With a plate of SAL-MON…To be continued elsewhere….Ruff Ryde it out, in the park, with some fucking running mans
With a plate of SAL-MON…To be continued elsewhere….Ruff Ryde it out, in the park, with some fucking running mans
by: Chris Kattan
As you may have noticed, Captain Phillips Kattan has gone awol as of the last two months. Mainly because I’ve realized that blogging is the most unfulfilling industry there ever was intended for the dumpy, misinformed, hype beast shit heads of the world who aren’t actually good at anything. Not to mention the hours spent filing a dissertation over JR Smith fuckery was doing neither my livelihood nor pockets justice, characterizing Miami Heat fans as “Jews from Boca Raton disguised as Cubans ” irrationally resulted in my not getting a job in community relations with the organization itself (true story), and, ultimately, the aforementioned stigmatization made me pack my bags like Chappelle did for Africa. Hence, the site has sucked.
Nevertheless, I’ve never forgotten that had I been in it to win it and refrained from following a career arc comparable to that of Lenny Cooke’s tale of potential superstar turned misguided, obese numbskull, I’d have been King Tut of this bitch; blogosphere on smash, if you will. So, I’ve come with some postponed yet still relevant and rarely delved upon interpretation (i.e. quantum shit) regarding Shabazz and the empty stomach that forever alleviated collegiate hunger…WE ARE THE CHILDREN! LET THEM LEAD THE WAY!
I remember the first dialogue I had about Shabazz’s hunger pains was with Momma Dukes (that’s ebonics for “mother”): “Mind boggling the same kid who used to piss on me in AAU and Hoop Group top 100 clinics at Boston University is a National Champion for the second time, now without doubt the most viable potential 2014 point guard draftee bound for a perennially productive career by way of an elite, translatable pick and roll savvy, prowess in the catch and shoot and a grit reminiscent of his mentor, Will Blalock, solely reserved for the most triumphant of Bostonian. Oh, and he’s on the verge of leading a crusade towards reform of NCAA bylaw because he’s STARVING. Right, Ma?” Response: “Munchkin, you do know Shabazz’s is starving because its his family, not him, that ain’t eating.” A cry for proper compensation buried in figure of speech? Kattan, you fool! I’M STARVING OUT HERE. FUCK UNLIMITED PASTA, B! MY SCOOBY SNACKS AIN’T ACTUALLY RUNNING ON E! CUT THE CHECK AND WE’RE STRAIGHT! I was duped. But not for long, thanks to mom.
Yet, the NCAA–now finally realizing things like this year’s March Madness generating an approximate $9 Million more than what the MLB, NBA and NHL playoffs project combined off of TV add revenue alone would have never elevated the pay-for play discussion to such dire, nationally recognized proportions had it admitted to its inherent corporate nature three years prior and said, “fuck off Title XI, a proposed $2,000 stipend prescribed for Men’s high major Division I athletes only is no where near a threat to amateurism”–again bypasses the literal, only to thrive in the figurative: You’re hungry? Oh my lantern! Give all the breakfast, lunch, dinner and late night Scooby Snacks a child could ever ask for! Yes, that ought to be an act of good will substantive and complementary enough to further the discussion of a guaranteed $120,000, 4 year deal (a scholarship) and the most optimal opportunity any teenager ever had to brand himself as an adequate share, right? A deal that, at first glance, teeters at the spectrum’s end of satisfactory indeed. Nonetheless, when we hardly ever dare to challenge kicking–or at least moderating—the corporate out of amateur athletics; Or probe why its the University’s, not the NCAA’s, responsibility to fund a larger allowance for its student athletes despite the millions the NCAA shares amongst its membered institutions going towards specifically funding the pro-competitive standing of its basketball and football programs, there’s inevitably improper allocated leftovers. But, in short, knowing the basic premise of all the legal bullshit protecting the NCAA’s obligations, neither of those ethical issues will ever be attended to. Society has spawned a monster of an immutable and unlawful enterprise; a monster that much more imposing once High Major Conferences secede, spawn and litigate their own governing body that fucks the purity of sport in its ass for one last, jolly good time.
Ultimately, I’ve ranted to a point of no avail and a conversation even the most incoherent of microbloggers are now fully familiar with. But, hey, at least Shabazz ain’t never going hungry.
