Reign Over Me

Time for some obligatory Shawn Kemp reminiscing. The clip gets pretty good around the one-minute mark, then gets mildly silly at 1:36, then says "Welcome to the next level" right around 3:20. Fact: You will not see a single made or attempted jump shot anywhere on this reel.

The Foot Fist Way

Daniel LaRusso has absolutely nothing on this chimp.

Sub-Zero? More like PLAIN ZERO

I'm excited about the Jeff Teague era in ATL.

Seagulls Can be Costly

I'm sure you've seen this video by now of a seagull running interference to help the Tribe win a game at Jacobs Field. But you may not have heard this: about a guy who bet $21,750 on the Royals in that game, and was in pretty good shape to collect his winnings until a late rally that culminated with the aforementioned bird incident. That, as we say in the business, sucks.

Wish List

I really hope the Hawks re-sign Zaza.

Reading is Boring, Anyway

This here book on Alex Rodriguez is not doing so well. From an Associated Press story:

"At the Rizzoli Bookstore in midtown Manhattan, 'A-Rod' has sold two copies. Twenty-seven copies have sold at Posman Books, based in Grand Central Terminal, but none in the past two weeks."

It's not like Grand Central is a high traffic area, so I'm sure it's probably doing well in other markets.

Hard Core Bourn

I'm not going to lie and say this made me vomit or cringe to watch because I find it annoying that people feel compelled to say that when watching a clip of this nature, but this is a pretty legitimate shot to the sack nonetheless.

What Year is This?

For those who are sick of 2009 Swine Flu, I bring you... 1974 Swine Flu! Thanks to Frank G. Yak for passing along this 35-year-old Green Bay Packers public service announcement.

Anyone for a Bike Ride?

It's safe to say that if I attempted any one of these tricks, both myself and the bicycle would explode.

Welcome to the Club

Seems like it would be easier to just go ahead and pee in your pants.

Ram It !

I knew that I had to post this approximately 44 seconds into the five-minute, 57-second long clip.

Walter Hermann: Large Hands

It is said that this man can "palm" a basketball using only his thumb and middle finger. After watching the above video, I do not doubt this fact.

Lose Thy Self

Fact:

If watching this thing didn't leave you at half mast, you are not a Hawks fan.

A Replay That Does Not Do the Original Play Justice

This was downright nasty when it happened.

Backboard, Baby. Backboard.

On a handful of occasions, I have had the distinct pleasure of playing rec league hoops with a friend who can dunk with relative ease (most other people on my rec league team, myself included, are happy enough to slap glass).

In one instance playing alongside said friend, I had a breakaway layup and heard him call out from approximately 10 feet behind me: "Backboard."

Adjusting on the fly, I threw a relatively perfect pass off the backboard, and he soared in with two hands -- then bricked the dunk off the back rim. It was both disappointing and rather exciting at the same time.

For the record, Russell Westbrook did not miss the dunk attempt shown above.

Shake n' Bake

This pretty much made my night.

More Sugar, Please

I think I'm hooked on this shit again.

A Brief Moment of Nostalgia

I would have to consider this one of my favorite basketball plays of all time.

And I still have to wonder how the hell Randolph Childress never made it in the NBA.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Butthole

If this insufferably lame hack job of a Forrest Gump remix wins Best Picture, I'm moving to Cannes.

An Ireitnetsng Ltltie Esircxee

I lraeend smotinheg itnrenstieg tdoay, wcihh was pseotd on the wlal of a swciadnh sohp. Sdueits hvae swohn taht it dseon't mtater waht oderr the ltetres in a wrod are pclead. Aleprntapy all taht mrttaes is taht the fsirt and lsat lttrees are in the ppeorr odrer.

Hlnetsoy, I'm not so srue it's taht spmile. Smoe of tshee wdros look lkie prue gisrebibh.

Waht do you tinhk? Was tihs sprursilginy esay to dpiceher?

I tihnk my biarn jsut cestubomd.

