’t appreciate that. WOW, I just saw highlights of one women’s basketball player FLYING through the lane. Oh, wait ... nope, they switched to NBA highlights when I wasn’t looking. My bad.

Even still, women's basketball. Wow. I can't wait to see what these players do at the next level.

With the NCAA season over, I'll need something to give me my fix until the glorious sounds of missed free throws and torn ACLs return to gyms next fall. You can bet I'll be spending my time playing this:

All hail the splendor of women's basketball!

It's really not that hard, Memphis

2008-04-08T09:06:00.006-05:00

By Libby Perkins
Hates Broccoli

This year, I successfully defended my age group championship in the Sandusky Free Throw Challenge, sponsored by the Sandusky Jaycees. I won a big trophy last year when I was 9, and this year I got another one for being the best 10-year-old girl in the competition. I made 84 out of 100 free throws at Walter Church Middle School. Daddy said I'm his special little girl, and he thinks I can play varsity basketball someday.

Free throws are pretty easy though. So how come Memphis couldn't make any in the national championship game last night? Jesus Christ. It's not that hard!

It's only 15 feet. The key is to bend your knees, I think, and to try to do the same thing every single time. It's not like you have to shoot over a defender or dribble-drive. You just set your feet, twirl the ball around, bounce once, and fire. Swoosh!

This year, Dana VanderSchlossen had 80 free throws made, and I was really worried that she was going to catch me. That would have sucked. But I hit all of my last 10 free throws and won the big prize. I got my picture in the paper and everything.

I don't get why it's so hard for Memphis guys to make free throws. They only hit 7-of-16 in the second half, and that basically cost them the game, because it went to overtime. Chris Douglas-Roberts, Derrick Rose, all of you -- what was the problem?

I know Memphis' coach was saying all tournament how free throws weren't important. I don't think they're important either. How can the easiest part of the game be the most important?

You know, there's no shame in just throwing them off the backboard. That's not how I do it, but I've seen it done. Banking is pretty easy. Swallow your pride, Memphis. Or, if you want me to check into the game when you need someone to make free throws, I can do it. By the time I get to college, I'll have a lot of Free Throw Challenge trophies, which I keep in my room next to my Barbies.

NCAA Breakdown

2008-04-07T12:35:00.003-05:00

By Guy Ockham
3-2 Zone Proponent

Guy Ockham is the high school boys' basketball coach at Spring Borders High School in Breck, Colo. His teams have compiled a 33-33 record during his two seasons at the school. He's a graduate of Doane College in Nebraska, where he played basketball for two years, averaging 7.3 points and 2.7 rebounds a game for the Tigers. Ockham stresses low dribbling, lateral movement and using the backboard from anywhere on the floor.

Keep those butts low to the ground, sportswatchers, because we have a real barnburner for you tonight! Memphis vs. Kansas. Two speedy teams -- one representing one of the whitest states in America and one representing one of the blackest cities in America. That previous statement is related to nothing.

Here's the matchup, and what you need to know to digest the game.

Guards: Have you heard about a fella by the name of Derrick Rose? Maybe you have. But if not, watch out for this Memphis kid, because he's got some talent. He's got a great base, and a strong dribble that always stays low to the floor. He's a good passer, but I'd like to see him use the chest pass more. Get those thumbs in, kid!

Memphis also has Chris Douglas-Roberts, who is a lanky guard who has developed a jumper. His hyphenated name suggests gender progress. If I were his coach, I wouldn't hesitate to use him in the middle of my 3-2 zone. That's how good he is.

Kansas, by comparison, has a bunch of guards that sort of run together in your mind. Collins or Stewart or Rush or something. I haven't really done my homework on Kansas because I got sidetracked by some Saved By the Bells re-runs on TV the other day. I can't pass up the opportunity to rub one out to Kelly Kapowski. Edge: Memphis

Big men: Kansas is known for its fourteen-headed monster in the paint, led by Darrell Arthur and Russian Sasha Kahn. His name sounds like Sasha Cohen, who I hate, so I don't think Kahn will have much effect in this game.

Memphis' most famous big man is notorious dipshit, Joey Dorsey. He's a great rebounder who has all of the offensive ability of a drunk Ben Wallace. He's an inspiring story because he made it out of a tough situation in Baltimore to become the first kid in his family to graduate high school and blah blah blah doesn't anyone care that I was once run through a clothes dryer at age 9 because I didn't make 80 percent of a my free throws during a local YMCA game? No one ever talks about how I overcame. I don't give two shits about Joey Dorsey. Someone give me some fucking sympathy, all right? Edge: Kansas

Coaching: Kansas is coached by Bill Self, who, I think, wears a toupee. He has a funky-ass looking mouth. I will give him credit for being a great recruiter, but I'm not convinced about his ability to coach. KU has decent team defense, but I still think they'd benefit from implementing the Guy Ockham 3-2 "Assrape Defense." He won't return my calls, but I'm telling you, that defense is the best way to utilize Cole Aldrich.

Memphis is led by John Calipari, NBA failure. He's getting a lot of credit for putting in a dribble-drive offense that is centered on Rose and Douglas-Roberts. Why is he getting credit for this? What was he supposed to do? Institute a Hoosiers-like four passes before every shot rule? Gimme a break. Edge: Guy Ockham

Overall: I'm thinking this will be an affair of high-scoring proportions, like when my wife left me for Tim, my next-door neighbor. In the end, I think Memphis' guards will win out over the depth of Kansas. Too much talent for Memphis, and they're too hard to stop because their style is so free-flowing.

Prediction: Memphis wins, 77-62.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Zack's about to take Kelly to Prom.

Viva la revolucion!

2008-04-04T11:41:00.004-05:00

By Jonathan Livingston
Seagull

Did you think I was kidding about the revolution?

After a golfer killed one of our own, and our subsequent lawsuit on behalf of birds everywhere was dismissed as frivolous by a series of circuit courts, we birds have decided to take matters into our own hands.

Yes. We're going to kill you all.

This is merely a warning shot, humans. You can read into the fact that the girl who was attacked on a tour of Fenway Park was named "Alexa Rodriguez" if you want, but I assure you this has nothing to do with our attacker's preference of team. In fact, I explicitly told Corky NOT to attack that particular girl, for fear of a misconstrued message.

Never let a hawk do a seagull's work. I know they're all majestic and what not, but despite those piercing talons and impressive soaring ability, they are dumb as birdshit.

Anyway, the revolution has begun. First, we will flood your American ballparks with our kind, flocking to haunt your sedentary and beer-consuming masses. Then we will enter your homes and eat your pet hamsters. Then, we will unite to fly into your car windshields. For years, you have wondered how we have avoided your motorized vehicles, and it's merely because we have chosen to avoid them, waiting for the time to be right.

The time is now. You will be powerless without functioning windshields. America will be ours!

As a baby bird, I remember how I felt the first time I watched Alfred Hitchcock bring our brilliant plan to the silver screen. I felt pride swelling up in my feathers. I knew that one day I would be at the forefront of a changed landscape. No longer will birds be tormented and slaughtered for trivial purposes.

It's time for a Flying V. We're coming for you, humans.

A blast from my past

2008-04-03T09:24:00.002-05:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Dawg, I have been divinely inspired to rap about my main man Isiah Thomas, who is really having a rough few weeks. And by few weeks, I mean decade. Because I love Isiah so, I have written a rap to highlight Isiah's soon-to-be extinguished career. The rhymes were a little tough, but I think you'll like it mighty nice.

The baby-faced assassin from old IU
Back before Kelvin Sampson sniffed some glue
Came to the NBA and was a Motor City Miracle
Won some hardware to prop up in his cubicle.

Isiah. He's Isiah.

Mama can't spell, she forgot a letter.
But ain't no thang, cuz your game was stellar.
12-time All-Star, Olympian too.
Coolest shit since they invented Fu Manchu.

Isiah. He's Isiah.

But shit went bad when you hung up the shoes
Raptors, broadcasting and CBA all lose
You got mad game, but you can't manage for shit
And your Hollywood star started taking a hit.

Isiah, dawg. He's so Isiah.

Got your ass inducted into the Hall of Fame
About the time your career went all to shame
Spent a few years in Indy coaching the Pacers
Moved on to New York and turned the Knicks into bitches.

Isiah. Love Isiah.

Made some silly ass trades and the team got worse
Now they hired Donny Walsh to reverse your curse
You'll probably get fired, maybe lay low for a while
If you wanna work again, try the retail aisle.

Isiah. Bye, Isiah.

I feel so different, yet so wonderful

2008-04-02T09:03:00.004-05:00

By Dick Vitale
Yeller

I tell you, NCAA Tournament time is my favorite time of the year. It is with so much pleasure each spring that I watch young men hoop it up on the hardwood, giving it their all in pursuit of the ultimate crown: An NCAA title.

While I am a fan of basketball on any level, I prefer the college game to the NBA. The sheer love of the sport, coupled with the passion of the students and pep bands, makes for an experience like no other.

And the players! In the past, I have loved rooting for players like Trajan Langdon, Carlos Boozer, Elton Brand, JJ Redick, Chris Duhon, Grant Hill, Jason Williams, Christian Laettner, Shane Battier, Bobby Hurley, Johnny Dawkins, Corey Maggette, Shelden Williams and Steve Wojciechowski.

All of those guys brought something different to the table, and all of them rank among my favorite basketball players ever. I don't even know if I could choose a favorite. They all inspired a deep, longing love inside of me.

But I must confess, this year I felt something different. One little player gave me a different type of feeling. One sharpshooting young man who seemed different than all of the others. And that young man is Stephen Curry from Davidson.

Stephen wasn't like all of the others that I've loved. This love was fleeting; it was fast. While I had time to dote and dwell on the magnificence of my other loves, Stephen swooped in from nowhere. He was different, and I couldn't figure out why. In my brain, I knew it was love. But my heart did not understand. He was so mysterious and wondrous, like Johnny Depp in Chocolat.

Along with this brief passion, I felt guilt. I did not understand the reason behind this emotion either. No matter how much I tried to suppress this feeling, it still popped up. Why did loving this boy from a school of 1,700, the son of an NBA three-point specialist, make me feel such a rollercoaster of emotions?

I was torn. I knew my love was true, but it felt forbidden.

And then suddenly, as quickly as those feelings came, they were gone. Stephen Curry had left my life and my feelings were gone with it. Was it real? Had it really happened? This new flame, this new desire had been snuffed out nearly as quickly as it had warmed my insides.

While I enjoyed my time with Stephen, watching him nail three-pointers and floaters as well as anyone I've ever seen, I knew it wasn't to last. I knew this was a fling. A tryst. Something that can never be repeated. I felt sadness, but -- at the same time -- satisfaction.

What does this all mean?

Ahh, you know what, who cares!? I'm ready to rub whipped cream on my nipples and watch Tyler Hansbrough's hard-working, passionate desire of gritty fortitude dominate the Final Four! North Carolina, baby! It's the Final Four! It's tremendous! I'm in orgasmic ecstasy, baby! Awww yeahhhhhh!

The world is a terrible place

2008-04-01T14:24:00.001-05:00

Bill Plaschke: Named the Associated Press' top sports columnist for the third time in four years.

I'm so proud of my son

2008-04-01T09:12:00.005-05:00

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Hi there, this is Lynn DeBerg calling, and I was wondering what your policy is on getting submitted pictures into the paper?

The reason I ask is because my son, Connor, recently took third place in a karate competition up in Cleveland, and we took a picture of him with his trophy and his outfit. It's such a cute outfit, and I just think it would be a great picture. I think a lot of people would buy newspapers if they saw that picture in the sports section.

What's that? Oh, I know there are lots of other sports going on during the course of the day, but I'm not asking for a front page spot or anything. Connor just worked so hard and he had the biggest smile on his face when he took third, and I thought it would be great for him, and for kids like him.

I kind of typed up a little press release to go with it, if you want that. I can e-mail you the picture, or I can send it in the mail. What's easier? Now when is it going to run, exactly? Well, I just want to be able to tell Connor when he can expect to see himself in the paper, and also all his friends and teachers. How about tomorrow? I don't understand why you can't get it in tomorrow. There really isn't that much going on -- I checked the local schedules.

Look, I think tomorrow has to be the day. It's kind of timely since it just happened this weekend. I know you have other pictures you want to get in, but did they feature accomplishments like this one? A lot of those team photos get in for basketball or soccer teams or something like that, and kids get in the paper who ride the bench or don't do a whole lot. But my Connor put in all the work himself and trained under a professional for six weeks at a camp in Akron. I really just think he needs to be recognized. I noticed you put in bowling scores and a feature story about some old guy who used to run the local baseball team -- I really think this photo should get preference over stuff like that.

I'm sorry, but do I need to talk to your boss? I swear to God, I'll cancel my subscription if my son's picture isn't in the goddamned paper tomorrow. All you people care about are the big-name teams in the area -- what about the readers and the things they're interested in? I suppose you don't give a damn about those people. I suppose we don't even matter.

I haven't asked for ONE SHRED of coverage all year, just that you please put Connor's picture in the paper, and you won't even do that for me. I want you to transfer me to your boss or the subscription ladies, so I can cancel. My son deserves recognition! You have no idea how hard he worked and how much driving is involved carrying him to these camps and competitions. I'm never reading your fucking paper again.

(click).

I am a genius!!!

2008-03-31T08:47:00.001-05:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

I PICKED ALL FOUR FINAL FOUR TEAMS CORRECTLY.

After years of selecting only one seeds to reach the Final Four, I finally got them all, which puts me in FIRST PLACE in the annual office league. EAT IT, DAWN MINKOWSKI FROM ACCOUNTING. I hate that bitch. Every year, she finds a way to win.

But this year is 2008: The Year of the Burt. Upsets are great if you like unpredictable stuff, but in the end, people gravitate toward what they know, like their hometown or gateway drugs. And NORTH CAROLINA, KANSAS, UCLA and MEMPHIS. Hello, Final Four! This is the first time in history that all four No. 1 seeds have made it at the same time! The odds of that happening are ASTRONOMICAL -- something like 1 in 8.

But I was unable to choose winners in the semifinals because they're ALL SO GOOD. So I won't be getting any points going forward. That gives a slight edge to my co-workers, but I'll still behave as if I won the whole thing, whether or not I do. The celebration will include several outbursts of "La Cucaracha" and I'll also be wearing NEON GREEN on championship Monday.

FINAL FOUR ANALYSIS:

1. North Carolina. Hansbrough!

2. Kansas. Remember when they had Jacque Vaughn? Loved him.

3. UCLA. KEVIN LOVE

4. Memphis. Chris Douglas-Roberts-Derek-Rose. Haha, did you see how I hyphenated them together? That's awesome! He would be the best player in the tourney, if those two were hyphenated into one super player.

Don't count out Texas, though.

Ron Stilanovich is awesome

2008-03-27T07:25:00.002-05:00

If you haven't had a chance to watch the "Hardball Made Easy" series with Ron Stilanovich, do it now. Here are two teaching samples, involving Matt Kemp and Carlos Zambrano. Fortunately, there are others:

Part Three: The poster on the wall

2008-03-26T09:43:00.003-05:00

In another installment of our award-winning "heartfelt features" series, which perfects the long-standing journalistic tradition of writing dramatically about some stuff, we examine the damage fantasy sports is doing to American society. Today's story is the last of a three-part series.

The posters on the wall are the only sign anything is amiss, at least at first glance.

The apartment is well-kept, with dishes arranged in cleanly-dusted cabinets and a sanitary bathroom with a pleasing aqua blue peppered throughout. As single-bedroom units with a male tenant go, you could do much worse.

Affixed to the wall in David Benson's home office is a poster of Brian Westbrook, running back for the Philadelphia Eagles. It's one of those wall decorations a 10-year-old boy might have on his bedroom wall, with bulky lettering over an image of Westbrook cutting upfield.

The same poster can be found in Benson's bedroom. And another in the living room. And a different poster -- also of Westbrook -- can be found on the kitchen ceiling.

Suddenly, an onlooker becomes aware of other Westbrook references -- three identical bobbleheads atop the entertainment center, a photo on the desktop computer wallpaper, the Brian Westbrook jerseys hanging in the closet.

"First round pick, every year," said Mark Melheusen, a neighbor with whom Benson participated in an annual fantasy football league. "It never mattered what pick he had or what conventional draft strategy tells you. He always took Westbrook."

Harmless enthusiasm? Hardly. Witness the fixating madness of David Benson.

WEST OF EDEN

Benson doesn't currently reside here, instead sitting in a Bowie prison, awaiting the outcome of an appeal after being sentenced to five years for a parole violation. Benson sheepishly admits that he's made a handful of mistakes, and says he hopes he can get another chance.

"I never meant for any of this to happen," he said in an exclusive interview with Flotsam Media last week. "Especially the pain I caused Brian; that was totally out of line. I just lost touch with the things that were really important. I think Brian is a great guy, and I wish I had exercised better judgment."

He speaks as if he knows Westbrook, but the truth is, the two have never had a conversation. But Westbrook knows Benson, and the relationship is far from friendly. Benson's constant correspondence, in-person confrontations, and comments in public forums have gotten him to this crossroads.

"Everybody has a guy -- we call him the Sugar Daddy -- that they draft year after year," Melheusen said. "Nobody's ever taken it this far, though. David just let fantasy sports go way too far."

THE FAN

Nobody in the fantasy league is sure why Benson became so attached to Westbrook. It wasn't as if 2004 -- the first year of the league -- was the ideal year for the birth of such an obsession. A late-season injury to the Eagles running back cost Benson in the playoffs, though Westbrook had been a key cog in his regular-season championship team.

Despite the injury, Benson nabbed Westbrook with the sixth pick in the 2005 draft, and a 120-yard performance in the final week of the regular season gave Benson a playoff berth.

"That was when he really became a Westbrook fan," former league member Erik LaPorta said. "He never shut up about it, like Westbrook was the best running back in the game or something. He couldn't stay healthy though, that was the thing. I mean, he didn't do well at the end of the year because he was always hurt, but David loved that guy."

