Goodbye from the Grand Turismo

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DeJuan C3P0 loves your ass. Peace.

Pssst ... Sasha! Hook me up!

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My nose is crinkled, for something is powerful stanky here

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

Chad Hedrick handled this shit all wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will NOT proudly stand up

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am in a damn hurry

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now just hold up, all right? Hold up.

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone is trying to murder my ass

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say a prayer for DeJuan.

Spectaculagrandolicious, bitch!

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buona sera, la femmina erotica

By DeJuan C3PO
Embedded Journalist

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

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

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

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

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

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