Thank You, Telephone

(above: the view from just outside the walls of the infamous Federal Central Prison)

I had a dream last night that I was in prison. But I hadn't committed any crime to get there -- I was only in the clink because someone very near and dear to me had been jailed and I was spending some time in prison with her voluntarily (and not just visiting for the afternoon -- I was in there for an extended period of time).

Oh, and this wasn't just any prison -- it was juvenile prison (though neither myself nor the person I was visiting was a juvenile; such is logic in the world of dreams).

In any case, this arrangement was all good and well until one day a prison administrator came in and told me that I needed to go see the prison doctor. When I inquired as to why, they said that it had come to their attention that I was not a juvenile and therefore they were going to send me to Federal Central Prison, but first I had to be examined by the doctor to make sure I didn't have a fever (note: I think this odd appearance of the fever as a plot device may have had something to do with the fact that a friend of mine was unable to hang out last night in real life due to a fever). I attempted to explain that I hadn't committed any crime and was just in the prison voluntarily, but this bureaucrat wasn't hearing it.

So, next thing I know I'm in the doctor's office, he's testing me for a fever, and I'm doing everything in my power to get the fever reading meter (yes, it was a large meter I could see, not a thermometer) to register an elevated temperature. My main strategy was holding my breath, and much to my delight it seemed to be working (if I had a fever, I obviously couldn't be moved to Federal Central right away).

However, the doctor apparently realized that I was holding my breath to alter the fever-o-meter, and he told me to start talking. When I did, the meter started to lower its fever reading, but I still managed to keep it largely at the fever point for the entire required period of time.

The problem was, after the doctor stopped taking the reading, he said nothing about me having a fever to the administrator, and I was told that I'd be sent to Federal Central Prison in the morning. I attempted to protest again, but they were hearing none of it.

At this point, it seemed my only course of action was to contact my father (an attorney). However, as I picked up my iPhone to dial, I noticed that the time was 8:11 p.m., which meant that it was past regular business hours and it would be too late --

Wait a second, iPhone? Why would I have an iPhone in prison? I thought.

A moment later, I was awake. Somehow, it was the fact that I had a cell phone in prison and not the existence of a bizarre "fever-o-meter" that had brought me back to reality and thereby ended the dream. Honestly, I didn't care whether it was a phone or a fever-o-meter or a flying squirrel that awakened me; I was just happy not to be going to Federal Central.

Fire in the Hole

I think Steve Nash should be fined for this.

No Play for Mr. Gray

I would gladly accept being as short as Nate Robinson if I could jump like Nate Robinson.

Viva Dikembe

Quote of the week (or unspecified time period until I post another quote), from Dikembe Mutombo, speaking to the Houston Chronicle of Yao Ming's tendency to draw charges:

“I’m very critical,” Mutombo said. “Those are bull. I told him that. He’s too tall to be taking charges. He needs to learn to play defense without using his chest. You don’t block a shot with you chest. You block it with your hands. The man who taught me the game, John Thompson, never said that a 7-footer should take a charge, even in a basketball 1-on-1. There’s no rule or writing in the books that you should take a charge. They teach you how to rebound and block shots. So I’m going to work on that. Maybe Yao is listening to Shane [Battier]. Maybe he wants to be a guard or something. Man, I’ve got a lot of things to work on. Maybe he’s planning to lead the league charges. So I have to stop him. I have to teach him to lead the league in blocked shots, not charges.”

Bravo, Dikembe. Charges are indeed bull. Actually, only fake ones are bull. But it seems like pretty much 90 percent of charges are flops these days.

YOU DON'T BLOCK A SHOT WITH YOU CHEST. YOU BLOCK IT WITH YOUR HANDS.

Words to live by.

The Nick Young Spin Cycle

I've watched this Nick Young clip (highlight #3 out of the Top 5) about 11 times and I still have no idea what exactly he did, but I love it. Apparently Gilbert Arenas claims Young clearly just lost the ball and recovered, while Young says he knew what he was doing all along. I think I'm going to have to try this move in my rec league hoops game tonight. Side note: It will not work. Another side note: I wish JaVale McGee was on my rec league hoops team.

Missing Persons Update

We can cross Bonzi Wells off the list, in case anyone was still looking for him.