Westbrook was again a non-factor in the 2005 fantasy playoffs -- which coincided with the final two weeks of the NFL regular season -- but Benson was in the stands when the Eagles faced Seattle in the second-to-last week of the year, cheering on his favorite football player.

Westbrook ran for 17 yards and left the game with injury. A frustrated Benson waited after the game for hours, hovering near the player's parking lot until Westbrook emerged. Benson shouted at the player, asking in a hurt tone of voice why Westbrook hadn't gone back into the game.

"It was really kind of surreal," said brother Toby Benson, who traveled with David to see that game. "I tried to tell him that they didn't care about his fantasy team, but he was convinced they could do something about it."

The letters began a week thereafter, begging Westbrook to perform well for fantasy league purposes. They continued well into the offseason, with Benson promising that Westbrook would again be a first-round pick.

Mailroom attendant Jerome Barfield -- the lone Philadelphia Eagles employee willing to speak on record -- said the letters became so frequent, that everyone in the office knew the name of David Benson.

"That guy was crazy, dude," Barfield said. "He was saying some really absurd things, like the lengths he'd go to for Brian Westbrook and stuff. Have you seen Fatal Attraction? This was like that."

TOO FAR

If it had stopped at the borderline-entertaining letters, maybe it would have been no big deal. But in 2006 -- a year in which Westbrook really began to blossom -- Benson started showing up at team hotels. He struck up a conversation with Westbrook in the cereal aisle at a Philly grocery store, he found a way into a team postgame party, and he emerged from the swimming pool at the Embassy Suites when Eagles players were lounging before facing the Giants the next day.

Benson was warned several times, and the first restraining order went into effect shortly after a 122-yard performance against Dallas in the second-to-last week of the NFL season. A grateful Benson, who moved into the finals as a result, parachuted into an Eagles walk-through later that week.

But Benson violated his restraining order, and served a four-week prison term in early 2007 when Westbrook sat out a game with an injury. Benson appeared at Westbrook's rehabilitation clinic, carrying a sign that said "Get Well Soon, Brian."

He was released on parole in time to see Westbrook kneel on the one-yard line instead of surging into the end zone against the Cowboys in the third-to-last week of the NFL season, a maneuver that cost Benson a playoff spot.

The response: a series of phone calls to all of Westbrook's family members, as well as some of his neighbors, two former lovers and one of Westbrook's old college professors.

"In my mind, I wanted anyone who had his ear to know that I couldn't allow him to do that to me," Benson said. "I wanted him to know that I was so disappointed. We've been through so many years together, and I just couldn't believe he had done that to me."

Benson's case is another sign of the dangers fantasy sports bring to American society.

"He's obviously a very sick man, but it's the same argument as firearms," sports psychologist Barry Campbell said. "Is it the user, or the weapon being used? Fantasy sports have caused the lines between reality and non-reality to blur, and athletes are possessed objects instead of humans. David Benson simply could not tell the difference. I pity him, really.

"Also, I would never draft Westbrook over Tomlinson."

Part Two: A missing man

2008-03-25T14:28:00.005-05:00

Where is Jon Gault?

It's a question wife Marie Gault has been asking for more than six months, but in a way, she's afraid to know the answer. The letter Jon sends her in the mail every other month or so reassures Marie that he's not in a ditch somewhere, but the postmarks always come from different locations around the Midwest, and he never gives hints of his whereabouts.

"He could send me an e-mail -- lord knows he spends the majority of his time in front of a computer screen," Marie said. "But he knows I'll be able to trace him then, and I guess he assumes I'd want that. I do, as it turns out. I really just want him to snap out of it and come home."

But Marie concedes that it's more than just a phase with her estranged husband. It's an obsession, and it all began with an invitation to join his office fantasy baseball league.

'NOT REALLY FOR ME'

The Gaults' story is another example in a long line of case studies showcasing the destructive nature of fantasy sports in relationships. In a remarkable dose of irony, they met at a sports bar in Indiana, when she was there to cheer on her beloved Indiana University in the NCAA Tournament, and he was merely there with friends.

"He liked sports, but he wasn't as passionate about it as I was," she said. "Not that I was a lunatic about it, but I loved the Hoosiers, and he was more like the guy who watched sports because it was something to do with the guys. Still, we hit it off instantly."

They were married two years later and by then, many of Marie Thompson's preferred sports interests had rubbed off on her husband. He started wearing crimson and cream on Indiana game nights, and he had become a relatively informed fan of the Indianapolis Colts and Chicago White Sox.

"It definitely got to the point where he was more into it than I was," Marie said. "But I didn't mind, of course. He was a guy, and guys like sports, so it seemed very normal to me."

She paid attention to his love for statistics. Jon was an actuary, and already had a keen interest in numbers and trends, so sports seemed to supplement his awareness of numbers.

"I knew some of my friends were in a fantasy baseball league, and I figured that would be perfect for him," Marie said. "But he said he liked cheering for teams and not individual players. He said, 'It's not really for me.'"

THE GAMES BEGIN

Somewhat on a whim, co-worker Brad Zystrad opened a fantasy baseball league for the 2007 season, and when Jon Gault received the e-mail, he found himself accepting immediately.

"He told me it was his first fantasy baseball league, so he was pretty excited," Zystrad said. "I've seen it before where guys get giddy once they think they have a handle on the procedures and stuff. He started asking a lot of questions about rules, and then he started talking about guys he thought were good late-round sleepers within a week."

Marie noticed the change immediately. Her husband started explaining the intricacies of the game to her, and she listened as attentively as she could despite her limited interest.

"I thought it was cute, to be honest," Marie said. "I was glad he found such a fun hobby. I pretended to be interested, and I guess I was a little bit. But if he wasn't talking about White Sox, I didn't care at all, and even then, I didn't know every player on the team."

Gault's interest level rose immediately and suddenly. Marie said he'd spend hours on the computer, neglecting household chores at times to constantly peruse stats and box scores. He began calling fantasy league members at all hours, sometimes at work and sometimes an hour or two after the couple was traditionally in bed.

She said it truly began to worry her when he backed out of a trip to visit her parents, feigning an illness.

"I really thought he was sick, but he spent most of that weekend checking his fantasy team," she said. "It occurred to me that he had made up the illness, and he was really hurt when I confronted him."

To Marie, the hobby crossed over into obsession at the point they began to discuss children, and she balked at the idea of getting pregnant, especially after Jon started talking about having a son and buying him a Johan Santana jersey.

Santana pitched for the Minnesota Twins, a team that was actually one of Chicago's rivals. But Santana was on his fantasy team.

"There was something that told me it wasn't the right time," she said. "The Jon I married had been a little harder to reach right then. It frightened me, I won't lie."

JON GAULT DISAPPEARS

Marie went from understanding wife to avid opponent of fantasy sports.

She called Zystad and tried to have her husband taken out of the league, a maneuver that led to yet another argument when her husband found out.

"I tried to tell him I was concerned that he was taking it all a bit too seriously," Zystad said. "But he just laughed it off. I stopped being subtle and finally told him his wife had come to me, and he was furious."

She even contemplated destroying the computer, but she knew he would find a way of feeding his habit. He could check his team on his cell phone and work computer. She said the last straw came when the couple was standing up at her niece's baptism.

"He got a cell phone alert that some player had gotten hurt, and he actually left the service to call a friend to get the guy out of his lineup," Marie said, with tears welling in her eyes. "Nothing else was more important to him than fantasy sports. Not even eating."

Marie said she could barely talk to her husband without some reference to fantasy sports coming up, and in defense, she stopped talking to him at all. Finally, she did destroy the computer, and did so without any explanation or apology. She prepared herself to leave him, but she didn't have to. On the morning of August 18, Jon Gault disappeared.

"I assumed he was in the garage or in another room checking his team on his cell phone," she said. "But he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere."

Jon left a message on the counter, saying he needed some "time to think," and he did not call his wife until two days later. He told her he was fine and was staying with friends for a while. He called once more later in the month, and then stopped communicating at all, except for the letters that began to trickle in.

"I don't know what he's doing for money," she said, noting that he offered no notice to his employers before disappearing. "I don't know where he's living or how he even gets his Internet access. But I bet he gets the last part. I'm afraid that might be the most important part to him."

Have you seen Jon Gault?

"He betrayed what made fantasy sports great."

2008-03-24T09:16:00.002-05:00

Doug McAvoy, 29, can't pick up the phone and give Jason Schulters a call, even if he wants to.

Any hopes of a redemptive moment, a heart-to-heart initiated by one side of this bizarre standoff, were deleted along with Schulters' phone number when McAvoy wiped it from his address book.

"I don't know any of these numbers by heart, so if they're not in my phone, then I don't know them," McAvoy said, smiling as he perused a list of American League sleepers on one of several fantasy sports Web sites he frequents. "I'm sure I could get the number from someone if I really wanted it. But I knew when I erased him that I would never want to speak to him again. And so far, that's still the way it is."

They are a troubling cautionary tale, in a world where fantasy sports have become a staple in the lives of countless Americans, including what seems like the majority of males ages 18-35. As the trend reaches its pinnacle in the new millennium, so does the higher frequency of unhealthy abuse, and borderline obsession.

"It creates a fantastic environment for people, and sometimes the borders between fantasy and reality are blurred," said Dr. Mitchell Marbles, a Stanford University professor who has studied the effects of fantasy sports on society. "There is a lot of strategy and role playing, which can be beneficial, but there is also a high quotient of egoism and hyper-masculinity, and sometimes that can be very explosive."

Fantasy sports is at the center of the estranged relationship between McAvoy and Schulters. Some view the game as harmless fun. Others view it as the new Dungeons and Dragons, embracing a new kind of nerd. But others see it as one of the most destructible forces in modern America. Like poverty, only digital.

DAWN OF AN OBSESSION

Schulters and McAvoy were inseparable in college, both coming off the bench for the Sandusky State baseball team and spending hours playing baseball together and rooming together. They shared a fandom of the Cleveland Indians, and often attended games at Jacobs Field.

"Sports is common ground for a lot of guys," Schulters said, sipping his malt liquor as he watched the first round of NCAA Tournament. "For Doug and me, sports was as important as anything. People say you should care more about politics and what's going on overseas and stuff like that, but I can't do it. To me, ESPN will always be more important than CNN or C-SPAN."

Schulters watches his game with a keen eye, having involved himself in two separate "NCAA player drafts," which rewards the competitor with the most combined points among 10 drafted players in the tourney. He estimates he participates in 16-20 fantasy sports teams each year.

As juniors in college, Schulters said he and McAvoy joined their first fantasy baseball league, a crudely-organized creation operated by one of the duo's dorm neighbors.

"We were into it right from the get-go, but Yahoo! Sports was just getting started and this guy kept a lot of the stats by hand," Schulters said. "We thought he was crazy, but it was a lot of fun. We would trade superstars like nothing, never thinking twice, because it was such a new thing. We were just having a good time with it."

By the time Schulters and McAvoy graduated, fantasy leagues began cropping up regularly on Internet sites, and participation began to spike. In order to stay in touch with some friends from school, Schulters coordinated a "dynasty league," in which three players were kept by each team from year to year.

"For a couple years, that league was one of the coolest things I'd been a part of," McAvoy said. "We ended up creating a league for the same eight guys in three different sports -- football, basketball, and baseball -- and we even had traveling plaques for the winners. It was a hobby of ours. We were all really into it, and that made it something special."

Both men admit they found themselves preoccupied with fantasy sports a lot. Schulters was warned by his boss at work for checking fantasy updates on his office computer too frequently, and McAvoy began subscribing to several fantasy sports newsletters, and even writing one of his own. He joined four other football leagues for fun each year, often with the intention of dominating lesser-skilled players in "open" leagues, in which a mostly anonymous collection of owners took part.

"I played in a lot of leagues, but nothing compared to the college one," McAvoy said. "That was my only keeper league, and it's the one that I considered the major league. All the other leagues were just tuneups and goofing around."

The college league -- affectionately referred to as the Sandusky Oldschool Fantasy Association (SOFA) -- ultimately became the wrench that tore apart this friendship.

FRIENDS NO MORE

Both men married their college sweethearts three years after graduation, and both served as best man in the other's wedding. They bought houses not far from campus, two towns over, and lived within a mile of each other. Most weekends were spent playing cards or going out to dinner with spouses in tow, and the women would generally talk about the events of the day while the men discussed -- what else -- fantasy sports.

But in 2006, something went wrong. McAvoy was coming off a spectacular fantasy football campaign, in which the running back tandem of LaDainian Tomlinson and Larry Johnson had led him to an easy league championship. McAvoy had used a late draft pick the year before to get Johnson, who was suddenly thrust into fantasy stardom after an injury to Chiefs' teammate Priest Holmes, and McAvoy kept both superstars heading into a record-setting 2006.

"We gave him his props -- he built that team fair and square and it was great that he had so much success," Schulters said. "The buy-in was up to $100, so he made about $700 out of the deal. I was happy for him, but it's no fun if someone has all the power."

Shrewd trades had given McAvoy an unstoppable keeper assembly of Peyton Manning and Antonio Gates to accompany Tomlinson and Johnson, and other members of the league came to Schulters asking that the league go back to "re-draft" status, allowing everyone to draft anew and throw keepers back into the general pot.

"They just wanted the playing field to be leveled a little bit," Schulters said. "I could totally understand -- I mean, who wants to fork over $100 when it looks like they have no chance in hell of winning? Doug's a great guy, but he gloats a lot when he's ahead, and I think it was just becoming a bit unbearable. Guys were threatening to back out, and I didn't want to lose the league, so I made a decision."

Realizing the move would greatly disappoint McAvoy and force him to surrender the players that had allowed him to win back-to-back league titles, Schulters put the "re-draft" concept to vote and it passed, 7-1.

"Football didn't just re-organize itself because the New England Patriots won a bunch of Super Bowls," McAvoy said. "Baseball doesn't just call a do-over because the Yankees have all the power. I put in all the hard work and sweat and foresight, and I was getting penalized because I was too good. It's not fair."

For the first time since college, the format of the SOFA changed, and McAvoy was the most outspoken opponent.

"People look at that $100 dollar entry fee and say it's a small price to pay for fun," McAvoy said. "Well I look at that $700 as a mortgage payment. They're stealing money out of my pocket. Once you start messing with my finances, then I get really upset."

McAvoy confronted Schulters when the men and their wives went out to dinner the following weekend. He pushed his former best friend to the ground and was asked to leave by restaurant management. His wife didn't speak to him for several days, but he responded the way he always did to newfound stress -- by pouring over rankings, cheat sheets, draft strategies and anything else that reminded him of fantasy sports.

"Fantasy sports is kind of a sanctuary for me," he said. "It's what I'm good at, and it's like listening to soothing music or watching your favorite television program. It helps me relax. When it gets taken out from under me like that, it makes me feel really alone and angry. I know that's hard for a lot of people to understand."

THE DISABLED LIST

A rift has developed between these two men, one that McAvoy says will never be repaired. Schulters hopes he's wrong, but he's not knocking down McAvoy's door, either.

"I was really irritated at first, because I felt like he was crossing that line where fantasy sports shouldn't interfere with real life," Schulters said. "But our league is better off without him, really. It's more laid-back now -- guys don't have to worry that they're going to get a call at 2 a.m. from Doug, and get badgered about making a trade before finally agreeing so they could go back to sleep."

Schulters also said McAvoy could not have a normal conversation without referencing fantasy sports, and so it wasn't a big deal when McAvoy and his wife moved several towns away, or when a series of DVDs on loan from McAvoy suddenly disappeared from Schulters' living room, with the back door left broken in.

"It would get to the point where I'd want to talk about his wife, and he's say 'She's fine, but did you see what Manny Ramirez did yesterday?' Schulters said. "The guy just doesn't know when to stop. Sometimes, you have to let people like that go."

Are you kinda funny? Can you spell? Do you think today's sportswriting landscape needs at least one more hackneyed, recycled opinion?

2008-03-21T09:22:00.003-05:00

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Attention, loyal Flotsam readers. The hard-working staff here at the Internet's leader of unfounded, biased sports opinions is looking for some additional talent.

Have you ever dreamed of writing unpaid blog posts for a website composed entirely of either un-informed or over-informed writers who allow their personal biases to color every word they write? Has anyone besides your Mom ever told you that you're funny?

If so, apply to be a Flotsam staff member today!

We're looking for a writer who can contribute 1-2 posts per week, and can lend some new ideas to our burgeoning media empire. Got a great character idea? Thoughts on possible new features? We'd like to hear them.

Benefits include:

- No pay
- Weekly au natural webcam chats with me, Marv
- Having your pseudonymn published for a growing Internet audience
- A faint sense of journalistic-moral-superiority

Interested? If so, send a writing sample or two, and an idea of what sort of "writer" you'd like to be, to flotsammedia-AT-gmail-DOT-com.

If you're awesome, we'll be in touch. If not awesome, we may accidentally lose your e-mail.

Apply today!

Bracket-urology

2008-03-19T10:49:00.006-05:00

The West

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

How will the West be won in 2008, haha?! There are SO many good teams in this portion of the NCAA Tournament, it HAS to be considered the toughest region in the tournament, besides the East and maybe the South. Hello, UCLA – is there a LOVE DOCTOR in the house? – is easily the favorite to win the whole thing, but how can you ever discount the greatest college sports franchise of all time, Duke? And look out for Professor X and Connect-I-Cut in the Sweet 16.

The way I see it, there are only a few teams who could win the regional: the ones I’ve already mentioned, plus BYU, Drake, Purdue, West Virginia, Arizona, Texas A&M or Belmont. Between Duke, Drake, BYU and Purdue, there are probably more white people in this bracket than any other, which means GREAT DEFENSE and lots of 3-point shooting. I love the DUKIES, who will be the second-seed, and think they could be the team to beat, unless they get upset by West Virginia, Xavier, Purdue or Connecticut.

