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.
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.
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*