Chris Paul is My Father

I have been meaning to tell you that for quite some time. I'm just relieved I'm not the only estranged member of his family out there.

Please Collect Your Jock at Lost and Found

Our soccer correspondent Juan Samuel (no relation to the retired, error-prone baseball player of the same name) passed along this clip. Juan watches a lot of soccer, and calls this one of the sickest goals he's ever seen. The OCC watches considerably less soccer, but would nevertheless have to agree.

Ballgame Over

I'm very close to being at a loss for words at the notion of John Smoltz signing with Boston, so I'll simply say this: Reading Chipper Jones' reaction to the whole episode is enough to make any self-respecting Braves fan want to smash a thousand plate glass windows with a mallet.

Now if you'll pardon me, I must go find a bunch of plate glass windows.

Not Sure Why I Never Thought of This

But it is pure genius.

A Sound of Thunder

Much like the last video of a dunk that I intended to post but then forgot, I meant to post this about a week ago, when it actually happened. I kind of posted it mentally in my brain but then didn't actually do the real-life electronic posting. Nevertheless, it was quite enjoyable to watch.

I once did a dunk like that on a Nerf hoop.

Kaboom

I meant to post this clip shortly after it happened, but I went into a week-long coma after instinctively diving headlong out of my chair and striking my dome on the corner of the coffee table the moment I saw this dunk.

On the Subject of Large Balls

We had a ball kind of like this in gym class back when I was in elementary school. The only difference was that our ball was not quite planet-sized. It was called the "cage ball," and the sport that we played using it as a prop was called... drum roll please... "cage ball." The point of the game was to keep the ball afloat and not let it hit the ground, or something to that effect. Eventually it was deemed dangerous after a couple of weaker kids got injured when they were unable to support its massive weight. If I'm not mistaken, I believe that their heads were squashed. That cage ball was heavy.

Please Be Seated

I don't take very much pleasure in watching Andre Miller play basketball. Though I respect the fact that he's effective despite being ground-bound, there's just nothing aesthetically pleasing about his game.

There is, however, something aesthetically pleasing about watching Derrick Rose cross Miller over so severely that the aged Sixers point guard ends up seated on his buttocks. Very nice.

Have You Seen This Man ('s Butt)?

Sunday afternoon I was watching the Titans-Jets game when Tennessee rookie Lavelle Hawkins caught a 14-yard pass which ended with him rolling over in something of a somersault motion on the ground. And when he got up, approximately 57% of his butt was exposed.

It seems like if there's a rule in the NBA that jerseys have to be tucked in, there should be a rule in the NFL that players are required to wear underpants.

20-Second Timeout

I'm not sure that I would want this gentleman coaching my child's AAU team, but we do see eye-to-eye on one issue: I too would like to be a Tobago Island prince.

I'm Starving

What did everyone have for lunch today?

Explosive

I'm pretty certain this is not intended to be comedy, but I began to laugh somewhat uncontrollably around the 2-minute mark. (I'd suggest watching the build-up to that point just to get the flavor.)

Also, one of the very first things to cross my mind when I began watching this was Rexkwondo. I only wish Kip could somehow be involved.

Count It

Strike One

My plane was hit by lightning today coming into LaGuardia.

I nearly messed my trousers.

The good news is, I think I may have superpowers now.

A Most Unlikely Champion

The other day, I was at brunch (true story) when a friend of mine (we'll call him Angus) decided he would share a piece of his bacon with a passing pigeon. Angus' girlfriend protested immediately that pigeons do not eat bacon.

It turned out she was right.

Pigeons don't eat bacon. They throw it.

It was undoubtedly the greatest feat of athleticism I'd ever seen from a pigeon, and keep in mind that I've seen pigeons fly. This plucky little bird time and again took the small slab of bacon in his beak, jerked it back and forth (as though attempting to rip off a chewable piece), and at the end of that motion, each time, he sent the bacon flying into the air.

The first few times, he threw it about 10 to 12 inches. Then, on what was probably his fifth throw, he unleashed. The bacon went flying a good three feet in the air, nearly sailing all the way over a nearby parked car.