UCLA, of course, has the LOVE DOCTOR, along with lots of other guys that are really good. Kevin Love has carried his team all year, and even though they’ve played in a lot of close games, there’s no substitute for a PAC-10 TITLE. Plus, they’ve been in the Final Four the last two years, which means they’re really experienced, even though their best player is a freshman. So, they’ll probably win the bracket.

But Duke is really good, and XAVIER! Anytime you have a school named after one of the best X-Men in history, you know they’re going to do well. They have mind control! More importantly, they have David West, who is a beast for the New Orleans Hornets.

I TOTALLY FORGOT BAYLOR WAS IN THIS BRACKET. Forget everything I just said, UPSET CITY BABY. I like Baylor to get to the Elite Eight and lose to either UCLA or Western Kentucky. Can you imagine if Drake played Duke in the bracket? THOSE NAMES ARE TOTALLY SIMILAR, and they both wear blue in the jerseys. I would be so confused which team was which. I guess the difference is that one team would have COACH K GENIUS MASTERMIND calling the plays. Drake’s probably not going to get that far though, unless they shock the world and beat Connecticut.

The South

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Austin Peay! It sounds like pee! Peay Peay pee pee.

Silly Austin, he should change his name so people don’t always say mean things, like “Austin, do you have to Peay, because the potty is over there!” Maybe it won’t matter because Texas will beat them in the first round of the South region. Texas is still mad that Kevin Durant went to the NBA, and they are going to teach him a lesson. Poor Austin Peay.

Tanner also thinks it’s funny to say “Oral Roberts” all the time, but I don’t get why. I don’t think it’s funny to make fun of a man who loves Jesus so much. What if Jesus sends lightning down to kill Tanner? My favorite part about Oral Roberts is that their eagle likes to beat people up. I think they will beat Pittsburgh, because the eagle will kick the hurt Pittsburgh players like Levance Fields.

I am also cheering for Temple and St. Mary’s, because they also remind me of Jesus. Mary was Jesus’ mommy, and she bought him gifts like gold and Frankenstein. I think Frankenstein is scary, but not Jesus. He was not afraid and said, “ I will now make a bunch of loaves of bread and wine.” I can’t drink wine yet, but someday, I will sneak into daddy’s liquor drawer and try some.

I don’t really know much else about basketball. I like Tigers (rahr!), and Memphis has some, so they’ll probably win the whole thing. Tanner says only smart people play for Cornell and Stanford, so they will probably do a lot of thinking when they play against each other, and talk about math and science and then hit a couple baskets. I hate math and science, but do you know what I love? DUCKIES. So I’m cheering for Oregon, too.

The East

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

That Bruce Pearl is a crazy sonofabitch. Wearing orange, sweating a lot, hugging Erin Andrews. I'm sure you all saw that recently on Deadspin or something. You didn't see it here.

I used to cover Bruce as a coach back when he was at Southern Indiana University. I had taken a job a small Evansville weekly after being fired from the Boston Globe -- I siphoned gas out of my editor's car when I was short on cash -- and got to know him pretty well. I have a story about me, Bruce and three transgender Vietnamese midgets that I could tell, but I won't.

OK, fine. I will. One night, Bruce and I decided to an interview at the local Asian cuisine dinery. I always got the fried rice. Bruce always got the fried rice. He would sometimes tell them he wanted the "flied lice" and they would laugh a lot, and I would laugh a lot, and so would Bruce.

That night, we were talking about his team's postseason chances when into the restaurant wandered these three Vietnamese midgets. As usual, I was doing the interview with a fair amount of Scopolamine in my system, and things were foggy. The night was foggy. The midgets were short.

I got up to go to the bathroom, because I had had two burritos before coming to the Asian Cuisine place. I was in there for about 30 minutes or so. When I came back out, chaos reigned. Bruce was naked and sweaty, and rolling around on the floor, which was covered in a six-inch layer of shrimp flied lice. Two of the midgets were naked, and the other was smoking a cigarette while standing on stilts, near the corner of the restaurant. There were two ducks gallivanting about near the service counter. The guy on stilts was talking to the shopkeeper about the skyrocketing price of fennel. As Bruce hoisted one midget high into the air, he paused, then dropped the poor little fella. The midget hit the floor, hard.

Bruce stood back and observed the three midgets, the shopkeeper and myself.

"My GOD!" he exclaimed. "Look at you! You're in a 1-2-1-1 formation! That might actually work! There's no way I can get through this!"

Still naked, he ran across the rice-covered floor and outside. He hopped in his car, and sped away. And that, my friends, is how Bruce created his infamous full-court press scheme.

That sort of moxie and innovation is what I like in a coach. That's why Tennessee is my pick to win the East Region. Book it, hombres.

The Midwest

By Dr. Charles P. Ipswich IV
University Professor

Oh, you silly Americans and your round-ball. You exclaim that March is your time for madness, implementing the alliterative name because you feel it captures some sort of idealistic passion for sporting. I must tell you that your version of madness is inconsequential; for true madness, you should consult Thomas Lovell Beddoes, who became fixated upon death in his writings, and eventually killed himself.

That, you wankers, is madness.

Alas, I am here, so I may as well tell you what to expect from the Midwest Region of you bracket.

First, do not pick Kansas to win anything. Coach Bill Self is the modern-day equivalent of King Harold II, who seemed promising but was then destroyed during the Battle of Hastings. You may not understand this analogy, but it because you do not have tenure on the faculty staff of a major Ivy League institution.

Mmm, yes, diamond.

My teams to watch are Georgetown, Vanderbilt and USC. Georgetown has a lovely History Department, and a beautiful colonial campus where one can spend hours losing himself in the library, whether you want to study things ranging from John Burgoyne to Isabel of Gloucester.

Vanderbilt, meanwhile, is represented by a Commodore, which, as you know, is equivalent to Brigadier in the British Army. This demonstrates a passion going beyond most other teams in your round-ball gaming tourney. Yes, you cannot go wrong by employing the quiet strength of a Commodore, especially in his dazzling uniform.

USC has OJ fucking Mayo. Watch out.

It's all Bud Selig's fault

2008-03-18T17:47:00.000-05:00

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Bud Selig. Disgusting.

I'm sick of people defending him, throwing out "the game has never been better" as the world preps for yet another season of baseball. First of all, the man looks like a vampire. My son plays those awful video games on the X-Box, and one of his games has a bunch of evil characters that look just like Bud Selig. The man has obviously never heard of botox. Or antibacterial handwash. Anything to kill whatever is eating his face.

Second of all, how can you get behind a man that allows tie games to happen all the time? It was bad enough that the All-Star game in 2002 end deadlocked, but now baseball's first game in China has also ended in a tie. Where is the outrage?! I don't understand why one exhibition game infuriates a population, and the other is allowed to pass by without anyone noticing.

I'll tell you why; it's because people today don't like to make decisions. I was just talking with Susan Rowe next door about this. You see it in schools, you see it in the workplace -- everyone wants somebody else to make the tough calls. The world embraces wishy-washiness. Thank god for women. Also, nobody cares about anything that doesn't happen on their own soil. Turn on CNN once in a while, America! I flip to it for 90-second increments every day during Young and the Restless commercials, and you'd be amazed what you can learn.

I read the article about the tie game in China, and noticed this extraordinary bit:

Baseball is virtually unknown in China, and Major League Baseball is trying to cash in on a growing middle class with money to spend. Chinese fans, however, noticed what seasoned fans seldom do.

"The Dodgers uniforms look very good, flattering with a nice cut," said Sunny Fan, who identified himself as a professional "fashion consultant."

Sunny. Fan. Fashion consultant. Indecision, foreign outsourcing, and now even homosexuals are ruining baseball. I just think it's sad.

I'm no underdog

2008-03-17T10:04:00.000-05:00

By Cinderella
Animated Icon

Look, I know I'm not the most attractive Disney creation, and I never had a Vera Wang dress to wear to the Prince's Ball, but I'm not exactly a hag, either. Have you seen my stepsisters, for example? Nasty, nasty wenches. By comparison, I like to think of myself as modestly cute.

That said, is it really SO surprising that I eventually hooked up with the Prince after the big night? I know I had a little help from the Fairy Godmother, but I'd probably equate my situation to an 11-seed beating a six in the NCAA Tournament. Sure, it wasn't expected, but was it totally out of the realm of possibility? No.

So here we are again, at the cusp of another tournament, and my name starts coming up on every ESPN and CBS broadcast. Somehow, I have become the poster child for underdogs everywhere -- specifically college basketball underdogs. Sure, I had a nice career in high school as an intramural point guard, but I've certainly never done enough on the basketball court for people to make this association.

Any way you slice it, I just don't want to be thought of as that girl overcoming unbelievable odds. Winning over the prince may have been unlikely, but not as unlikely as George Mason reaching the Final Four or Hampton beating Iowa State. All this Cinderella talk is like someone saying I'm the recipient of the Most Improved Player award. Did I really suck that much to begin with?

Pick somebody else to be the longshot. Everyone loves talking about David and Goliath, so why does that stop come tourney time? Maybe Davidson is this year's David, eh? What about the Patriots during the Revolutionary War? Broadcasters love Patriots, after all. Anybody ever heard of Hannibal (no, not the face-eater in Silence of the Lambs, you uncultured twits)? How about Robert the Bruce?

This probably has something to do with ESPN insisting on calling the 64-team tournament "The Big Dance," involving a series of punched dance tickets. Honestly, I haven't needed a ticket to go to a dance since I was in middle school, and if I did need one, they would probably have bar code scanners instead of hole-punchers. And why in a sport portraying masculine athletes do we need to name them after the girliest of girls? It's a pretty strange comparison, folks.

But whatever. I'm cheering for North Carolina this year (seriously, why are we even TALKING about Michael Beasley as Player of the Year? Get back to me if Kansas State gets into the Sweet 16), because nobody is going to call them Cinderella anytime soon.

Bob Costas. Douchebag.

2008-03-14T12:22:00.008-05:00

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

It seems that Bob Costas has chimed in with his opinion of bloggers. Apparently, and disappointingly, he hates them.

But it's one thing if somebody just sets up a blog from their mother's basement in Albuquerque and they are who they are, and they're a pathetic get-a-life loser, but now that pathetic get-a-life loser can piggyback onto someone who actually has some level of professional accountability and they can be comment No. 17 on Dan Le Batard's column or Bernie Miklasz' column in St. Louis. That, in most cases, grants a forum to somebody who has no particular insight or responsibility. Most of it is a combination of ignorance or invective.''

Bob is one of sports journalism's most smug and pedantic personalities, so we shouldn't be surprised by this. Naturally, he whipped out the "parent's basement" argument, which is the sportswriter equivalent of Godwin's Law. Use it, and you fail.

First of all, Bob, I live in a shack in rural Montana -- not my mother's basement. Second, I have a life. It involves waking up late, eating dozens of strips of bacon for breakfast, and standing on my front step in my untied bathrobe, shooting at deer.

What the hell makes you any better than me? I've worked at "real" media outlets. And you know what? They suck. Content is dictated by space, which is dictated by how much advertising is in that day's paper. The sportswriters themselves only land in prominent positions by sticking around long enough, or having favorable connections. Christ knows it's not because of talent. Have you ever read something by Bill Plaschke or Woody Paige? Once writers land in those roles, they do one of two things:

1. Write safe, boring fluff stories to satisfy their editors
2. Intentionally try to drum up controversy by spouting blustery, unfounded nonsense.

Both of these approaches exist only to help the writers keep their jobs.

I'm not sure what made you so reactionary and defensive about blogs. Is it because you're threatened that some upstart is going to take your own job? I think that's unlikely. After all, no one does a voice-over story about an Olympic athlete whose dog tragically died from hip dysplasia better than you. We don't want to take that away.

No, all we lowly bloggers want is a voice (and maybe a house of our own!). I think most readers are smart enough to know which voices they should listen to. The guy who argues that Alex Rodriguez is definitely gay, on a blog titled, "Red Sawx 4ever, Bitches!" doesn't have much credibility. No one will take him seriously. So what are you afraid of?

However, there are bloggers who do good work. They break stories and work hard for scoops. They're constantly posting news and information, usually faster than the real media outlets. They take their work seriously.

We here at Flotsam don't take our work that seriously. We're all goddamn nutbags. But through the beauty of the Internet, people still want to come read our site every day. It confuses the hell out of us at times. Maybe if the "real" journalists offered up something new for once, readers wouldn't need to seek out the sports opinions of a seven-year-old, or a deranged war veteran, or a high school socialite with no actual sports knowledge.

But as long as thousands of sportswriters continue to write boring stories, filled with antiquated ideas that shred whatever small bit of credibility remains in the world of sports journalism, there will be a place for us.

Thanks for that, Bob. Tell your colleagues to keep up the great work.

Brenda's BMOC All-Stars

2008-03-13T13:35:00.005-05:00

By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite

So, like back in November, I picked my pre-season All-Americans, which was really hard because there are a lot of hot guys who play Division 1 basketball, and none of them had played a game of basketball yet. Now that we're in championship week, when everyone goes like super-crazy for these tournaments that don't even matter if you're in a major conference, it's time for my postseason picks.

Tyler Hansbrough, North Carolina. So I already said that he was like, super hot without that awful mask from last year, and he spread his hotness all over the ACC all year. Have you totally seen that picture of him side-by-side with Beaker? Like, Muppets are totally endearing. If I ever had a fantasy about getting with a Muppet, it would be Tyler Hansbrough. Oh my god, shut up, don't look at me like that. You've totally had that fantasy, too.

Kevin Love, UCLA. Dreamboat! Like, if I had known that he was going to be so muscular and hot, I would never have put Darren Collison as the UCLA representative on my preseason list. He's suuuuuch a stallion, and he's like 32 years old, which makes him even hotter. Plus, he has that total porn name, which adds to his mystery, and probably guarantees addition to something else. And you know how I feel about running along the beaches in Southern Cal. Like, I love me some Love.

Michael Beasley, Kansas State. Tattoos are yummy when affixed to the right arms, and nobody has hunky guns like Mike B. When he's rich and famous after going as the top pick in the NBA Draft, I really hope I can find a way to get invited to parties at his mansion. Last year's parties were so lame after Greg Oden got all hurt and stuff. Injured basketball stars are gross.

Luke Harangody, Notre Dame. I really usually take a pass on players who are a little fatty, but Luke is like strong, and Notre Dame was really good because of him. And hello, I totally have a strong Catholic background, and he's from the most Catholicest place on Earth, and his name is Luke. He's like a prophet. That's so hot.

D.J. Augustin, Texas. At some point, I like totally need to have a guard, because they're so much easier to make out with in public. It's so not cool to see a 6-foot-13 guy hunched over while you try to make everyone else in the room jealous. But DJ is smaller, and quick and definitely dreamy. I could be his Southern cowgirl.

People I've Impersonated

2008-03-12T10:06:00.003-05:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Dog, there is some funny funny shit coming out of the world of soccer, probably the most entertaining story about soccer ever. I've seen soccer games, my bitches, and it's like watching body paint dry. An entire sport dedicated to foreplay and no scoring. Shit dog, I've read "No Exit" by Jean-Paul Sartre. I know what hell looks like.

Anyway, some Italian cat claimed he was Nicolas Cage, and the Real Madrid soccer team fed him a nice meal and was like, "damn, that's Nic Cage!" even though the guy had an accent. Seriously, couldn't you figure that shit out? Didn't you make him say "Carla WAS the prom queen" and giggle, cuz The Rock is the bad-assest movie of our generation?

Stupid soccer players.

But it reminds me of the many times I have impersonated someone famous to gain entry to a club, restaurant or amusement park. Don't pretend like you ain't done it! Dog, the world is damn expensive, and you have to take every advantage you can get.

My three favorite instances:

1. In 2003, some fine kitty in Miami thought I was Ricky Williams and ushered me to this bitchin gala for High Times Magazine in a downtown high rise. Dog that was fun, even if the details are foggy. Problem was when they started asking me to wear a wedding dress for some photo shoot. Dog, it don't matter what I'm smoking, I ain't wearing no dress. I got my pride.

2. Spring training 2004, I told the Los Angeles Dodgers I was Guillermo Mota, started speaking pretend Spanish and throwing gas in some split squad games. Dog, the commercials tell you Visa is everywhere you want to be, but apparently they don't count the Dominican Republic, cuz Mota was hella late and the Dodgers needed a middle reliever. I probably shouldn't have started spreading a rumor that I got down with Paul DePodesta's wife, cuz that little nerdy man never forgot it. The real Mota showed up before the regular season, but his ass got traded to Florida before the deadline.

3. I got myself a VIP club pass in Beijing one summer after I told the bouncer that I am the glorious Orlando Bloom. Shit I was the life of the party, until someone who actually had seen Lord of the Rings said I wasn't no Orlando Bloom, that O-Bloom is a white guy with pointy ears. Do I look like the nerdboy who watches that shit? Dude has a black first name -- Orlando Jones, anyone? Orlando Cepeda? I wound up getting kicked out. Gotta bring my pointy ears next time.

Snip snip

2008-03-11T21:51:00.000-05:00

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

We have entered the weeks of the bracket, when sports enthusiasts who have no interest in college basketball suddenly become ravenous fans, cheering for perennial heavyweights to exert their will on lesser, helpless programs in an effort to preserve their office pool and the $20 worth of potential reward.

It reminds me of fonder times, when I would trap chipmunks in the family garage with Marquis de Sade -- my dear, often under-fed 225-pound rottweiler. The value of this exercise was intrinsic, however, and not monetary.

But something new has come about that has tickled my fancy in this NCAA season. An Oregon urology clinic is encouraging men to use this time to recover from a vasectomy. You need 2-4 days to recover, apparently, which I find delicious. Oh, to be the happy housewife on days five through 10.