Dubious Ruffian without the chops or disciple of Leon Haywood with facial hair epitomizing R&B lothario? R&B lothario. Inevitably so. What’s more plausible? Ladies loving 1960′s/70′s Boogie Smooth to the brink of AIDS or 1990′s Boogie Smooth cutting checks, grooving in velour blazers and tapping ass as the fourth member of Next? Hmmm…All I know is, Boogie Smooth wants to do something FREAKY to you…right meow.
BELICHICK DOES NO WRONG. Who the fuck cares if you’ve had Art Modell’s shoe stuck up your ass since 1994. If Boston says your a hero, YOU MUST BE, huh? Because if theres one thing you can say for sure about a city that dyes a whole river green to celebrate the death of a guy they literally could not know less about, it’s that it definitely doesn’t have any morons. Or assholes.
But seriously. Combining Brandon Browner and Revis Island on one defense must have given Wild Bill the kind of boner he only usually achieves by mainlining a gram of Viagra. The Pats can wave goodbye to Brandon Spikes and Vince Wilfork, pending the field crew at Gillette finally squeezing him through the locker room doors, but who really cares? With a secondary like that and a shitload of Adderral, Bill gives about as many fucks as everyone else does about his rings when his wife wears a low-cut shirt.
But as much as were all enjoying the free agency dick swinging contest between the Pats and the boys over in Denver, the oxygen over at the Mile High must be thinner than we thought. Clap all you want for Demarcus Ware, Foxy – maybe a few sacks from him back in February would have kept the scoreline at just “embarrassing” rather than downright sad. Harbaugh and Pete C are still laughing their asses off in a corner and waiting for reality to hit when the AFC kicks back into season. You don’t need a million dollar contract to sign quality players – just a clause that guarantees a maximum of 5 locker room swirleys and teabaggings per month.
And it’s hard to imagine the crowds of translucent douchebags over in Seattle being too disappointed with the offseason thus far. Golden Tate may be swinging over to the Stafford Frat Party in Detroit, but the only person really panicking here is Russell Wilson. God forbid he has to put down the baseball mitt and learn to throw actual touchdown passes to get touchdowns. Get with the program, Russ.
Good free agency talk, boys. Now lets get on to the real action. TWO DAYS IN MAY, baby.
“I never would think that I would be back here in the NBA…I just would have never thought. I knew I was never going to stop trying. I just thought I blew my chance. A lot of times you get a good opportunity and it never comes again. And I got a second chance.”—Gerald Green upon receiving his 10 day contract from the New Jersey Nets in 2012
From, “There’s a dude in Houston at Gulf Shores Academy that’s better than Lebron,” to rangy, slender 21 year-old Tracy McGrady archetype with fifteen 20 plus point games as a Celtic despite little to no feel for the game, to that stint in “Serbia was a pain in my ass,” to China, to the D-League, to a proclaimed 3 year/$10M role player blunder in Indiana (how he saw zero opportunity at an attempt to ignite the worst performing bench in Eastern Conference Final History was baffling far before this year’s outburst), to without doubt the Most Improved Player of the Year. Gerald Green’s long, winding road back to NBA relevance is one we should all admire. Check you out.
“Why’d ya’ll give me the white woman with horse teeth? Where’s Danyelle Sargent’s fine brown ass? McCutchen…McCutchen…Man, do I need to poop”
Clearly, Griffey Jr.’s underlying thought process. Viral #Mastermind…I’M SANCTIFIED (pardon The Rosé reference. Nonsensical, yet so necessary)!!!!
ITS COME AS A SHOCK TO ALL OF US, but believe it or not, Missouri DE Michael Sam is still gay. We get it, America. Theres a black president, Hilary Clinton’s swingin’ Title 9 like a battle scene from Game of Thrones, and Jason Collin’s spent 13 years bouncing around the NBA looking for the city with the best gay club scene (#brooklyn). Maybe the media thinks that saying Michael Sam’s sexual orientation has no effect on his status as a professional football player will make it magically come true like an equally borderline version of Peter Pan. Or that any toes nudging off the fine line of political correctness will prove an immediate threat to national security. Valid concern.
