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
Michael Beasley emerging from the dark with his best rendition of Mr. Manny I Have No Eye-Brows Fraiche. Fraiche.
Ain’t no Battioke…like a Shane Battier Battioke…because a Shane Battioke…don’t stop. Man, am I cliche. As am I borderline retarded for it taking me upwards five read-throughs to realize “Battioke” meant Battier plus Karaoke and not Japanese Steak House meets Art Basel. Shane Battier: You and your Denny’s, and Bud Light, and being conducive of ultimate team building, and Karaoke. Back that azz up, my friend. Oh, and while you’re at it, how about letting Lebron know that shredded jeans are so passé. Literally what are you doing.
On another note, how pissed should we be about Michael Beasley performing “Back Dat Azz Up” sans the volcano of dreads? For if sweet dreams were made of Alonzo Mourning not threatening to beat Michael Beasley to a pulp upon his refusing to cut the mentally ill antics…I’m also going to go out on a limb by saying you cannot not invite Juvenile. Horseshit. Juvenile has been living at Tootsies Cabaret since “Drop That Azz” was never nationally recognized as club brilliance. Which equates to eight years now and running. How was there never a music made for this jam? Throwww that azzzz thisaaawayyyyy
P.S. I’m a fool for Greg Oden, Shane Battier and Ken Jeong