The article notes this clinic will deliver a recovery kit, including sports magazines and free pizza delivery. In other words, the clinic is looking to give men their American dream -- guilt-free sex, junk food, sports periodicals and four days of nothing but Greg Gumbel's curious mat of hair, split screen televisions and buzzer-beating baskets.

Men are so passive in their love of March Madness. I prefer to get involved, flying to substandard arenas across the country during Championship Week and storming the court with irresponsible college students, regardless of my cheering allegiance. With any luck, I will be seen on national television no fewer than three times, and will have no fewer than four random hook-ups, inspired by the alcohol intake and throes of ecstasy available shortly after an NCAA tourney berth.

If you are lucky enough to encounter the Moonfry during this electric time in history, be respectful. Otherwise, your vasectomy won't be accompanied by pizza and Sports Illustrated.

Dude, I am your father

2008-03-10T11:19:00.007-05:00

Dusty Baker
Evil Incarnate

The destruction is almost complete.

As I have taken control of the Cincinnati Reds this spring, I will graciously lend my knowledge to them. They shall soon see the way to power. They will learn that anger, not patience, is the way to dominance.

Ignoring the traditional wisdom of most men, I have gone down a path less-traveled -- a path that most men are too fearful to face. In my plan, my Opening Day outfield will consist of Norris Hopper, Corey Patterson and Ryan Freel.

Impressive. Most impressive.

In training, I recently told young Joey Votto to give into his aggression. I wanted him to feel the power of swinging the bat, and letting the fear of a called third strike take control. Feed your anger, I told him. Feel the power course through your veins.

Incredibly, the young man disagreed with me, saying that he preferred an approach based on patience. I find his lack of faith disturbing.

I've encountered similar troubles with Adam Dunn, who waits for an eternity at the plate. He will take suitable pitch after suitable pitch, often drawing a walk. A man that large should unleash his fearsome swing at every opportunity. He is as clumsy as he is stupid, I've come to find out.

(breathes heavily)

Search your feelings, Adam. Embrace the power of the Dark Side. As you stand in the box, wield your bat and swing ruthlessly at each and every ball. I pay no mind to what your pithy notions of the strike zone may be. Aggression is power. Do not pacify your approach at the plate.

As for you, young Jay Bruce, you underestimate the power of the Dark Side. Corey Patterson has embraced the power. You, unfortunately, remain resistant. Should you continue to ignore what I present to you, you will face your destiny: Triple-A Louisville. Trifle me not with your top prospect ranking. I am most displeased with your apparent lack of progress.

Your thoughts betray you. You know you feel the desire to swing at that 3-0 fastball on the outer edge. Do not resist. I will not accept walking, as that is the path of the weak. The only option is to swing, and swing hard. You have controlled your fear. Now, release your anger. Only your hatred can destroy the baseball.

I know the ways of the Force, young Reds. Aggression is the path to dominance. Only by giving into the Dark Side can you reach your ultimate potential. Swing hard, and swing often.

Now, young Bruce. Do you wish to finally learn from the Master? Give in to your fears. Let them soak into you. Feel the hate.

Yes, yes. The Force is strong in this one.

Fly away, Brett

2008-03-07T14:58:00.003-06:00

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Momma was the one who told me. I was in the kitchen when she hollarred for me. I still remember the conversation like it was yesterday. When Jonny Dave changed and won’t never be the same.

Momma: Jonny Dave! Come ‘ere!

Me: Why, Momma? I’m busy.

Momma: Busy? What’re you so busy with?

Me: I was outside playin’ and I got dirt all down my pants. No I’m tryin’ to get it out.

Momma: You got what where? And you’re in the kitchen? Jonny Dave!

Me: Momma, how else am I gonna get the dirt out unless I pull my pants down. Just quit talkin’ to me right now and let me finish. I’m almost done.

Momma: Jonny Dave, you hitch up those britches right this minute and get in here. You know good and well that you’re not allowed to take your pants down in the kitchen. Now come ON. I got somethin’ to tell ya.

( I hitched up those britches and went in the livin’ room)

Me: What do ya want Momma? The dirt’s makin’ me real uncomfortable.

Momma: Well just quit pickin’ at yourself for one minute please and listen. STOP! Ok…I just saw Brett Favre on TV…that’s your favorite foot ball player, right?

Me: Yeah, Momma. He’s my favorite. But only because he’s awesome and smart and super hand-

Momma (interruptin’): Ok, ok. I get it. (sigh) Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I saw Brett Favre on TV sayin’ that he’s retired. There, I told you. And he was cryin’ like a baby, too. Now you can go back to pickin’ dirt outta yer crack or whatever it was. Just please do it outside or in your room.

Me: Wait, what? Momma what are talking about.

Momma: Jonny Dave, I don’t wanna see your pimpled butt in the kitchen or anywhere near me or worry about you backin’ up against our food with that nasty thing. Please. Just take it up to your room or outside or somethin’.

Me: No, Momma. I don’t understand about Brett. He’s tired? Of course he is. They had a long season. Anybody’d be tired. He’ll be alright, though.

Momma (with her head in her hands): Jonny Dave, why ya gotta make stuff so hard? You know what I mean. Brett Favre ain’t playin’ football anymore. He’s gone! He’s retired! And he’s a crybaby, apparently. Deal with it.

Me: Momma, you better shut yer face right now. First of all, Brett Favre ain’t NEVER gonna quit playin’ football. He loves the game. He’s like a kid out there on the field. Or ain’t you heard? Second of all, there ain’t NOTHIN’ wrong with a man sheddin’ some tears. Brett’s a REAL man. Like ME. And the only retirement today is gonna be me retirin’ as your son and the ceremony’s gonna be takin’ place up in my tree in about 2 minutes! I HATE YOU!

(I stormed out, slammin’ the door behind me.)

Momma: I love that boy so much and I’m so proud of him. I wish I could be the momma he deserves. I’m gonna sit her and cry and think about how I can be a better momma.

Actually, I can‘t be for sure, that’s what Momma said when I ran out of the house because I was already halfway up my tree by that point. I like to think that’s what she said though.

I spent the rest of the day and the better part of the night up in my tree. I didn’t wanna believe it but, deep down, I knew it was true. I just kept thinkin’ about all the good times I had with Brett. Him playin’ football games. Him throwin’ footballs. Me cheerin’ him. Him runnin’ around like a kid out there. The stadium’s like a church or somthin’ to him, ya know? All the nights I stayed up late in my bed just thinkin’ about Brett. Those were beautiful times.

While I sat in my tree recollettin’, a little baby bird flew down and got caught in my mullet. He sure was wild and unable to be tamed. I untangled the lil’ fella and took a good look at him. He sure looked like a gunslinger bird to me. Right then, I took it as an omen and named the birdie "Brett." Brett had come back to me. I planned on raising that bird as my own kin. I would call Brett the bird “son” and he would call me “father.”

As I sat in my tree and pondered all the things I would teach Brett, things my daddy wasn’t around to teach me, I felt something slimy and warm in my palm. Oh no. This wasn’t good. I guess I was holdin’ Brett too hard and he, well, it was pretty nasty. He pooped in my hand. Daggum, there was a lot of it, too. I was so grossed out that I let go of Brett. He flew right at my face like a kid or somethin’ and pecked me in the cheek, almost takin’ out my left eye. I slapped at the wound with the poop-covered hand and smeared that stuff all over my face and in the peck-wound. There musta been some pee in the poop because it immediately started stingin, from the ammonia, I suspect.

Between the pain and Brett flyin’ aound my head like a little kid up there just havin’ all kinds of fun, I started to lose my balance. I swatted at him to he wouldn’t peck my eyes out in love. He was havin’ too much fun to worry about consequences, I guess. I yelled out, Son, leave your daddy be! But it was too late. My butt slipped off the branch and I fell outta my tree and landed right on my back.

As I lay there, I thought about what it all meant. I felt so alone. My heart hurt. I was pretty sure that I might never walk again. Then I saw Brett up there flyin’. He looked like he was havin’ so much fun. He was like a kid up there. Flyin’ around. Havin’ fun. It was beautiful. I was so proud of him. That’s when it hit me. I knew what it all meant. That bird. That bird that got caught up in my mullet. That bird was Brett. Or Brett’s spirit, rather. And poopin’ in my hand. And tryin’ to peck out my eye. And chasin’ me outta my tree. Well, that was just Brett’s way of tellin’ me that it was time to let him go.

So, I gotta let him go be Brett off somewhere else. And that’s alright. Because it’s time. And because I couldn’t catch him anyway even if it wasn’t time. And realizin’ that. That took me to tears even when I thought I was all cried out. Only these were tears of understandin’. Go your own way, Brett. We’ll always have football. We’ll always have Thansgivin’. We’ll always have poop. But I can’t never all the way let you go, Brett. THAT just ain’t in me.

I’m almost all cried out now. Y’all be good.

You're a bunch of peckers

2008-03-07T08:43:00.006-06:00

By Jonathan Livingston
Seagull

For years, I have kept my beak shut.

There are many stages to grief, and many more when you consider the limited capacity of the average bird's brain. It's tough to move on when you re-realize every so often that you've lost someone you love. Eventually, of course, I coped with the death of my brother, Josiah, coming to terms with the possibility that his death was an accident.

But now, I have a partner in the cold, cruel world of birds vs. balls. And I refuse to hover idly by.

Some poor hawk was just minding its own business when a PGA golfer decided he would take it down with a 9-iron, bringing bird cruelty to a new level. As birds, we have been subjected to countless random acts of sports violence, merely for trying to survive in a world that -- let's face it -- doesn't exactly make it easy for feathered friends.

Which brings me to Josiah. I can tolerate the dissatisfaction with the general public in Detroit when we descend on the moths living in Comerica Park, and I can accept that nobody in Kansas City appreciates it when my neighbors The Buzzards start circling Kauffman Stadium in mid-July. But bird murder is another matter.

Surely, you all remember my brother as the dove killed in Tucson by a Randy Johnson fastball during 2001 Spring Training.

I can't even watch that video without tearing up. Suddenly, my brother was gone, reduced to a tuft of feathers and fractured bones. And what has happened since? Have there been memorials dedicated to this dove, who stood for peace and understanding? Have their been honorary first pitches or other pregame ceremonies recalling his memory? Of course not.

Instead, he's been the butt of jokes, featured on highlight reels and video packages, usually accompanied by a giggling John Kruk, with relish dripping off his chin as he clumsily smears it away. Randy Johnson saunters around with his long hair and strangeness, completely unrepentant of his crime. Everyone thinks it's funny!

Well, no longer. I have been inspired by the murdered hawk, and I officially file legal suit against Randy Johnson, the Arizona Diamondbacks, Major League Baseball, SportsCenter, YouTube, John Kruk, and humans in general. I hope you're all prepared for a fight.

Ooh! Is that birdseed?!

Sports aren't as important as you think

2008-03-06T14:37:00.002-06:00

By David Harrison
Sports Fan

I love sports as much as the next guy, but every once in a while (especially now, when there isn't much going on in the sports world), it's important to remember that there are other things going on elsewhere on the planet.

I mean, just how important is sports in the big picture, anyway? Things like politics, international conflict, the environment and economics are far more relevant to our day-to-day lives.

For example, yesterday it was revealed that Barack Obama raised $55 million for his ad campaign in February -- roughly $20 million more than Hillary Clinton in that timeframe. That is some chunk of change! It makes A-Rod's contract look not so bad after all. I think it's also going to leave us with some interesting questions -- I mean Hillary is gaining in the polls even though Barack is raising all these funds. It's like the Oakland Athletics -- how do they keep coming back and thriving when teams are spending and spending?

Wow, look at that, I started talking about sports! I guess I'm just so used to it -- but anyway, there are better analogies and more important things in the world. I mean, we're talking about the next President of the United States!

You think John McCain is going to have a head-start by taking the Republican nomination so early, while the Democrats are still battling it out? For me, it's hard to say. I don't think Cornell has a better chance to win in the NCAA Tournament just because they got the earliest bid, and this is pretty much the same thing. Except I suppose John McCain is better than Cornell. He's like Memphis or Tennessee.

Speaking of, Tennessee came so close to losing the other night. I was actually cheering for Florida (you know, the state that could decide the Democratic nominee) to crush that smug Bruce Pearl.

Whoops, there I go again. My bad. Did you see that Southwest Airlines was flying unsafe airplanes as recently as last March? I flew Southwest for business, and that really freaks me out a little bit. How do these people think they're going to get away with it? I think it's bananas that the Western Conference is so deep, that a team like the Blazers might not make the playoffs. Brandon Roy, that guy has been ROCKING, and it would suck if he didn't get to at least be this year's Golden State Warriors.

I'm sure you saw the coverage this morning of that bomb attack in Jerusalem, which is really awful. I was flipping back and forth between the Brett Favre press conference -- he was practically bawling his eyes out as he officially announced his retirement. I can't even envision the NFL without Brett Favre. Whatever though, I cheer for the Vikings, so this can only help matters.

It's terrible that Patrick Swayze has cancer or whatever. My wife loves Dirty Dancing. God, I can't wait until this spring training garbage is over and we start playing real baseball games. And the NCAA Tournament! LeBron James is a manchild of epic proportions. Tiger is going to be the face of golf for the next century. This is interesting: police just arrested a Russian arms overlord, but yes! That guy in my fantasy league passed on Russell Martin in the third round and he is MINE MINE MINE.

Football-tennis-soccer-lacrosse-nascar.

Backflippin' is for trannies

2008-03-05T09:11:00.002-06:00

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Jonny Dave Floyd is the NASCAR expert for Flotsam Media. Jonny Dave is unable to fulfill his dream of becoming a “fightin’ man” in the armed forces because of various hair-length restrictions for males. However, he currently shows his support for the U.S. military by refraining from French kissing and wearing a set of dog tags that he had made up at Petco.

These past two NASCAR races have made me just sick. Sick of seein’ what’s become of the sport I love. Two weeks in a row of seein’ a daggum backflip at the end of the race? A backflip! The only time I wann see a daggum backflip is if I’m watchin’ daggum cheerleadin’ practice and the backflipper’s wearin’ some kinda daggum lil skirt thing. Now I gotta see them things at the end of a RACE? By a DUDE? That ain’t how I wanna end a perfect day of sittin’ on the couch, eatin’ corndogs, and watchin’ fast cars go in circles. That ain’t no happy ending in Jonny Dave’s fairytale.

You know what it’s like? It’s like you meet this nice lil chick-a-dee that really blows your hair back. You go to courtin’ her and it all goes real good. Finally, ya pop the question and she accepts. Then ya get married. The weddin’s just like you always dreamed it would be with all your friends and family there to celebrate the beginnin’ of the holiest of matrimonies.

The reception is dang near perfect with plenty of corn dogs, grape soda, and line dancin’. Your best man catches the garter and the maid of honor catches the bouquet and then they hook up in the men’s room later. Couple dates are gonna be awesome from now on. When you leave, you take your new bride to the good Best Western down the interstate. You know which one I mean. The one with the indoor pool and hot tub and free cotton-ental breakfast.

When ya get to the room, ya find it’s got two queen beds so y’all get to do it twice before ya need to call for new sheets. Ya sweep her up and get her on the bed and it’s time for all that courtin’ and Freedom kissin’ to finally pay off. You’re thinkin’ that it’s the perfect end to the perfect day as ya tear off that weddin’ skirt. Oh man, there’s about to be some righteous lovemakin’ goin’ on. But, tender and sensitive, too, ya know? Anyway, ya get that weddin’ skirt off the bride, look down, and ... huh? There’s a daggum trouser snake winkin’ up at ya. SHE’S GOT A PECKER! A big one, too. Bigger’n yours, anyway. You married a DUDE! He probly does backflips, too. QUEER!

What I’m gettin’ at is that second pecker moment just taints everything leadin’ up to it. It’s cancelled out all those good feelings and it leaves ya with a sour taste in your mouth. There just ain’t nothin’ right about it. Just like there ain’t nothin’ right about seein’ some fruity backflip after a race. They’s both tragedies that end the same way -- with an angry Jonny Dave.

And that’s why Carl Edwards doin’ backflips is just like accidentally marryin’ a dude.

Uh, except I’ve actually seen Carl Edwards doin’ backflips and the other stuff was strictly a hypothetical situation. It never happened. Ya hear me? It was all made up.

Other’n that, though ...

it’s exactly the same.

That’s all I got. Y’all be good.

Death is like, sad

2008-03-04T11:29:00.002-06:00

By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite

I know what death is like, and it totally sucks.

Like, 5 summers ago, my family had a guineau pig named Einstein. We called it that because it's hair was really all over the place. It totally smelled and grossed me out, but I still cried a little bit when it died. It got run over by the lawnmower. Fur was like, everywhere.

So when someone like, really famous dies, it's super tragic. I was so sad when Heath Ledger died, for example, but I'm even sadder that Brett Favre is dead.

Brett is totally like this southern gentleman who is like, always smiling and laughing and probably smells really nice. Have you ever read "A Time To Kill" by John Grisham? I so haven't, but I saw the movie with dreamy Matthew McConaughey, and it was really good. That's what Mississippi is like -- lots of like, violence and alligators. And so Brett Favre sort of rose above all that to make a career in the NFL.

Seriously, the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel needs to get with it ... they totally have a typo on his "in memorium" logo thing at the top. They said he's only been alive since 1992. Hello, he's not 15 years old. He's like, sixty.

Anyway, everybody is talking about Favre now, and sharing memories and totally loving him from beyond the grave, and that's really sweet. When my grandma died when I was little, we would go to her cemetery and sort of, like, talk to her. Grandmas are so great, and so is Brett Favre. I told her that I wanted to be a superstar cheerleader when I grew up, and that I just got the cutest pink dress for the Little Miss Oklahoma pageant. I was like, maybe someday I'll get to be a cheerleader in an NFL game. Maybe I could even be with a football player like Brett Favre. Never, like, give up on your dreams.