The literate public aren’t really the important target here, gang. The rest of us are all on board and backing young Micky… but lets be real. NFL locker rooms aren’t known for blasting Elton John, twirling spangly batons and breaking into musical numbers at opportune moments like a scene from Grease. You can toss on a pair of assless chaps and crush it down Castro Street, San Francisco – but on the spectrum from “Nathan Lane” to “Sochi Olympics”, I’d say a room full of testosterone fueled alpha males with little to no education falls pretty far to the right. Not that a bunch of guys showering together daily, slapping each other with towels and wearing tights is “heterosexual”, perse – but hell, it’s been kept well under the rug. Mostly.
As much as we all want to see Sam fly down to Miami, light up a Tyrann Mathieu pre-rolled and dance around a bonfire with Richie Incognito singing I Will Survive, it just doesn’t sound realistic. Thank god Terrell Thomas had the stones to be honest with everyone – somebody had to say it. Things aren’t exactly shaping up to go smoothly, and when Sam waltzes into whichever team has the nuts to take him, things could take a swift turn for the worst.
Sure, Michael Sam deserves to be treated as the competent, if not suburb, player he is. Manti Te’o got more attention for spending a full year getting weird and wild with his laptop than spending three years inflating his stats and prepping for getting his ass kicked to the curb by Bama, and he still went in the second round. So fingers crossed, and lets hope that Sam can inject some tolerance into the worlds least tolerant sports league – and whichever GM makes the ballsy pick doesn’t spend the next 5 years feeling dumber than an overweight kid at Colorado State.
As you all probably should know, the first openly gay player in major sports history took the court for the NBA’s Brooklyn Nets last night. And in laymans terms, I do not give the slightest fuck. Why? Because he won’t have the slightest impact.The dude is worse at basketball than Michael Jordan was at baseball, and that is just the truth. We’ve given the master blaster of plus/minus credit where credit is due; we’ve applauded Jason for embracing his platform of role model and demonstrating an admirable balance of intelligent human being and athlete. In a vacuum, however, throughout the course of his remarkably unremarkable now-15-year-and-counting tenure, Jason Collins has done nothing but take up 7 feet and 250 pounds worth of space.
Oh, cool, sure, let us indulge in the conventional Jason Collins argument of “Jason Collins is the epitome of the guy you want at the end of your bench keeping the team’s moral steady because there exists no other viable statistical argument for paying Jason Collins at 35.” Great, grand, wonderful? How about color you bologna, fuck face. You know that Russian dude employing the league’s most flawed general manager to spend 200 plus million on the most poorly contrived 200 plus million dollar roster ever (yet has a top 3 most formidable, not to mention most lovable, NBA bench thanks to Mirza Teletovic being the burliest of three point shooting Bosnians and Andray Blatche euro-stepping through downtown)? Yea, well, even he realizes there’s something to do about a lifestyle looming chock full of repeat tax offender, $55 million worth of damaged goods at its core and ballin’ without a budget remaining in tact; a lifestyle capable of making Puff “Diddy Bop” into an epileptic seizure and Isaiah Thomas thankful he never had a Prokhorov to give him the spending power to fuck up the market on four other Jerome James’. And that’s a profitable ploy for the interim.
Meaning if the Nets had intended to legitimately navigate the secondary market for a big, they’d have probably abided by Jermaine Dupree’s testament of Money Ain’t a Thing and picked up the already bought out Big Baby Davis as insurance for losing out on Jordan Hill; although there’s plausibility in Garnett having zero intention of reuniting with a bitch. Or, better yet, they’d have waited until March to resurrect Ivan Johnson from China to fill such discrete role. Which begs the question of why Ivan Johnson isn’t on a NBA roster? Screw the whole conversation of a mite unpredictable not boding well for any addition intended to provide a low maintenance boost and Tim Grover–MJ’s player development Guru–personally informing me that the guy’s clinical insanity is enough to dislodge chemistry. I’ll still take a crazy, banging energizer who can actually do things offensively on the cheap any day of the week. 100% sure Doc Rivers could tame this decent scoring, per 36 minute high volume rebounding psychopath with terrible teeth for the stretch run?
Or maybe try something like, I don’t know, take an experimental $350,000 “gamble” on finding any semblance of potential in 6’10, 23 year-old former first round pick stuck in NBA purgatory, Daniel Orton (recently waived by Philly)? Oh, right, money. The Economic Impact of a Dumpy, Dweeby Seven Footer That Fouls Outrageous: A Dissertation by Danny Vineyard. Money.
