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 a lifestyle looming chock full of repeat tax offender, $55 million worth of damaged goods at its core and ballin’ without a budget remains 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’.
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 brings me to the question of why Ivan Johnson isn’t on a roster? Screw the whole conversation of a mite unpredictable not boding well for any addition intended to provide a low maintenance boost. I’ll take a crazy, banging energizer who can actually do things offensively on the cheap any day of the week. Where in the hell is Doc Rivers on this decent scoring, rebounding psychopath 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!
Alright, perhaps I was a bit overzealous in declaring the recently waived Stak5 a potential messiah of Los Angeles basketball in 2014, but my dude is still swangin’. Straight up Instagram All-Star. Normally I’m not a fan of people blown’ up my news feed with 14 tasteless photogs per day, but when they’re this good, who am I to complain? Homie put on a clinic…
#HittinEm with some first-class comedy. Bravo, Stevie. Happy Black History Month.
P.S. While we’re on the topic of the grams, here’s the dumbest thing I saw today:
Anthony Kiedis doesn’t twerk…Safe to say whatever shit-eating, do-goodist soccer mom from the bible belt that came up with this incongruous logic ought to pack up her capri-sun filled ’97 Ford Winstar and drive it straight off a local bridge. Won’t be a tragedy. #HitEm
HOLY FUCK PEYTON. I haven’t seen anyone choke like that since Robin Williams necked out Damon in Good Will Hunting, and at least Matty doesn’t have a hairline receding faster than LBJ against the Pacers. The only people as stoked about yesterday as Pete Carroll is anyone who attended Cooper Manning’s Super Bowl bash. At least Fun Uncle Coop only looked like an asshole in front of one guy, not the whole country… Archie might even put him back on the Christmas card list.
So fuck it. Cue post-NFL, pre-MLB depression. Guys like me hold out for the day a guy looking like a mix between Marty McFly and Jon Gruden pulls up in a Delorean and offers me a ride right into next September. Maybe if the definition of a dope baseball play expanded to encompass more than a long-legged pissed off Puerto Rican making a diving catch then I’d pay some attention.
Fast-forward to Spring. Cleveland trades up and takes Johnny Football first overall, who leads the league in rookie QB numbers and lack of fucks given by Week 8 on big connections with perennially blitzed Joshie Gordon. Bridgewater puts up Schaub-esque numbers and rides Arian Foster’s hammies to a 9-5 start, then locates his package in Week 15 for a playoff sprint. Jadaveon spends the season watching the Michigan hit on loop in his O-town bedroom and pulls a Jamarcus that would make the man himself proud, and Blake Bortles becomes the first Jaguar/player in league history to never sell a single jersey. His girl leaves him, hits me up. Kiper’s call, not mine.
And yeah. Hawks win the Super Bowl at Century Link in January and casually vacation in Arizona to celebrate. Marshawn Lynch jets out to the King of Diamonds, Russell Wilson cracks a bottle of wine and watches Love, Actually and Sherman and the rest of the secondary blow down a line of Adderall and co-write a dissertation on the achievement gap. Meanwhile, the rest of America crosses their fingers and hopes Aldon Smith passes the J back to Michael Phelps and drags Percy Harvin back to the bench by the nuts.
E L I T E Flappy Bird game courtesy of Coach Hoiberg. Near unfathomable score in my eyes. What cloud must you be on after Deandre Kane makes a fool out of any non-believer in the fifth year senior’s second round draft pick capacity (although the mechanics on his jump shot are indeed a bit off setting in many managerial eyes…he’s also 25), Georges Niang keeps on keeping on (THAT DUDE GEORGES!), you score a 123 on Flappy Bird and the Cyclones win out in a triple overtime thriller? *Pounds Potato*
GET EM BOY. Media for Super Bowl Forty-Fuck-It just got a much needed kick in the nuts. Like every other pretentious 49ers fan with a big mouth and a bigger hard-on for full body tats, I’d like Richard Sherman to kindly go fuck himself. Finally, someone has the stones to state the obvious. If you’re really that good, why do you have to keep telling us, Richie?
Sure, shit gets a little problematic when you have the dick size and the stats to back your claims up. Kap might not be headed for Canton, but at least Erin Andrews wants to nail him, not call the police. You can tie back the dreadlocks and make a beeline for the Hall of Fame, right alongside Chip Kelly’s testicles and the Cowboys cheerleaders, but if you get laid less than another famous Sherminator…what’s the point?