I don't think I'll go to Brett Favre's grave or anything, but I'm totally going to watch all the highlight packages and teary farewell speeches on SportsCenter tonight. Oh my god! He's so lovable. Like Teddy Ruxpin, except Southern and football-ish.

Randy Moss is a cancer

2008-03-03T17:54:00.006-06:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

You know what, SCREW Randy Moss!

We didn't need him anyway on the Patriots. All this talk about him going to another team, talking to Brett Favre and Daunte Culpepper and anyone who will listen? That's garbage! Let him go. Let him leave the Patriots and see where it gets him. He'll be out of the league in two years!

You know there's more to being an elite wide receiver than touchdowns. He's not a leader! He's not a hustler! He hates everyone who isn't telling him how great he is 24/7! LOSER! Just because he catches a lot of touchdowns doesn't make him so great. Why didn't he have great seasons before this one? I'll tell you why: TOM BRADY.

Without Brady, Moss is just an unhappy attention hog who can't catch anything. Tom Brady is the engine and Randy Moss is the windshield wiper. EASILY REPLACEABLE. If you can figure out those clips and nuts and bolts -- I hate those things!

I hate his stupid dreadlocks and stupid assault cases. He's a distraction! In New England, it's about being AMERICA'S TEAM, being a leader and a star and a great face. Randy Moss is just a guy who catches the balls that are thrown to him perfectly, through three defenders. Do you know who else was useless? Donte Stallworth and Asante Samuel. If it weren't for those guys, the Patriots would have been Super Bowl champions!

While I'm on my soapbox, is GEORGE STEINBRENNER'S SON CRAZY? talking about how Red Sox Nation is a make-believe thing. RED SOX NATION IS THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. Last I checked, the Yankees didn't have any World Championships in the last eight years. But the Red Sox have two!

Don't get me wrong, I still love the Yankees. But they're bananas! JOSH BECKETT FOR MVP.

As for the Patriots -- I can forgive cheating and the coaching weirdness (as long as it's the GENIUS BILL BELICHICK), but someone wanting to play for someone else is totally against regulations. Once a Patriot, always a Patriot!

Update: 4:30 p.m. MOSS SIGNED! Unfinished business in Patriots Country/Red Sox Nation my friends! Super Bowl chaaaaaampions, here comes the Patriots!

NFL free agency primer

2008-02-29T10:35:00.003-06:00

By Murphy Kramer
Punters win championships

Coach Murphy Kramer is the head football coach at Plano Horizons High School in Plano, Ohio. His Fighting Broncos have a 16-68 mark in his nine seasons at the helm, including a 1-8 mark last season.

I love NFL free agency. I love the rumors. I love the uncertainty of not knowing where a key player is going to end up. I love agile black men and their powerful hamstrings.

Every year, I grab myself a pad of paper and a writing instrument and evaluate the top talent that is readily available. I then send it off to each NFL team in an unmarked, white envelope. Despite this yearly ritual, I have never been compensated for my efforts, despite the time I told the Patriots to sign Adalius Thomas and they did, and he was awesome, just like I said he would be. Where's my cut of the check, Bill?

Anyway, here is a list of this year's best of the best, my notes included:

Alan Faneca, G

Large man. Shaggy hair and beard. Blocks defensive lineman. Does it pretty well. Once ate a rabid goose while it was alive just to teach a classroom full of first-grade children about the dangers of not properly cooking your meat. Spent four days in a hospital after the incident. Returned to the field two days later to block for Willie Parker's 213-yard game against the Saints. Slightly largely-than-normal testicles.

Prediction: St. Louis Rams

Bernard Berrian, WR

Best NFL player named "Bernard." Runs really fast, similar to many NFL wide receivers. Known for being a snazzy dresser, possibly an indication of homosexual behavior. Probably OK for a wide receiver. Reportedly would "kill someone" just to play with a real NFL quarterback, since he never has.

Prediction: Miami Dolphins

Flozell Adams, OT

Big human being. "Flozell" is not his real name; it is short for "Flozelliam." Pregame ritual included stuffing Tony Romo in a locker and then eating six ham and cheese sandwiches. Quick feet should allow him to remain effective for several more seasons before he balloons to 430 pounds and his feet are crushed under the weight of his own body.

Prediction: After I wrote this, I found out that he re-signed with the Cowboys. I predict: Cowboys.

Lance Briggs, LB

Overrated little bitch who only looks good because he plays next to Brian Urlacher. He'll fade into mediocrity and probably die from syphillis within three years. Also, whiny.

Prediction: Washington Redskins

Asante Samuel, CB

People pay lots of money for cornerbacks, and Samuel will get lots of money. Has been described by many as "infectious" in the locker room, which, to me, is not a positive thing. That's two STD jokes in a row, if you're keeping track.

Prediction: Philadelphia Eagles

Michael Turner, RB

Fantasy football has doubled Turner's value, simply because everyone knows him as LaDanian Tomlinson's handcuff. Without this, he would simply be another backup running back. Will find it difficult to get running room away from San Diego's offensive line. He's a big back, which means he seeks out contact and will always be injury-prone. Buyer beware, sayeth Murph the soothsayer.

Prediction: Detroit Lions

We demand recompense

2008-02-28T10:00:00.006-06:00

By Jay Bruce and Joey Votto
Good baseball players

To Whom It May Concern:

We, the undersigned, are writing to file a complaint regarding our supervisor. This is not a matter of unprofessional behavior or sexual harassment, the weird peeping incident in the shower notwithstanding.

We are lodging a complaint because our immediate supervisor is -- in technical terms -- a dipshit.

Johnnie "Dusty" Baker was hired to manage our local baseball team. We were open to the idea at the time. We were, apparently, also high on mescaline.

Let's get this straight right away: We're immensely talented individuals. We're very good at baseball. Jay was recently named the No. 1 prospect in all of baseball, and is coming off a season where he recorded a .925 OPS at Triple-A, at the age of 20. That's, like, outstanding. Joey put up a .908 OPS at the Major League level last season, at age 23. Admirable, at the very worst.

However, Dusty has recently said the following things, as documented by various media publications:

When Baker was asked who would hit leadoff when Ryan Freel and Norris Hopper aren’t playing, he said: "I hope one or the other is in the game."

“Yeah,” Baker said, “but what if you say, ‘Go play, kid,’ and he’s not ready to play winning baseball? Is it OK to overlook that? I don’t know."

"It's no secret that [Bruce] is a star of the future," Baker said. "He could be a star of the present, who knows? I'm very impressed talking with him, but there's more to baseball than just hitting, too."

He keeps talking in practice about how much he likes Norris Hopper in center field. That's Jay's position. But Dusty seems to prefer Norris, who is this lanky guy who has one home run in 342 career at-bats. Basically, he slugs like Elton John. And Dusty wants to start him over uber-phenom-studmuffin, Jay Bruce. Baker keeps saying that Jay chose the "earning business," so he has to earn what he gets. He says that about playing time, the Gatorade jug and the bathroom. Seriously. The other day he made Jay do 60 pushups before he could use a urinal. Mike Stanton got to walk right in and pee. It's not fair.

Furthermore, he keeps calling Joey "Jessie" and only lets him take batting practice off a tee, with a Nerf ball.

Everyone on the team under age 30 is terrified. Johnny Cueto says he doesn't sleep at night. Homer Bailey has already scheduled an appointment with Dr. James Andrews for August. Once, Brandon Phillips went into Dusty's office and Dusty had 15 candles lit and John Lee Hooker playing on the stereo. Dusty started asking Brandon if he liked large-mouth bass fishing, and Brandon's pretty sure that Dusty was trying to seduce him.

The man even stands on top of a scaffolding during practice, and he wears creepy sunglasses, even when it's cloudy. Also, why the fuck does he have wristbands on?

Yesterday, Jay was taking some simulated at-bats off Gary Majewski and drew a walk. Dusty spit out his toothpick, stormed over and told Jay that "Walking is for dogs, not baseball players." Then he made Jay sit out in left field with a dog collar around his neck and told him that Hank Aaron never took a walk.

We checked, and Hank Aaron walked 1,402 times in his career. But Dusty said numbers are like trout: everyone has a few lying around somewhere, and it doesn't mean you're special. We don't know what that means.

Monday, Homer was throwing on the side for a workout, and Dusty watched for about six pitches, and then told Homer he'd come back and tell him when to stop. Dusty never came back, and Homer ended up throwing 483 pitches. Dusty later said that Juan Marichal would throw that many pitches in the morning, then go out later in the day and throw another 200, and still have enough energy to hit Johnny Roseboro in the head with his bat. Who is Johnny Roseboro?

So, please. We beg you. For the sake of our careers, our lives, the City of Cincinnati, the career of Wayne Krivsky, the sanity of Adam Dunn. Please. Do something to get this man out of power. If he is not removed from his managerial position by March 1, we will be forced to move to Japan and resume our professional careers there. We hear Fukuoka is lovely this time of year.

You have 24 hours.

Best regards,

Jay Bruce and Joey Votto

Gone in a flash

2008-02-27T12:29:00.003-06:00

There is a plaque on one of the facility walls at the RCA Dome in Indianapolis, home of the NFL Scouting Combine, and a litany of NFL superstars can find their names chiseled into the sleek gold-plated tags.

Bo Jackson. Randy Moss. Deion Sanders. Devin Hester. Reggie Bush.

Eric Henderson sits on the crippled makeshift bleachers overlooking the combine field’s northwest corner, and he knows each and every name. He knows them in order, and he knows the values associated with each one. He knows he can find his name among them, mounted in the lofty pole position among Indy’s greatest engines.

On the list of 40-yard dash times recorded at the NFL combine, no one has been able to match Henderson’s 1998 time.

It was the stuff of legends when the former cornerback from relatively unknown Sandusky State ran a 4.12. Yet, Henderson is here at the combine, watching the proceedings just as he has each of the last six years, wondering what could have been. Because as fast as Henderson was, his career torpedoed out of sight just as quickly.

“I think I’m probably the NFL’s fastest cautionary tale,” Hederson says. This is a line he has used many times before. And it fits him as snugly as the red Under Armour workout shirt he is wearing today.

COLD DAY IN INDY

Henderson was a relative unknown at the 1998 combine, lost among the blue chippers from Miami, Michigan, Oklahoma and Tennessee. “Where was Sandusky State?” his fellow NFL hopefuls would ask, and he would give them their answer, knowing the answer would fall on deaf ears. It was just polite conversation, after all. These guys had their eyes set on the NFL since the day they stepped onto a football field, and no small-timer from Somewhere U. was going to register on the radar.

Cornerbacks were solid at the combine, and Henderson found himself brushing shoulders with future first-rounders R.W. McQuarters, Terry Fair and Duane Starks. Heisman winner Charles Woodson was also in attendance, yukking it up with Peyton Manning and no doubt postulating over which way the locals would go with the first overall pick – Leaf or Manning? Henderson was oblivious to that discussion. He was just hoping some team saw him and thought enough of him to use a late-round pick.

“I knew I could fly, and my senior year had been really solid,” Henderson said, shielding his eyes from the overhead lights to watch Arkansas running back Darren McFadden run Henderson’s featured event. “I just didn’t think anybody had seen me play at Sandusky. I mean, the game film I had was shot by handheld camcorders, man. We didn’t exactly get any face-time on the big networks.”

McFadden surges through the 40, and Henderson smiles. He’s impressed.

“He’s fast, boy. Not as fast as me, but he’s fast.”

It was a cold day when Henderson ran the same event in 1998, so much so that officials had considered moving the dash until later in the combine week, when bodies weren’t so rigid in the late-February chill. But the clocks were ready to register by 2 p.m. Henderson was somewhere in the middle of the pack, and when he heard his name called and stepped to the line, he had what he views as a near-religious experience.

“I could feel everyone who has ever supported me,” Henderson said. “I felt God, my mom, my brothers and sisters, my coaches, my third grade teacher, and old-man Jimmy Davis from down the street. I heard their voices and saw their faces. It was weird, man. I just knew something positive was going to happen. I don’t know if it was a religious awakening or anything like that, but I knew it was my time to shine.”

The pistol sounded with a bang, and Henderson was off.

THE AFTERMATH

When he crossed the line, there was no loud cheer of celebration. Instead, there was silence.

“They had all been talking and waiting for their turn; I don’t think anybody was really paying attention,” Henderson said. “But then they saw the 4.12, and I think that made everybody stop for a second.”

When Henderson turned around to see the digital readout, he said he nearly felt his knees give out. He didn’t know the last time someone had timed him in the 40-yard dash – maybe high school – because he viewed it as superstitious to time himself in the weeks leading up to the event.

“I didn’t want to feel like I was chasing a clock,” Henderson said. “It’s like that guy who’s trying to lose weight and stands on the scale every day, and gets disappointed when he doesn’t lose a half-pound or even gains a pound. I knew I wasn’t going to get faster right away, so I kept training without that stopwatch restraint. I had no idea what I was going to run.”

Henderson said he never thought his NFL candidacy hinged so heavily on the 40-yard dash, or else he may have viewed it differently.

“Absolutely, everyone’s eyes opened when that reading came out,” said one official who declined to be identified. “You can’t just find 4.12 guys on trees. I mean, show me that tree. I think it’s safe to say his stock rose faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, and you better believe that pun is intended. It’s just too bad how it all turned out.”

Suddenly, Eric Henderson’s name was gracing the lips of every NFL team official on hand. The Miami Dolphins wanted him to fly in for a workout after the Combine. The San Francisco 49ers wanted to get in touch with his college coordinators. The New York Jets wanted a copy of game film. Henderson was the Combine’s rising star – the kid nobody had seen coming. Not even Mel Kiper.

Mock drafts began projecting Henderson as a late first-rounder before the end of the day. He had gone from the anonymity of Sandusky State to the heavily-saturated world of NFL Draft coverage in 4.12 seconds. Interview requests started pouring in. Autograph requests intensified. “Hey, you’re the fastest guy out there,” one 10-year-old boy had said while offering Henderson his Nerf football and a black Sharpee.

“It felt so good to be wanted,” Henderson said. “It was a dream come true, and it was all because of just 40 small yards. Can you believe that?”

THE MISTAKE

Three days later, Eric Henderson received a phone call in his Indy hotel room.

He was hoping it was Green Bay Packers general manager Ron Wolf, who had contacted Henderson the day before and was interested in bringing him to the Midwest for a second workout. The Lions and Bears were also interested, and he had begun scouting potential cities with his fiancée, Denise. She liked the big city of Chicago, but he was hoping for someplace more subtle, like St. Louis or Cincinnati.

“When I picked up the phone, I remember exactly how I answered it,” Henderson said. “I said 'hello' real excitedly, just like they do in the movies when everything’s going great just before they’re about to hear some bad news on the other end of the line. It was one of those moments when literally everything going on around me was an incredible dream come true, and I was about to wake up.”

And with that, the wake-up call came clanging into Henderson's room. Metaphorically, at least.

The call was from a Combine official, and he said there had been a malfunction with the timing equipment. It seemed there was a chance the readouts could have been inaccurate for athletes whose last names began with G-J, and they were asking that the dash be re-timed. The 40-yard dash time, they said, was by far the most important aspect of the NFL scouting process, and was the entire basis for some team's draft boards. NFL general managers knew that one-tenth of a second over 120 feet could easily mean the difference between a Super Bowl win and missing the playoffs entirely.

Henderson was devastated. On one hand, why should someone who can run 4.12 seconds be afraid of the results? He didn’t want people to think it was a fluke, and he knew he had no proof otherwise unless he re-ran the event. But he had a suspicion this was going to be a big deal. He had a sneaking, awful suspicion that he never ran 4.12 seconds at all.

“They weren’t totally sure the results were inaccurate, so my name is still up on that plaque and everything,” Henderson notes, pointing in the direction of the hallowed piece of memorabilia. “I guess we’ll never really know. I want to show people that I can run that time and be that guy, but I just haven’t been able to make it happen since. Do I feel in my heart that I’m a 4.12 guy? Yes, I do.”

But, tragically, he didn’t feel it in his feet. He ran no faster than 4.54 in several attempts when he returned to the Indy facility.

“It’s like that scene in a gladiator movie, where everyone is cheering but then the gladiator loses or does something wrong, and everyone in the whole place turns their backs to him,” said former college teammate Jerry Wisdom, who added Henderson was the most devastating shutdown corner he had ever seen. “All the attention he’d been getting just went away. I felt for him, big time.”

The calls stopped pouring in. The interest waned. Henderson had been a literal flash in the pan, and mock drafts stopped mentioning his name. It became apparent that Henderson was going to go undrafted, and when the big day rolled around, the proud third son of a fireman was left off everyone’s draft board. He was just a cornerback with average speed from a school nobody had heard of, and he was quickly lost in the shuffle.

“It was a dream I wanted so badly, and I felt like I had been cheated,” Henderson said. “It wasn’t like I lied on my resume or anything. I really was the fastest guy in camp. And the funny thing is, nobody believes me."

Butt pimples don't lie

2008-02-23T12:02:00.001-06:00

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Jonny Dave Floyd is the NASCAR expert for Flotsam Media. He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t dance. He hopes to stalk Dale Earnhardt, Jr. someday, but Jonny Dave just "can’t find the time" right now.

Well, y’all, the butt pimples did not lie. Daytona happened just as they predicted. I’m gonna start callin’ ‘em…who’s that old guy that made all those predictions? Nostradamus? Yeah. I’m gonna start callin’ them butt pimples the “Nostradamus of my lower half.” Eh…well, that actually seems like a long and laborin’ name so maybe I’ll just call ‘em my “very special” butt pimples or somethin’.