Then it struck me: This pigeon belonged in the Pigeon Olympics. As a Bacon Tosser.

He probably never imagined that his future was to be decided so abruptly when he sidled up to our table hoping to catch a fallen bread scrap, but such is life as a smelly, persistent little flying rat on the streets of the wild jungle we call America.

The U.K. Double-Cross

Sometimes when you go to the gym, there's a guy there playing hoops in pants. Sometimes those pants are jeans. More often than not, the guy in pants is kind of a chump, or at the very least a loose cannon. It's just one of those rules of pickup basketball: Guy in pants = chump/loose cannon.

The man in the above video may have some loose cannon tendencies, but he is in no way, shape or form a chump.

I think my favorite part about this (aside from the complete abuse of Devin Harris on camera) is Harris' P.R. maneuver of posturing like he wasn't really trying that hard and that the whole thing really isn't that big of a deal. Don't believe that act. Clearly, he cares somewhat about what just happened to him, and clearly, he's still trying to wrap his mind around exactly what just transpired.

The bottom line: the next time a man in jeans and a sweater challenges you to a game of one-on-one, be very careful. He may be a stone cold British hustler.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby

Since when did the guy who played Spanish in Old School become a big enough celebrity to have his own MLB Playoffs commercial, without so much as a graphic introducing his name?

What is his name, you ask? I have no idea -- I only know him as Spanish.

(Okay, fine, it's Rick Gonzalez.)

But seriously, did I miss something here? Has this guy suddenly become so recognizable on a national level that we don't even need to be told his name when he's narrating a commercial? Furthermore, is he really important to the point that the American populace should need to know his opinions on baseball? (You'll have to excuse the fact that I don't have the actual commercial here; I can't find the blessed thing on the YouTube machine.)

Maybe you don't think this is such a big deal, but I'm having a somewhat difficult time coming to grips with it. To me, he'll always be that guy who got yelled at for taking off his costume head at Beanie's son's birthday party.

But then again, I'm still attempting to come to terms with Blue's sudden and untimely death, so I might not have the most credibility in terms of evaluating this situation objectively.

I Believe the Correct Term is "Elephantitis"

Generally speaking, in our society, having big nuts is considered a good thing, and having small nuts is considered embarrassing.

Unless, of course, your enormously swollen nuts put you in the hospital, as they have recently done to Browns TE Kellen Winslow.

Dr. Edwards*: Dr. Richards, I came as soon as I saw the call. What are we looking at here?

Dr. Richards (highlighting Winslow's nuts with a laser pointer): It appears as though the patient is suffering from an acute case of blue balls.

Dr. Edwards: My God. Of all the horrible things you see in this line of work, you never quite get used to this.

* No relation to Braylon Edwards.

9 Random Thoughts for Monday (and Beyond)

Because that chicken flavored, MSG-infused Nissin Cup O'Noodles ingested at 1 a.m. has left my cerebellum stumbling around like a parched, semi-delirious desert traveler:


1) Alexei Ramirez, owner of one of the great, almost- politically- incorrect- but- just- okay- enough- to- use nicknames ("The Cuban Missile") is listed at 27 years old. I'm taking the over on that -- the picture doesn't do it justice, but the dude's face is slightly too skeletal and mask-like for him to actually be that youthful. I'm thinking he's more like 31. Or 57. However, on another vital stat (his weight, listed at 185), I'm taking the under. He looks famished.

2) The Falcons paid way too much money to Matt Ryan, but all praise be to Theo Huxtable that it looks like he's gonna develop into a true franchise QB. On a semi-related note, it's a tremendous feeling to be able to wear a Falcons T around Manhattan with something resembling pride.

3) Life as a Fantasy Football Addict, Part I: You're at brunch Sunday morning, when over the left shoulder of one of your companions, on the TV screen that you've been staring at uncontrollably, you see that Matt Hasselbeck has appeared to suffer a season-ending ACL tear on a wrenching hit from a Giants lineman. You are attempting to be a polite brunch participant, but at this juncture, you nearly scream and hurl your omelette at the busboy. You proceed to spend the next 12 minutes of the meal fixated on the TV, hoping on the off chance that Hasselbeck is somehow not seriously injured and will come back into the game. He does. You are enormously relieved. This, however, does not change the fact that Hasselbeck and the Seahawks are terrible -- his line on the day: 11-for-25, 105 yards, 0 TD, 1 INT. You decide to get your omelette to go, and promptly peg it into the face of a hunched-over old woman on the street.