And at least Kap isn’t cruising down Pete Carrol’s colon in a 12-seater van with these assholes riding shotgun.
Have fun trying to pick off passes without a stadium full of bored lesbians and caucasian rappers screaming threats at the opposition QB. Macklemore’s too busy binding unsuspecting fans into a lifetime of gay marriage at the Grammy’s. OHAMA. #HitEm
Check out Richie Incognito’s conspiracy theorist wigger cousins from Maine. Packin’ so much hate speech and n-bombs into three minutes even the fucktards at the Westboro baptist church would be impressed. Really just leavin’ it all on the table…
HUELLOOSSSS…shot’s fired! Your move Rosé…
Blunt session gone wrong or worst let-me-on-a-talk-show ploy of all time? Either way, these two village idiots really ought to paddle their douche-canoe off the channels of youtube and into oncoming traffic.
Not sure what’s more ironic, the fact the clown in the AND 1 gear is referring to Rick Ross’ quiche as “monopoly money,” or that the little fat fuck who sounds like a turrets-ridden bugs bunny is rockin’ a Cornell hoodie….Jesus.
P.S. Mr. “if we get a record deal,” you’re not getting a record deal. Not now, not ever. In the words of the rap god… “You ain’t gonna sell two copies if you press a double album.”
Precariously enough drafted into the most ideal circumstances for failure by the same man who never thought signing Earl Clark to $4.5 Million a year was inexcusably fat headed. Yes, dumb. Dan Gilbert has been dumb at basketball. Duh. Neglecting any such thing called “Big Market Fools Gold”–exceeding above and beyond one’s supposed expectations when doing so looks better on paper because they’ve done it in say or LA or New York despite sucking dick or being wildly mediocre in real life (i.e Landry Fields); Coercing Mark Grant into going clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose for Luol Deng and, hence, the playoffs when reasons for making the playoffs and trading for a “premier” wing expecting “premier” money yet will never be “premier” in Cleveland (let alone stay) makes zero sense whatsoever—If I’m Luol Deng and you don’t sign me to an extension right now, then why would I stay in Cleveland? In fact, why would anyone stay in Cleveland after getting a whiff of that locker room let alone Dion Waiters? And if I’m Cleveland, why would you ever put yourself in the position of paying Luol Deng, like, $50 Million over three years because you’re looking at the second best available free agent come this summer (the truest of anomalies) either walking for nothing or say a trade exception and something reminiscent of a Randy Foye. This wreaks of Summer of 2013 Andre Igoudala, but on a far shittier scale.
SIDE NOTE: A.) Who knows if either Dan Gilbert or Chris Grant pulled the trigger on the Luol/Bynum deal. I say Danny did, but that’s just this jew aka Chris Kattan speaking. Regardless, we’re talking Bryan Colangelo in Toronto sans signing the most inefficient 20 plus shot attempts there ever was (RUDY) type of way. “I might as well do this, I’m getting fired anyways” scenario. And B.) I say Luol Deng might be the second best available free agent come this summer because the period won’t be the blockbuster we’ve supposed it as being. When going down the list EVERYONE is restricted and/or Lebron, Carmelo, Lamarcus, etc.
Anyways, enough with Dan Gilbert and back to why those believing Anthony Bennett is a lost cause have shit for brains. Well, when you yourself know you should never have been drafted first overall and are thrust into immediately playing out of position for an organization already facing a log jam of forwards that just added $4.5M of Earl Clark to essentially do what you do, terrible times and unachievable expectations fester; diaper stacked to the brim. Sure he was noticeably out of shape, sure this is one of the worst things YouTube could ever do to reaffirm Anthony Bennett sucks.
My god, dude.
But when the number one overall pick is fluctuating between DNPs and rarely ever to never playing plus 15 minutes, you sure as shit should expect…well, shit. Will Anthony Bennett ever reach the standards of career for a number one overall pick? My guess is probably not. You know why? Because Anthony Bennett–out of pure dumbfounding managerial choice–was assigned forcibly to a label never coinciding with his actual self. I’m not spitting reverential fucking rocket science here. We’re talking about a creative gamble at formidable small ball four with potential to play heavy minutes at the three who’s stock would have seamlessly fit NBA standards had he not been picked first overall. But he was. Thus, life sucks and rumblings are Kwame Brown might be off the hook for “worst ever.” Nonetheless, give the kid a break. A lenient outlook on Bennett’s window of opportunity for development and success will go a long way.
All ya’ll non-4-lyfe Anthony Bennett advocates can suck toes #HitEm