With all of them superpowers and what not, you might get the bright idea that I’m really pretty fond of havin’ ‘em all over my backside. You’d be wrong. They’re kinda embarassin’ and inconvenient, to tell the truth. I’ve tried gettin’ rid of the danged things, but nothin’ seems to work. I wanted to order that stuff that made Tony Romo’s new girlfriend less weird-lookin’ in the face, but Momma said that was a waste of money. She said I could get the same thing from a bottle of rubbin’ alcohol. So, I gave it a shot. Folks, not only did it NOT work, but I couldn’t do a number 2 for three days because of the pain my butthole was in. It was almost indescribable, but, since I’m a professional writer, I’ll clue y’all in.

Have you ever had a really bad sunburn on your arms or back or somethin’? Like maybe you went tubin’ down at the river or fell asleep outside while washin’ your momma’s truck? Has any jokester ever seen that bad sunburn, walked up to ya, and open-hand slapped that sunburn REALLY hard? It hurts, don’t it. A lot. Okay, just imagine that feeling inside of your butt. But worse. And goin’ on for, like, a buncha hours straight. It was bad. Real bad. Of course, Momma always says ya gotta be careful when you’re pourin’ rubbin’ alcohol on your backside because you don’t wanna get any of it up your butt. Now I know why she says that, I suppose.

Since I told ya exactly what would happen before it happened, I guess there’s no need for a Daytona recap, really. I will share a couple thoughts on the race with y’all, though.

1. I figure that Kurt Busch was probly flippin’ Tony Stewart the bird when Busch pushed Newman past Smoke on that last lap. Probly he was flippin’ him off figuratively instead of literally because those guys really should try to be at 10 and 2 at all times.
2. I mighta been wrong about them foreigners. Well, I mighta been wrong about Juan Pablo Montoya, anyways. That lil dude drives like they did in the old days. No mercy. He’s like a tanned Cale Yarborough. A little dude with moxie. Jonny Dave likes seein’ aggressive drivers that always go for the wins instead of bein’ the nice guy. There definitely ain’t no olé stuff for that Mexican.

As for the Auto Club 500, it looks like I’m on my own. The butt pimples are leavin’ me all by my lonesome for this preview. I thought they might on account of them bein’ perturbed about an incident of a couple days ago where I knocked my legs out from under me, fell on my rear, and popped a couple of the bigger zits. It was a mess back there, but well worth it. I kicked that broom farther than anybody else. I never lose at "Kick the Broom."

ANYWAYS, if I’m on my lonesome, then y’all know I’m pickin’ Little E for the win. It’s only the second race of the season, but he’s big-time due for a win. BUT, if I had to pick a backup (you know, in case Junior’s crew chief makes another stupid decision), then I’d probably go with Kyle Busch. Sure, Kyle Busch looks like that little inbred kid from down the road that’s always tryin’ to peek in Momma’s bathroom window when she’s takin’ a shower and then he almost hit me in the head with a rock when I chased him off the last time. But, he’s always got a real good car, it seems. Kyle Busch, I’m talkin’ about. Plus, he drives like he’s on the interstate and just came down with the runs. Again, that’s Busch. I don’t even think the little inbred kid down the road even has a car or knows how to drive. His family’s awful poor.

Alright, that’s all for now. Y’all be good.

CAVS AND CAV NOTS

2008-02-22T14:40:00.003-06:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

That headline was on ESPN today and it blew my mind (CAVS OR CAV NOTS?) I love it! It totally talks about how there is a new power shift in the NBA, how the Cleveland Cavaliers are the new NBA dynasty. Everything is coming together for LeBron and his merry men!

They made the super-uber trade of the millenium and acquired BEN WALLACE and WALLY WORLD for some guys I've never heard of, and Donyell Marshall, Larry Hughes and Dwight Gooden and Ira Newble. Sure, they gave up a lot, but they got BEN WALLACE and his hair! He was having an awesome year in Chicago before he got traded, and now he makes Cleveland the best defensive team in the league. He blocks everything. You've been rejected! He's like Visa every time I call them for a new credit limit. "You've been rejected!" I'm going to start calling him Visa Wallace!

And Wally Sceezzerbacaieka is the best white player in the NBA since HELLO JOHN STOCKTON, and he came from J-Crew U Miami of Ohio and he's been tearing up the NBA for years now. He's the whole reason the SuperSonics hadn't left Seattle yet, and now that he's gone, it's going to be HOLA MEXICO CITY SUPERSONICS. Or maybe Cincinnati.

So Wally is going to be John Stockton to LeBron's Karl Malone, except Bron Bron is WAY better than Karl Malone and John Stockton combined. Ben Wallace is going to be a big tall center in that equation. Olden Polynice! Did he play for the Jazz? Wait, GREG OSTERTAG!

Except Ben Wallace is blacker and has bigger hair. VISA WALLACE. HE DON'T TAKE AMERICAN EXPRESS. In this metaphor, the American Express is the EASTERN CONFERENCE.

The Cavs are unstoppable now. Sure, the Lakers have Kobe and Pau and the Suns have Shaq Fu and the Mavs have Jason Kidd and the Nets have Keith Van Horn, but the Cavs are the new look franchise with title on their mind. It's the BIG THREE IN CLEVELAND.

I forget when...

2008-02-21T15:15:00.004-06:00

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

I have forgotten more in my life than you could possibly remember. I have empirical proof.

In my heyday, people knew and feared Harvey McGuffin. I've accomplished many things, conquered many foreign lands, been with many women and enjoyed my share of good times. There's a lot of exciting memories in this noggin. Some of them have become foggy with time -- like my late-70's romp at Studio 54, my brief boxing career, those three steamy nights I'm pretty sure I spent with Madonna, and pretty much all of last week.

Kelvin Sampson is pretty much done for, all because he forgot he made phone calls to a recruit and felt compelled to make them again. And again. This stuff happens when you get old, people. You forget you had conversations, made phone calls, took your medication or remembered to turn off the stove. That's why my family full of Judases put me in here in the first place -- I left the damn stove on and blew up a local restaurant. I'm not sure why I was in there at 1 a.m., but it's still no reason to commit your patriarch to live with the babbling idiots in a retirement home.

Misremembering happens all the time in sports. If it can happen to Andy Pettitte (drugs) or Sammy Sosa (English), two of sports' greatest assets, then it can happen to anyone. Misrememberization.

What was I talking about? Kelvin Sampson? Is he related to that tall guy from Virginia, Calvin? Of course they are. They're twins. Stupid parents and their insistence on naming twins with cute matching names.

Freddy's Fantasy Flotsam

2008-02-20T20:08:00.003-06:00

Freddy Baird
Fantasy Expert

Hi, guys! I'm back and ready to rap at ya with another edition of Freddy's Fantasy Flotsam. This one is special, because we all know that spring training is heating up and that means baseball season is just around the corner! It's my favorite time of year, and while it's hard to choose my favorite fantasy sport, baseball could be my favorite.

So with that, let's get on to your questions in this all-baseball, all-the-time, fantasy advice issue!

Hey Freddy, love the column. I'm in an eight-team keeper league, and we need to choose four keepers for this year. I had three strong keepers, but I ended needed another, so I traded away Johan Santana for Carl Crawford and Todd Jones. I think saves are real important. Your thoughts on the trade?
- Francisco, Key West, Fla.

Oh my shit. You made that trade, for real? Not only did you allow Todd Jones to land on your team, you gave up the best pitcher in baseball to get him! That's like high-fiving your rapist. Christ. My advice is to leave your league and go read a book, because you obviously are stupid. Also, what goon allows himself to be in an eight-team league? Unreal. You sicken me.

Freddy boy! Long time reader, first time writer. We conducted our draft last week and I think I'm pretty set. I have the No. 1 waiver priority in the league right now, since I had the last pick, and someone just dropped Carlos Marmol. Do you think he's worth using that high of a slot on? Lemme know, bro.
- Danny, Lansing, Mich.

Good question. Waiver priority is harder to crack then Lindsay Lohan ON crack. Marmol is a good reliever, but you never know who can get dropped later. That said, you may want to go for it because you never know what could happen. Last year, in one of my 17 roto leagues, someone dropped BJ Upton midseason. I was ready to spring on that, but then my computer starting acting gay. Seriously, I was trying to make waiver acquisitions, and it was trying to have sex with other Compaq Presarios. Someone else ended up getting Upton.

If you had the top choice in a standard 5 x 5 league, who are you going with?
- Tim, Tacoma, Wash.

Tim, you slut, I'm going with Miguel Cabrera. D'ur.

Who are the sleepers you're targeting in drafts this year? You know, the guys who might fly a bit under the radar, but you think might deliver 100 RBIs or 30 homers. That's the key to any draft.
- Roger B., Springfield, Ohio

You're right, Rog. Without those sleepers providing draft value, you're not going to have a shot. The thing is, you don't want to miss on them. So this year, my surprise picks for big numbers are Ryan Braun, Brandon Phillips, Curtis Granderson, Robinson Cano and Nick Markakis. For pitchers, check out a young southpaw named Scott Kazmir. I know those fellas are young, but don't be afraid to draft them. They've got a pretty good shot to have decent-to-good years. And when they deliver for you, remember who told you first.

That's all of the time we have today. In the meantime -- add, drop and roll!

Previewin' Daytona

2008-02-19T10:46:00.003-06:00

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Jonny Dave Floyd is the NASCAR writer for Flotsam Media. He is currently working on a script for the sequel to Days of Thunder entitled Days of Thunder 2. It’s the story of a young up-and-coming NASCAR driver from the wrong side of the trailer park that just might be the fruit of Cole Trickle’s loins. Even though the script isn’t finished, his momma says it “gave her goosebumples” all over her body.

Gobba geeba DAW, y’all! NASCAR’s back and so am I. I didn’t write as much as I hoped to this offseason, but the information dirt roads can be bumpy and full of holes. I’m here now and just in time for the beginning of the season.

What’s that you’re sayin’? Daytona’s already over and I missed the start of the season and the most exciting and important race of the year? Well, that’s quite the sentence, my friend, but Jonny Dave don’t see it that way.

I don’t even know what happened at the race, folks. Ya see, Jonny Dave went on a little adventure startin’ last Friday and just got back. What was my adventure? Flotsam don’t give me enough space to go into it at right now, but I promise to share it with y’all sometime if ya want me to. It was all in the name of love, by the way. Love of NASCAR, that is. Anyway, just trust me when I say that I don’t know how Daytona turned out.

I thought about watchin’ it and then just givin’ a write-up with no previews or nothin’. But I know how much people love them previews. I’ll probably still give a little report about the finish. Maybe. Chances are, though, ol’ Jonny Dave’s race prediction’s gonna be right on point. Anyway, let’s get to what’s gonna be important in the comin’ season.

First, and the most important thing, is that Little E doubled his driver number -- 88 instead of 8 -- and he’ll be wearin’ green from now on. And he looks danged good in it, too. On the track and off. There’s just somethin’ about that color that makes his manly whiskers just POP out at ya as if to say, “Come on over here and see if I feel as good as I look.”

Well, Junior’s whiskers, I can’t find out for myself because the court-mandated personal space I am required to afford Little E unfortunately exceeds my reach by a pretty significant distance. It’s all a misunderstandin’, though and the lawyer down at the bowlin’ alley says we should get all that overturned on my appeal. Who knows, folks? I could be usin’ that scruff to get at a variety of itches by the end of the month. Not this month, probably, but maybe the next one.

The second most important thing is that the Car of Tomorrow is now the Car of Today. This ain’t really a big thing to me because I wasn’t all that impressed with the Car of Today last year when it was still called the Car of Tomorrow. Now, today, the former Car of Tomorrow now called the Car of Today or just “the new car” still don’t seem all that special. Why? Because it don’t seem all that futuristic to me, y’all. They’s still on the ground, ain’t they? What’s so special about that? I been seein’ that stuff for years. Tell ya what, I’ll start humpin’ legs when them things start flyin’. ‘Till then, it’s just more of the same, as far as Jonny Dave’s concerned.

Now to the race preview. Daytona’s all I been thinkin’ about since Brett Favre got cheated outta the playoffs. I guess it all boils down to goin’ with my heart or with my head. My heart’s screamin’ JUNIOR BY A WHOLE LAP. My head, on the other hand, is sayin’ Junior by 3 car-lengths. I tell ya, folks, I just don’t know which one to go with. This is Jonny Dave bein’ torn, here.

I guess I’ll go with ... wait, what? My butt pimples are tellin’ me somethin’. Hold on. They’re sayin’ Tony Stewart will be leading going into the last lap only to be passed by RYAN NEWMAN who is gets pushed by Kurt Busch in pretty exciting finish. What the heck? No Little E? Say it ain’t true. Well, folks, the butt pimples are never wrong so that’s my prediction. Ryan Newman’s gonna win in an apparently exciting and history-makin’ Daytona 500.

That just seems crazy to me and I hope I’m right by goin’ out on a limb like that. But I also hope I’m wrong because I love Junior so danged much and I know he really wants the victory. I guess I’ll just hafta wait to find out. I’m not even sure when I’ll get to watch it. Momma had the TV on RAW all last night (she loves her wrasslin’), so I guess I”ll have to watch it before she gets back from her Hooters shift this afternoon.

So, whether my butt pimples are right or my heart or my head, I don’t know. It’s all up in the air, really. Anything can happen at Daytona, y’all. The only certainty in this race is that I’m gonna be so excited by the time it’s over that Momma’s gonna have to get the hose after me when she gets home.

Y’all be good. I’ll see ya around.

Dakota's press conference

2008-02-18T21:21:00.004-06:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

I am here to address acquisitions that I cheated at tag last recess, making up the no tagbacks rule after getting tagged back by Jimmy Rudolph. I am ready for your questions.

McKenna, age 8: Dakota, several peoples said they saw you and you cheats! How come?

Dakota: I agree that it was very sad that someone said this, and that someone believes there is cheating. It is very distracting. Nobody has more respect for the game of tag than I do. I love it so much! I am ready to move forward in the game of tag, and play fairly and by the rules.

Little Brian, age 7: So you DID cheat, I knew it!

Dakota: I agree that it was sad that someone believes there is cheating. The game of tag has been the favoritest game of all the second graders since the beginning of times. I don't want to talk too much about the past. I want to help make tag a great game from nows on.

Lizzy, age 8: Did you maybe think there was tagbacks? Maybe you just made a whoopsie?

Dakota: The game of tag is a time-honored recess tradition. The rules are clear, and I understand them most of the time. I think our tag has lots of integrity. As far as I know, the tagbacks rule has been clearly defined in the past. I will let you decide if that is the case.

Fat Brian, age 8: Don't you think you should call Jimmy the winner at tag, since you cheated?

Dakota: I agree that it was sad someone believes there is cheating. It is very distracting. I am very lucky to get to play tag so much, and win all the time. Mommy says I get my good stuff from God. I thank God. I believe it is important to continue recognizing my many accomplishments. I think our tag has lots of integrity.

Angela, age 7: I don't get it. You didn't answer any of the questions! You are a liarface!

Dakota: I agree that it was sad someone believes there is cheating. I don't want to talk too much about the past. I just want to play next recess and move on.

Mrs. Williams: Dakota, I'm not going to let you play tag at recess anymore if you make up rules.

Dakota: It is what it is.

BASEBALL

2008-02-16T15:09:00.003-06:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

Today is the greatest day of the year! Seriously, it's better than New Year's Eve, Halloween, Memorial Day and my birthday COMBINED! SPRING TRAINING BEGINS TODAY.

I have posted a different spring training picture on my computer desktop every 15 minutes on a rotating basis. DID YOU SEE THE GREEN GRASS? Oh my god, how come you aren't as excited as I am about pitchers and catchers reporting?! It's THE GREATEST DAY OF THE YEAR. Baseball is in the air, I can smell it and it smells like HEAVEN! Heaven smells like baseballs and cinnamon rolls.

I don't understand how you can't be as excited as I am, obviously I am a better baseball fan than you. I don't care when opening day is, this day is way more important. Because now you know that baseball is going on, somewhere in the planet. Before now, it was only going on in places that don't count, like the Dominican Republic.Do YOU SEE THAT? That's Pedro, and Willie Randolph and GREEN GRASS IN THE BACKGROUND. They aren't talking about cock-fighting, they're talking about baseball!! How can you not look at pictures like this and feel the sudden and terrifying urge to urinate all over the place? Don't you appreciate baseball? Let's do another one:

Oh my God that's JASON HIRSCH from the Rockies, and even though it's raining there, you can see the GREEN GRASS in the background. It's spring there! It's baseball season? I totally called the Rockies getting to the playoffs last year, and I like them again this year. I also have a hunch the Mets are going to do well, so I'm really excited to see what they can do this time around. THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST YEAR YET, except maybe compared to last year, which was pretty great.

I have this day circled in bright red ink on all my calendars. Because to day is not D-Day, it's B-Day. BASEBALL DAY. I don't understand why you aren't as excited.

Lay off Bill Belichick

2008-02-14T11:44:00.006-06:00

Tom Looker
Neighborhood Watchman

Look, folks. I know all of American is up in arms about Bill Belichick and his spying habits. It seems that he has been spying on opponents since 2000, when he took over as the Patriots' head coach. This is according to Senator Arlen Spector, who apparently doesn't have anything better to do with his time.

And you know what I say? I say good for Bill Belichick.

Yeah, I see you, sitting there at your computer, indignation creeping across your face. I see your brow furrowing as you read that Belichick said he didn't know that he was doing anything illegal. I see the way your hand gently holds your mouse, deftly sliding it across the surface of your desk. I spy your left hand resting on your inner thigh.

And I sit here to say that Bill Belichick doesn't need to make excuses for a gosh darn thing. Those of us who spy, we are forced to deal with an unfairly nefarious reputation. We aren't evil. We just like to see the world around us. A world that vibrates with life and color, that breathes heavily with magic, and a world that contains so very many people who don't close their blinds all the way each morning when they step out of the shower.

It's a beautiful place, this world in which we live.