As aforementioned, and I’ll say it again because the phrase itself might be an all-time best, We’ve paid the “master-blaster of plus minus” his respect. Did Collins once upon a time provide hyper specialized value? Yes. Does he play his fucking ass off? Hilariously so. Watching Jason Collins work relentlessly to screen and re-screen illegally is a trip; O.D. effort. Was Boston’s decision to sign Collins over Greg Stiemsma in 2012-2013 a top-5 all time menial role player blunder? Very much so, given Stiemsma was viable enough to play significant minutes in 2012 against the Knicks; While Jason proved unfit to provide a role for more than half a NBA season. But, is Twin back because the Nets need a defensive backbone? Or perhaps because its nice to have someone who can dislodge a post guy off the block, flatten a driver, set a screen, learn a play book, and bellow out weakside help? No, he’s clearly not. The Nets signing some scrub journeyman/waterboy to ensure Deron Williams stays hydrated for the next ten days (and maybe more, for PR reasons, and PR reasons only) as they valiantly trudge forward to a ceiling of a 6-seed and first round playoff exit in the dismal eastern conference is back page news. Period. It’s the type of information only the nerdiest of NBA fanatics like myself would deem notable.
But, instead this non-event has gotten more press than the on-going malicious assault on humanity in Venezuela, or the fact the worlds most wanted drug lord “El Chapo” was captured today. All because he’s gay. And the fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter. Or at least it really shouldn’t. Anybody with even the loosest grasp of the fundamentals of humanity would agree. What goes on in your bedroom has nothing to do with what takes place on the hardwood (pause). To play in the NBA, you need skills. Something a 35 year old Jason Collins is utterly void of. I don’t care if he did spend the past year on a rigorous in-season training regimen, the dude was Kendrick Perkins in his prime, a blip (or plug, in basketball terms) in time that has came and went in a similar fashion as crazy bones, MySpace and bell-bottomed jeans.
Lastly, it should duly noted that a year ago, my prophet of a fellow-site-owner predicted Jason Collins may indeed “putt from the rough” in a hilarious article detailing which NBA players would be considered forgivable transgressions if his future-wifey were defiled by them. He made mention of how preposterously disinteresting Collins was on the court, and how that translated to his twitter following, which at the time was a hop-step (or in the case of number 98, a travel) above 2,000. It’s now over 100K. And that is the part I don’t have a problem with. Because his past, regardless of how boring it was from a fans perspective, gave him a platform. One which he used to address an elephant in the room–for that I applaud him. But that applause certainly doesn’t get extended to the Brooklyn Nets for signing his over-the-hill ass to a 10 day.
P.S. President Prophet, Chris Kattan, reportedly had an in class argument with a professor over Jason Collins being a more viable center option than Samuel Dalembert. Are you fucking kidding me?
ITS ABOUT DAMN TIME….we have a reason to care about Sochi now. Sorry Shaun, but you can’t stay relevant in America for more than a decade when you look like a mix between a leprechaun and Freddy Kruger. Stuffing your kilbasa into skintight costumes, strapping a couple of dangerous weapons to your feet and bursting out of the closet with a double layback spin might get you a 9.5 from the judges, but America just isn’t having it. Solution? The classic. Get Russians. Get nude. Well, you had my curiosity. Now you have my attention.
Someone over in Sochi is applying the Newtonian Boner Transitive Theory to help the American male community associate a wicked torque with a gold medal in the skeleton bob. This isn’t fucking Norway. And as sound as that theory may or may not be, I’m just stoked to be along for the ride…
Maybe if all 4 people working over at the WNBA hadn’t missed the day in marketing class where they tell you that “sex sells”, they wouldn’t be getting kicked out of their arena by Disney On Ice. America managed to fill a full 12 rosters with women I’d rather see in a heavy parka than dancing around a pole in sparkly lingerie…impressive stuff. Your move, Ireland.
Bottom line? We only tuned in to the Games back in ’12 to feel vaguely uncomfortable that the entire gymnastics team was like a smoking hot version of High School Musical, and were only watching now to cross our fingers and hope that a maverick slalom pole snags loose material and takes the rest of some unpronounceable smokes speedsuit with it. And thats just good old-fashioned American pride, you guys. YOO ESS AY! YOO ESS AY!