Never Was He Actually Referring to His Stomach


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.

Free Agency Recap: Belichick and the Boys Get Creative

By: Chaz

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.


Enough About Jason Collins Already


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?

Olympic Smokes Pose In Lingerie, Everyone Wins

By: Chaz

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!


Stak 5′s Instagame En Fuego

By: DV

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…






1743194_10152233719367905_819613764_n #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

Skittles and Adderall: Keys to Being A Champion in 2014


Miss the Super Bowl? Heres a recap.

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.








Iowa State Head Coach Fred Hoiberg is Disgusting at Flappy Bird


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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*


Kap VERSUS Sherman: Super Bowl Week Doesn’t Suck Anymore

By: Chaz

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

Maine’s Most Wanted Call Out Da Boss

By: Danny Vinyard

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.”