I admire Bill for being so open about what he does. And I think he was being honest when he told Roger Goodell that he was doing nothing illegal. It's the same way I feel when the cops come pounding on my door at 3 a.m., telling me that I'm not allowed to let my gaze drift across the street to the apartment where those three sorority girls live. What else am I supposed to do at that time of the night? Watch Matthew Lesko infomercials? The police order me to stop, and they even try to destroy my tapes that I've made. But I tell them I've done nothing wrong, and I truly believe that.

Life is short, and there is only so much time to soak up all of the allure that this world possesses. That's my philosophy, and I try to live each day and each dark, miraculous night by it.

So next time you thumb your pointy little nose at Bill Belichick for his spying habits, try to remember that you aren't so perfect either. And trust me, I know. I've seen what you eat for dinner, and what you Google-search for when your wife goes to her PTO meetings. You're not the only one familiar with Barnyard Tarts.

Now, why don't you push away your righteous irascibility, get up out of that chair and get into something a little more comfortable? I'd suggest that bathrobe that's hanging on that hook by your closet. The white one. No, no. Don't tie the front of it.

There. That's all I needed.

Devean George is a peckerhead

2008-02-14T09:23:00.004-06:00

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

I don't even have a column idea. I just wanted to publicly say that Devean George is a peckerhead. When you run your own media empire and you wear the goddamn pants -- figuratively, of course, because I don't actually wear pants most of the time, sometimes due to laziness, sometimes due to comfort issues, other times because I've misplaced them -- you can do things like that.

If you haven't heard (and if you haven't, you've probably been under a rock somewhere with my pants), the Nets and Mavericks agreed to a massive eight-player trade involving Jason Kidd. The Nets would get back Devin Harris, who is a good little player, Devean George, Jerry Stackhouse and some expiring contracts that will net them major financial relief.

Devean George, who is a peckerhead, decided that he would exercise his no-trade rights and block the deal. Apparently he doesn't want to go to New Jersey.

Well boo hoo, Devean. No one wants to go to New Jersey. What makes you so special?

He followed up this bold move by going out last night and missing all 11 of his shots in 33 minutes of action.

I know you think you're special, Devean. You're tall, and you averaged a carer-high 7.4 points per game four seasons ago. Good on you. You went to Augsburg College. I don't know what the hell that is. You were a first-round draft pick. Cool. So was Zoran Planinic.

So come off it already. Go to New Jersey. You'll love it there.

OK, fine, you'll hate it. But no one cares what you think. Because you're a peckerhead.

Ain't no training this spring

2008-02-13T14:11:00.001-06:00

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Bitches, it is some kind of hot in Arizona. And it gets hotter when ain’t nobody around.

That hobo Marv sent me on another assignment this week, and I was damn excited about it – Spring Training in Arizona! I was going to hit up all the finest hot spots – Scottsdale, Flagstaff, Phoenix, etc., and hopefully find some beautiful tanned belles with whom I could explore the desert wildlife. Dog, I figured they would be flocking to me, cuz I would be a ballplayer! You know how these journalists all go to spring training and pretend they’re on the team, riveting us with those first-hand accounts of flyball drills and wind sprints? Well, that is what DeJuan was ready to do.

Problem is, there is nobody here. I reported to camp on time at the buttcrack of dawn, 6:30 a.m. to the California Angels camp in Tempe, with my baseball cap, socks, glove, cleats, aluminum bat, flip-down shades, hoodie, bag of 15 baseballs, packet of Big League Chew and extra set of flip-down shades. Do you know how early 6:30 a.m. is? And I had to wake up at 6 a.m. so I could get there on time. It was the worst day of my life.

I expected to be among a fleet of non-roster invitees doing the meet and greet with a bunch of famous superstars, but all I got was a damn uncomfortable physical exam and some sit-ups with a bunch of Double-A cats. Dog, do I look Double-A to you? I am at least worth three to four A’s.

I was hoping people would mistake me for Vlad The Impaler Guerrero or Reggie Willits and ask for my autograph. Shit, at spring training, nobody knows if you’re a real ballplayer or not – they just ask for your autograph if you’ve got a jersey on. I figured some of those Arizonan beauty queens would want me to sign their midriffs, and I would comply, on many lovely conditions. I was going to be fawned over and loved upon. Instead, nobody was even there – not even the damn grounds crew. I couldn’t even get into the utility shed to take a joyride on the infield tractor thing.

I thought maybe I got the wrong time, so I waited around until 6:30 p.m. hitting baseballs off a tee into the Tempe afternoon. I’m not gonna lie, bitches, I got lonely. DeJuan does not do lonely. Chasing after those 15 balls got damn annoying after a while.

So forget this. I’m flying back to Cali where I can follow Spring Training in the newspaper just like everyone else. Now that I know all baseball players are lazy and don’t actually report to Spring Training when they’re told, I think my opinion of the game has changed. Screw that. It’s NBA All-Star game for me, bitches.

My appreciation for tradition runneth deeper than yours

2008-02-12T12:13:00.001-06:00

By Dr. Charles P. Ipswich IV
University Professor

From where I sit, here in my oaken, naturally-lit office here at this Ivy League institution, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of volumes of great literature and periodicals, working in my position of molding young minds and hearts and spirits, I find much of American culture to be silly.

I find your customs of gorging on greasy fast food, treating every day of your lives like Saturnalia, disgusting. I do not understand American football, with all of its grunting and sweating. Your celebrities are all vain and as drunk as Bacchus. New JerseIy is a terrible place and, despite its nickname, I cannot find a garden anywhere in its borders that satisfies my tastes.

This silliness is constantly swirling around me, much like the winds of Wellington, and I must hold my tongue in check so as to not appear socially inept! Despite my odiums, I must confess that I do dearly love one American tradition, which will come about Thursday, on Saint Valentine's Day.

Yes, I am referring to the tradition of pitchers and catchers reporting to those grassy green baseball fields, littered throughout the colonies of Arizona and Florida, beginning the leagues of cactus and grapefruit. Oh, those sweet fruits, how they produce the sounds of cracking wood and smacking leather!

Verily, the site of these men is merely a symbolic display, but to these eyes, which have traveled across millions of lines of the most fanciful prose ever crafted, it is a sight of staggering beauty. From this, we know that warmer weather lie just around the proverbial bend. We know that Americans will soon gorge themselves on beer and hot dogs, and wash that down their gullet with a plastic tray of corn chips dipped in processed cheese. They will feign patriotism before the start of games, and sing a strange jingle in the middle of the arbitrarily-assigned 7th inning.

The tradition of the sport is what draws me. As you surely are aware, I am a great historical mind and I have therefore developed a much better appreciation for tradition than you have. And baseball hath have a great tradition than any other sport in this land. The juxtaposition of past and future in baseball is what gives the sport its appeal. As the ghosts of the past look down upon the current landscape of baseball, we feel ... well, we mostly just feel creeped the hell out because we are being watched by ghosts.

Forgive my collapse into colloquialism. As you can understand, pitchers and catchers reporting ranks up there with the great American holidays. As we wonder which American baseball team will rise above all others this season, much like the Phoenix rising after death, its breathtaking gold and crimson plumage fluttering in the air, ready to take down any competitors who dare compete against it in competition.

Behold, my friends -- baseball is just around the bend. As they once said in the great Mongolain empire: Huzzah!

From the vault: Gone batty

2008-02-11T23:31:00.000-06:00

Baseball is ready to renew us in this February void, and even though days remain before pitchers and catchers report, it's never too early to start thinking about the green grass of Spring Training. The crack of the bat, the snap of the leather, those annoying sounds that come out of John Rocker's mouth -- it's all within our grasp. Looks like Johnny got a head start.

Flotsam has never survived through a full baseball season (hell, it's because we're too busy watching baseball), but in preparation for what's ahead, we present the closest thing we have to a baseball post.

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Baseball bats have always had a special place in my cold, black heart. The video portraying Devil Rays uber-prospect Delmon Young throwing his bat at an umpire is delectable, perhaps one of the year's funniest moments -- though Young will get suspended despite throwing the bat such that it hit the umpire TWICE, once in the chest and then up in the face. I call this circumstance fantastic aim and I call Delmon Young a hero.

It reminds me of so many other times when a bat has brought me some form of glee.

May 20, 1989: As a haunted eight-year-old in Ohio, my parents felt one potential way to make me play better with others was to start me in a softball league. In my first at-bat, I watched three pitches go by, all strikes, and started crying when the umpire told me I had to go back to the bench, where those nasty sluts that called themselves my teammates would make fun of me. In my distress, I swung the bat for the first time. The umpire needed three dental surgeries, but he's fine today.

August 2, 1997: High school boyfriend Zeke decided on this day that it would be advantageous to sleep with Marcy O'Brien, a blonde, disgusting cheerleader who drove a sports car to school. Though my days as a softball player were brief, I never forgot how to swing a bat, and I gave the car some new window treatments before giving Zeke's kneecap something to consider. God I am luscious when I'm maniacal.

September 25, 2000: Ah yes, Brad Stapleton, roach hotel on the outskirts, queen size bed with pale yellow sheets, and two nights that will never be matched. I believe a baseball bat was involved, but I can't be sure. There were many objects involved. Of course, when Brad strayed from me, I didn't use a baseball bat to break it off. I used arsenic. And bleach.

March 11, 2001: I purchased my first bat, Buster, from the local zoo. Since, Buster has grown fond of the upstairs attic in which I keep him, and he has become life partners with my second bat, Marguerite. They have two bat children, Puggsley and Wednesday. I love them like children.

August 14, 2005:A baseball bat was again the weapon of refuge when a stranger broke into my house. He had to go to intensive care after his battle with the Moonfry. Of course, by "stranger," I mean "man who cut me off on the interstate on-ramp" and by "broke into my house" I mean "opened the door to his own house while I eagerly waited inside."

I'm getting LEI'ed!!!

2008-02-09T13:51:00.001-06:00

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

When I was a little boy, I would watch the Pro Bowl very, very carefully. I would keep track of all the rosters, and make my own Pro Bowl roster predictions each year, and I would have imaginary conversations with myself like I was a television announcer analyzing the game!! Haha, I loved the Pro Bowl.

Man, that was a long time ago. Today, things have changed. Now I do WAY MORE in preparation for football's most exciting game.

I'm so pumped for the 2008 NFL PRO BOWL (This one counts!!). There is NO OTHER GAME where you can get all this talent on the same field. Everyone gets excited for the Super Bowl, but no Super Bowl has ever had Peyton Manning, LaDainian Tomlinson, Reggie Wayne, and Lofa Tatupu all on the field AT THE SAME TIME. And it's in Hawaii, so everyone is relaxed and awesome and wearing fun shirts with sunglasses and NAMASTE! I don't know what that means, but I think it's Hawaiian for "West Coast Offense." Haha, I'm kidding!

I don't really know what it means, though. I think it means "How's it going." I'm almost positive it's Hawaiian.

I have my flow charts ready, and statkeeping software and all my friends are coming over and we're totally going to make sidebets, like who wins the coin toss and what company is going to have the first commercial. I LOVE THE PRO BOWL COMMERCIALS.

The best part about it is that it comes one week after the Super Bowl -- there's no two week layoff between rounds. The media frenzy is really intense, but there's totally less anticipation. I LOVE HOW THEY ALL HAVE THE SAME JERSEY BUT DIFFERENT HELMETS. It's so cool! And the bragging rights are HUGE in the NFL. You better believe that the Patriots in this game feel like they can atone for the loss in the Super Bowl by helping to win the Pro Bowl. Logan Mankins, I'm talking to you!

With all that talent, the level of play doesn't get better than the PRO BOWL, baby! ALOHA MEANS HELLO.

I support Kevin Hart's imaginary friends

2008-02-08T08:11:00.000-06:00

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Poor Kevin Hart. I know how you feel.

I used to have friends like Kevin's special recruiting friend, Kevin Riley. Eric Thunderstorm and Mr. Invisible Andy used to play with me at recess all the time. We laughed a lot together, and went down the tornado slide! I love the tornado slide, but I didn't always like it when Eric Thunderstorm tried to go down with me at the same time. Eric Thunderstorm is a fatso.

There were many reasons why Eric Thunderstorm and Mr. Invisible Andy were such good friends. They never made fun of me, they always liked doing the same games as me, they always let me win when we played basketball, and they were fake. Fake friends aren't as weird as real friends, and they promise awesome things!

Mr. Invisible Andy once said he knew that my teacher, Mrs. Randolph, had a huuuuuge bucket of cotton candy behind her desk. I love cotton candy. I have always wanted to have some at school, and Mr. Invisible Andy said if I sat on top of the jungle gym and never came down until I got what I wanted, then Mrs. Randolph would give me the cotton candy. So I did. Mr. Invisible Andy always had great ideas, except for the one time he told me to pee all over the kindergarten bathroom floor.

I did not get cotton candy though. Mrs. Randolph got the principal, Mr. Bill, and he came and got me and called daddy. My dream of cotton candy at recess was shattered. And also, I don't think there even WAS any candy. I think Mr. Invisible Andy lied to me!

That was why I stopped being friends with him, and then Eric Thunderstorm, too (I never really liked him anyway, but I let him play with us, because he didn't have any other friends). I guess I started liking real friends better, like Tanner. Maybe I am a bad friend. I hope they aren't mad at me, but I never really see them anymore. I think they play on a different playground. Maybe they flunked first grade. They weren't very smart.

Kevin Hart is a better friend, I think. He never gave up on his friend Kevin Riley, who was fake. Instead of knowing where the cotton candy was, Kevin Riley knew how to get Kevin Hart to a special college. I think it's funny that they had the same first name. One of the nice things about invisible friends is that you get to name them. I don't think Kevin Hart used his imagination very much.

Everyone thinks Kevin Hart is a stupidhead for talking about these things his imaginary friend promised, but I don't think he's that stupid. He is a good friend.

Freddy's Fantasy Flotsam

2008-02-07T11:44:00.001-06:00

Freddy Baird
Fantasy Expert

Folks, I am back. Yes, it was a scary time for me after the Brian Westbrook debacle in December. But after some long counseling sessions, I believe that I have returned as a better man with more balanced priorities in life. I still enjoy fantasy sports, but hopefully I will not allow it to consume me as it has in the past. Flotsam has graciously allowed me to return to spread my fantasy seed among the masses, and I truly hope you will enjoy reading my column as I yet again try to get my life back in order.

On to your questions!

Hey Freddy! Can you believe how that Super Bowl ended? I never thought the Patriots would lose. Do you think this will impact Tom Brady's status as the top fantasy quarterback heading into next season?
- Ted Lehman, Munster, Ind.

Are you stupid? Tom Brady threw for 4,806 yards and 50 touchdowns this season. Who else would you choose as the top quarterback? Someone stupid like you probably would pick Alex Smith. God damn, you're a moron. What a stupid question. By the way, I predicted the Giants would beat the Patriots. I won $300 on a bet than Eli Manning would be the Super Bowl MVP, which I promptly turned around and donated to Ron Paul's campaign. You'd be wise to do the same, if you value your FREEDOM.

Yo, Freddy. i was wunderin what you thought of the shaq trade to phoenix. whats it going to do for marion and o'neels value? i have both on my fantasy team.
- mark d., tacoma, washington

Well, I sure hope your league doesn't count free throw percentage if you own Shaq. In fact, I hope your only league categories are field-goal percentage, rebounds and fat centers who star in terrible commercials. You'd be in first place in that league.

Clearly, this move is a hit to both players' value. Marion can't create his own shot and with a slower offense, there won't be as many rebounds for him to grab. I think you might see more points from him, but his other stats will probably drop, especially his percentages.

Shaq is probably going to die from exhaustion after his first few fast breaks, so I'd probably trade him while he's still breathin. If you're good, you'll package him along with someone like Royal Ivey and get yourself Deron Williams. That's what I would do.

Do you think the trade to New York will help Johan Santana this season? Shea is a good pitcher's park, and a new league will probably have trouble adjusting to him. Just my thoughts.
- Rick Manheim, Arlington, Texas

Did I ask for your thoughts? Who's giving the answers here? Christ, yes, it will help Santana to move to the Mets. Duh. But, then again, I've always known about Santana's value. Back in 1999, after the Marlins took him in the Rule 5 draft, I picked him in the third rounder of my main keeper league draft. While it didn't pay any dividends for nearly three years, it was the right move. Plus, my team was so flipping awesome that year that I didn't even need his services.

So, yes, expect Santana to completely dominate. I expect him to win 12-24 games, and put up an ERA between 1.40 and 3.95. He'll also strike out some batters. You can take that prediction to the bank.

That's all the time we have today, folks! I'll be back soon with relevant answers to your pertinent questions! Best wishes and have a blessed day!

The sports calendar's coldest month

2008-02-06T10:38:00.000-06:00

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Now is the winter of our discontent.

The intelligently dreary William Shakespeare wrote that once, and no fewer than three previous lovers have used that line to send gleeful chills down my spine. It's a morbid, yet beautiful fragment of verse, and it reminds me of all my fondest childhood memories.

This is February, my serpents, a dire time for us all. The Super Bowl has left us, and baseball remains a distant pursuit, as fans crazed for true sport allow their hearts to bleed all over the snow as they eagerly anticipate the arrival of pitchers and catchers.

They're arriving, all right. To do butterfly curls and wind sprints. That might be enough to satisfy a cheerleading enthusiast, but it's a far cry from baseball.

I didn't make the cheerleading team. It was then that I knew I was destined for a life of witchcraft.

Sports fans try to latch onto that national basketball atrocity, where large men with foreign names join forces with child-siring bling exhibitions, playing some variety of driveway defense, only to ultimately succumb to the Spurs, Lakers or Pistons.

These fans try to throw themselves into the manufactured underworld of college basketball as provided by ESPN, which tells us when "Rivalry Week" is upon us (really, a series of undercard matches leading up to a Duke-North Carolina game, during which Dick Vitale participates in a sequence of orgasms reminiscent of my experiments with Richard VanLandingham in 1997). They pretend that those silly regular season games mean something, with the only true substance of the season unavailable until March.

What is a sports fan to do? There are options.

1. When I'm down, I take a one-way flight to Los Angeles and picket with WGA strikers. If someone asks, I've written for several top television programs, including Heroes, the X-Files, Lost and How I Met My Mother. Also, this gives me excellent cause to shout obscenities at Deal or No Deal contestants. My god, you stupid people, don't you understand odds? Of course you don't, else you wouldn't be selected for that show. Here's a special surprise: there is no actual "banker."

2. In winter, I love to build snowmen, then strategically assemble props and pour cherry kool-aid over the scene, to make it appear as if the snowman has been stabbed to death.

3. Following National Signing Day is always fun. This will be my second year in the Recruit Corruption pool with some friends on the black magic message boards. We each choose one of ESPN's top 150, report to campus, pose as college students and do what we can to give them a first-rate "education." The first one to cause scholarship loss wins.

4. Oprah.

Gonna bust out

2008-02-05T08:53:00.001-06:00

Kwame Brown
NBA Superstar

You know, I was sort of enjoying my life. I was chugging along, playing a part for the Lakers in Hollywood. I was pleased with my life, my career. Everything was good.

Then the world came crashing down around me last week, when I was traded to Memphis for Pau Gasol. I had to listen to people say things like, "Christ on a bike, why would the Grizzlies want Kwame Brown?" and "Man, that Kwame Brown turned out to be a bust. Can you believe he was the No. 1 pick in that draft?" and "Man, I hope they have cake in Memphis."

Now just hold up a god damn second, all right? What's all this bust talk? Why is it so hard for all you people to believe I was the first pick in the NBA Draft? You know who picked me first overall? Michael Jordan. His Airness. The greatest to ever lace them up. He chose me above all others, and I think that's worth something.

I was looking at some of the players picked after me in that draft, and really, who the hell would you have taken instead of me? It's like clown college. Amateur hour. Nerf ball, dude. Check out some of these pretenders that were drafted after me, and tell me with a straight face they would have been better choices at No. 1:

Tyson Chander: This dude has the smallest hands I've ever seen. Do you really want an NBA center who can't palm an orange?

Pau Gasol: Well, clearly, the Grizzlies think I'm better than he is, since they traded him for me. And they should know -- they saw him play every day for years. Also, he's a terrible cook. His chorizo tastes like a hot dog with AIDS.

Eddy Curry: You know how they set up chairs as defenders during NBA Draft workouts? From now on, they're just going to use Eddy Curry. Aww yeah! Burn, bitch!

Jason Richardson: Everyone talks about how much of a bust you are if you don’t light up the world after being taken first overall. What about the expectations for a guy who has won two NBA Slam Dunk titles? Nobody’s clamoring about his underwhelming ass being a bust. I look at him, and you know who I see? Harold Miner.

Shane Battier: Sharpei head.

Eddie Griffin: Who would you rather have manning the low post -- Kwame Brown, or a dead guy? That's what I thought.

Joe Johnson: If you play for the Hawks, you're not a star. Period.

Vladimir Radmanovic: Trust me, dude. I played with this cat for the last few months, and he never, ever showers after games. He just puts on some leather pants and an open-collared shirt and leaves. It's gross.

Kirk Haston: Does anyone even remember if he existed? That right there is an excellent cautionary tale about why you don't enroll in college for four years.

Zach Randolph: Two words: marshmallow man. Did you know that the dude has 300-plus field goals this season, and only TWO dunks? He's 6-foot-9, and he can't even get his fat ass off the ground to jam more than twice all year. If I wanted to watch a bunch of layups, I'd go to a WNBA game. Not that I can anymore, since Memphis doesn't even have the WNBA.

Brian Scalabrine: Pasty white with red hair. That has never, ever worked.

Tony Parker: Eva Longoria said he's only slept with, like, three women in his life. I get more tail than that in a week, just by wearing an Armani suit and telling women that I'm Amare Stoudemire.

Gilbert Arenas: Back in 2004, I started a trend of shouting "Green Egg!" every time I shot a free throw. Why the hell does "Hibachi!" catch on and not my idea?

So, as you can all see, I hold up pretty well to the competition, and that I was the right choice in that 2001 draft. I just hope Memphis knows how to support and please an NBA icon like me, because I'm ready to bring a championship to Tennessee in 2008. Bring on the barbecue! Green Egg!

Super Bowl wrap-up

2008-02-04T10:42:00.000-06:00

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Man, even after shaking off my Nyquil and Becherovka-induced slumber, I'm still stunned by last night.

I hate sports cliches like chiggers in my denim shorts, but that game brought to mind several of the most well-known:

"That's why they play the games."

"Defense wins championships"

'Never give Eli Manning 2-plus minutes, while trailing, at the end of a game."

Shit, hombres. Wrap your fuzzy little gourds around that one. Eli Manning is a Super Bowl MVP. He joins illustrious company such as John Elway, Joe Montana, Bart Starr and Fred Biletnikoff.

Back on December, when I was live-blogging the first Patriots-Giants game, I kept highlighting how much Cris Collinsworth hated Ellis Hobbs. In a fairly lame joke, I ended up blaming Ellis Hobbs for everything that happened in the game.

Well, Ellis Hobbs got torched last night by Plaxico Burress, who played with a sprained ankle and a mildly-torn MCL.

Again, I blame Ellis Hobbs. Tell me, Ellis -- what the hell am I supposed to do with this?

You can send my reimbursement check to:

Marv Blackstone
That cabin in the woods, you know, the one with the flamingo sex scene in the front yard
Montana, US

Last night is why we love sports. We love that we never know what will happen at any given time. We love that, sometimes, underdogs come out on top. We love improbable catches on top of player's helmets. We love that, sometimes, our bowels cooperate with that fried-chicken and bratwurst chili and we only need to make one trip to the outhouse during the game, and when we get there, we find out that we actually DO have toilet paper.

Sometimes it's a good day like that.

For the Patriots, I think this loss is only going to get tougher as time goes on. Some are saying that it will only make them more hungry for next season. But how much hungrier can they really be? They reeled off 18 straight wins and pretty much smacked the snot out of the NFL for five months. That's not happening again next season. Pursuing perfection is far too exhausting.

I should know. Back in 1996, I attempted to achieve perfection on NBA Jam for Super Nintendo. I fancied playing as the Seattle SuperSonics, with Detlef Schrempf and Shawn Kemp. The mix of speed and power, shooting and dunking, pasty white and very, very black was perfect. As my prowess progressed, I began to learn how to steal nearly every inbounds pass the opposing team would make. I began winning game by obscene scores. 164-11. 171-8. 194-6.

That's when I decided that I would try and completely shut out an opposing team. I laced up my sneakers as Schrempf and Kemp and I went to work against the Sacramento Kings, the patsies from California. Using the unlimited turbo that I maintained through all of my "on fire" stages, I staked a 38-0 first lead. That lead expanded to 79-0 at halftime. By my count, Mitch Richmond had 39 turnovers. I was a machine. Kemp had 64 points on 32 dunks. It was a glorious span in my life. At the buzzer of the third quarter, Schrempf swiped the ball -- his 44th steal of the night -- and drilled a three-pointer from the corner to make it 117-0. Perfection was within my grasp.

At this point, I decided to take the air out of the ball. After I would retain possession, I used the entire shot clock before taking my own shot. With 38 seconds left, I did a front-flip dunk by Kemp that pushed my lead 132-0. I rose from my couch in anticipation.

On the Kings' next possession, Kemp dove for the steal on the inbounds pass and missed. I switched to Schrempf who floated back on defense. Then, in the blink of an eye, Richmond fired a bullet pass cross-court, and Wayman fucking Tisdale hit a short floater from the paint. With 34 seconds left, the score was 132-2 and my hope for a perfect game was gone. Done. I fired my controller into the television, kicked my SNES across the floor and stormed out of the cabin, driving 74 miles to shoot a few shotgun blasts at my next-door neighbor's dog.

And because of that, it felt good to me to see Bill Belichick run off the field before the game was officially over last night. Everyone knows he's a cold-hearted dick, but seeing him abandon his team while they were still on the field -- there couldn't have been a more perfect ending to the season. As much as I loved them, Kemp and Schrempf were only digital renderings of actual people. Wes Welker is a real person. And surely, his Hobbit-like blue eyes misted as he watched his coach abandon his team on the field.

If Tom Coughlin had any stones, he would have tried to score another touchdown when the Patriots only had about seven defenders on the field, just to to run up the score. I don't think anyone would have blamed him.

I certainly wouldn't have. I was too busy lighting Wayman Tisdale's latest jazz album on fire.

Super Bowl prediction time

2008-02-02T14:00:00.000-06:00

Marv Blackstone: I just am not going to allow myself to choose Eli Manning as a Super Bowl-winning quarterback. Look at him. I plan to sit back and watch Eli line up behind right guard Chris Snee no fewer than six times, fumble at least two snaps, throw at least two picks and get a wedgie from Osi Umenyiora on the sideline. And I will laugh and coat my chest hair with Gold Bond and picante salsa. Patriots 34, Giants 10

Curtis Woodsworth: I am really hoping that the Giants don't wear those awful red jerseys during the game. They just end up looking like cherry tomatoes, and what football player wants to look like sweet little balls that you pop into your mouth? Plus, those jerseys color-clash with Tom Coughlin's face. Get you some moisturizer, boy! Patriots 30, Giants 0

Vern Beedle: You're asking me for my prediction, man? My prediction is that a government plot to expose the link between Barack Obama and Giants' offensive coordinator Kevin Gilbride will come to light. You're going to learn all about how Obama is in cahoots with Dennis Rodman and Tori Spelling to inflate oil prices to more than $40,000 a barrel. And it's all coming out after a post pattern to Amani Toomer. That's my prediction, man. Also, Giants 24, Patriots 23

Dr. Charles P. Ipswisch Ah, the American football Super Bowl! It's one of my favorite sporting traditions, ranking right up there with the Egyptian Croquet Federation Championships and the ICC Cricket World Cup. I will eagerly be watching to see if Tom Brady's superior diction and reasoning ability, along with his muscular right arm, will be able to carry his Patriotic men to a victory over the Giants from New Jersey. Deductively, I think that they will be able to triumph, asserting their dominance, much like the late-1970s West Indies cricket squad. Oh, what a chess match this one shall be! Patriots 108, Giants 2

Harvey McGuffin: I remember when you had to earn perfection. The 1972 Dolphins created their empire on grit, determination and heart. There were no pretty faces getting hounded by TMZ, no cornrows and certainly no white wide receivers. They were football players, damn it. Hell, I remember when the key to getting to the Super Bowl was a black head coach and black receivers, all of them gritty. These teams are as bland as cornflakes served in malt-o-meal. If Brian Billick had just saved his timeout, what storylines would we have to pursue? We haven't had a legend play in a Super Bowl since Otis Anderson. God damn it I'm angry and it's almost bedtime. Giants 24, Patriots 21.

Bandwagon Burt:THE PATRIOTS ARE GOING TO BE UNDEFEATED. Dude, did you see that Hitler video online where he's all mad about Dallas losing? THAT WAS HILARIOUS, and then he's like "Well at least I can watch the Patriots go undefeated, at least that's something." EVEN HITLER KNOWS that a dynasty is brewing. I have loved the Patriots since I was a little boy, but this is the crown jewel of my sporting world. Super Bowls are nothing if you don't go undefeated! The Giants won't possibly stand in their way, but I like little Eli and love how they've built all this momentum in road games. That defensive line is incredible, and they played New England SO TOUGH at the end of the season. After that last sentence, I think the Giants have a real chance!!! Prediction: Patriots 68, Giants 67 (9 OT).

Dakota Brezinksi: I don't want to go to bed before the end of the Super Bowl! You promised, daddy, that I could watch. I never get to watch! It's not fair. Every year I only get to see the first half, and I miss all the really good stuff after you make me go to bed. I'm sorry I called Caitlin a bad name when she said, "Who cares if they go undefeated, it's just a game." I'm sorry that I kicked her in the knee and threw her dolly into the pond. I was trying to look like Tom Brady! Tom Brady is my hero! I want to see him win the Super Bowl! THIS HAPPENS EVERY YEAR! I hate you. I hate you and mommy. Patriots 35, Giants 14.

Brenda McDonald: So my older brother is throwing this, like, Super Bowl party, and I'm totally debating whether to go or hang out at Kimmy Dykstra's house. Like, there's going to be beer and stuff, but last time I hung out with my brother's friends, I totally got hit on by his smelly college roommate. I made out with him, of course, but it was kind of awkward and ... I don't know, like, smelly. I don't understand why people love the Super Bowl so much ... I mean, they have one every year. Plus everyone thinks Tom Brady is so hot, but oh my god, have you SEEN Wes Welker's eyes? Patriots 10, Giants 3.

Super Bowl drive time

2008-02-01T00:15:00.001-06:00

By Rob and Rick
Morning Radio Show Hosts

Rob: Okay, Rick, let's talk about that big game coming up on Sunday.

*presses fart noise button*

Both: Hahahahaha

Rob: Seriously, though, it is a big game. Get your beer and wings ready.

Rick: Boobies.

Both: Hahahahaha

Rob: Okay, let's go to a caller out there. We've got Jason on the line. Jason, how's it going, you homo?

Jason: Uhhh. Fine, I guess.

Rick: *burps loudly*

Jason: I was going to ask if you guys had any opinions on the best place to watch the Super Bowl. I've got a few buddies coming into town and we were looking to --

Rob: Be gay together?

Rick: Heyyyyy ooo! *presses fart noise button*

Both: Hahahahahaha.

Rob: Ballsack.

Jason: I'm going to hang up now.

Rob: What a queerburger. Anyway, let us take this chance to remind you of our contest that we're running here at WMMC. We've got two free tickets to the Super Bowl to give away down here. And we are going to give them to the first girl to come down here to the station and show us her jumblie-wumblies in the studio.

Rick: *presses boing button to signify an erection*

Rob: So all of you ladies out there in radio-land, if you'd like to come down here and show us the goods, you can get two tickets for Super Bowl Forty-Two in Phoenix, Arizona!

Rick: You could use one ticket on each boob. *make a sound that simulates a motorboat*

Both: Hahahahahaha

Rob: And, don't forget, another thing about the Super Bowl that is so great is that you get to drink a lot of beer on a Sunday. I mean, not that I need an excuse to drink beer on a Sunday, but it's always ...

Rick: Hahahahahaha

Rob: ... good to have that built-in reason to buy some ice cold Bud Light.

Rick: ICE COLD!

Rob: Folks, it's the greatest weekend of the year! Rick, aren't you excited for the Super Bowl?

Rick: Yes. I'll, like, masturbate and fart on my leather couch.

*five-second clip of that "Numa Numa" song plays*

Rob: Hell yes! Rick and Rob will be right back with more Super Bowl coverage, right here on WMMC, 97.3, The Tit.

*26 minutes of commercials*

Rob: And we're back, bringing you Super Bowl coverage! We've got an exclusive interview here with Patriots' coach, Bill Belichick. Bill, how are you doing today?

Bill Belichick impersonater (in fake robot voice): I am good. Are you good?

Rob: Well, I'm not wearing any pants. And I just got rid of my Chipotle burrito from last night, if you know what I mean.

Bill Belichick impersonater (in fake robot voice): I do not know what you mean. Human excretion is not a concept I understand. I do not have time to defecate.

Rick: Poooooooop!

*presses fart button*

Rob: Oh, man. That is great. So Bill, do you ever check out players in the shower?

Bill Belichick impersonater (in fake robot voice): Yes. Randy Moss is terrifying.

Rob: Oh my god that's SO GAY!

*clip of "Anchorman" heard where Brian Fantana says, "You know, desire smells like that to some people."

Rob: OK, we've had enough of this guy for one day. Later on, you robotic retard!

Rick: Hahahahahahahahahaha

Rob: Hahaha

Rick: *shits his pants*

Rob: And here's a little Aerosmith for all you Bostonites out there, right here on WMMC, 97.3, The Tit.

We'll love you just the way you are

2008-01-31T11:31:00.000-06:00

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Back when I was a despairing teenager on the gloomy and borderline hellish streets of Ohio, I discovered a young Canadian who evidently shared my outlook on life. When I heard Jagged Little Pill for the first time, I couldn't wait to realize my potential, as a woman, activist and arsonist. She sang exactly what I was thinking, except in the song "Ironic." What the hell was that all about, anyway?

To convey my feelings on the New England Patriots and the looming Super Bowl, I channel the immortal Alanis Morissette, in her song "Perfect."

'Sometimes' is never quite enough
If you're flawless, then you'll win my love
Don't forget to win first place
Don't forget to keep that smile on your face

I'll live through you
I'll make you what I never was
If you're the best, then maybe so am I
Compared to him, compared to her
I'm doing this for your own damn good
You'll make up for what I blew
What's the problem ...... why are you crying?

We'll love you just the way you are if you're perfect

I think most Patriots fans will agree. We'll love you just the way you are, New England. If you're perfect. Don't screw it up and force me to call into 850 AM WEEI, bemoaning your inadequacies and threatening the DJ as punishment for rejecting my advances. Everyone is going to hate you if you lose. "Sometimes" is never quite enough.

But enough about the Patriots. Instead, let's talk about their dreamy coach.

The hoodie has long been a staple of dark and mysterious fashion, with such patrons as Death, The Ghost of Christmas Future, warlocks and druids. It's a scintillating look, and it's one of the reasons why Bill Belichick is such a catch.

His morbidly monotone voice and seeming disinterest in all things make him the most endearing pro sports coach out there, and he happens to be very good at what he does. He's like Pantera, a revolutionary and an outcast. God, I miss Dimebag.

He would be perfect for a slasher movie, the character everyone assumes is the killer because of his gleeful standoffishness. Then, you discover he was a red herring, but then after everything seems to have reached resolution, it turns out he was a conspirator in the killings, after all. Then, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.

We can only hope the Super Bowl provides us such an ending.