4) Jonny Gomes looks scary with a Mohawk.







5) Life as a Fantasy Football Addict, Part II: You agonize for a week about whether to play Ronnie Brown or Steve Slaton in Week 5. You choose Slaton. When, around 3 p.m. on Sunday, Brown is decisively outscoring him, you decide to chop off one of your fingers. While you're trying to decide which one to lance, Slaton comes back and scores his second TD of the day en route to outscoring Brown by three points. Your team goes on to win by more than 30. You feel extremely vindicated for making the right choice, despite the fact that those three points proved to have absolutely no bearing on anything.

6) After throwing the pass that lead to Anquan Boldin getting his cranium annihilated on that vicious hit in Week 4, Kurt Warner reportedly sent his wife a text message saying that he was considering retirement in the wake of that injury. Then his wife sent back a picture message reminding him that she basically has a flat top, and Kurt decided to keep playing.


7) If you haven't seen Chris Rock's Kill the Messenger, there are some piss- in- your- corduroys funny moments, a couple of which pertain to sports. One of them appeared to be an accident (Rock inadvertently referring to Dikembe Mutombo as Dikembe Mutumbu -- which made an already funny punchline that much more hilarious), and there was a sports commentary moment that really hit home unexpectedly: Rock talking about seeing an image of Sarah Palin standing over a slain moose, which prompted him to wonder exactly what the hell Michael Vick is in prison for. Sure, I get it that dog fighting is illegal and cruel and blah blah blah, but when you think about it on a slightly abstract, existential level, it's kind of absurd that Palin is celebrated (by some) for her love of killing animals while #7 is currently serving time for his animal-related deeds.

8) You might be an NBA fan if... You are unreasonably anxious to watch Rudy Gay and O.J. Mayo running wreckless fast breaks on League Pass en route to a 14-68 record in Memphis.

9) I have a number of not-that-douchey Red Sox fan friends whose happiness I sort of care about, but even so, if Boston wins the World Series, I'm going to throw an omelette at somebody.

Can I Interest You in Some Kielbasa?

I just saw a commercial (or "advert," as the Brits might say) for the MLB playoffs, narrated by Angels center fielder Torii Hunter. I attempted to find the clip on YouTube for reference, but was unsuccessful, so here's the transcript (in a minute you'll see why I'm typing it):

The commercial begins with a shot of Hunter holding a laptop, and on the screen are graphics saying "The Halo Effect, Posted by Hunter 48" (it is clear at this point that we're seeing what is supposed to be a Torii Hunter blog entry)

At this point, Torii says: "We're not about earning points for good behavior."

Then, an announcer's voice comes in over a highlight: "Oh my goodness, what a play!"

Torii: "We're about scoring runs."

Announcer (speaking over a shot of Angels 1B Mark Teixeira): "Salami time!"

There's more to the commercial, but let's just stop right here, because I know I did a double-take at this point.

Just so we're clear, I know as well as anybody that the term "grand slam" is sometimes morphed to "grand salami," apparently because even something that happens as rarely as a bases loaded home run must be augmented to give a shout out to salted and cured meat.

Even so, this use of the announcer's call "Salami time!" struck me as decidedly odd. Sure, you can easily decipher what it means in baseball terms, but you also have to consider the broader context, and where I come from, "Salami time!" can mean two things: 1) that you've just ordered the meat and cheese plate at your favorite Italian restaurant, or 2) you're a teammate of Charles Haley on the late 1980's and early 1990's San Francisco 49ers.

What I'm left to wonder here is whether or not the person who put together the script for this commercial considered the double meaning of "salami time," or if I am indeed the only a-hole juvenile enough to immediately consider the more anatomical interpretation.

I would like to think that the producer of the commercial was in on the joke, but in a world where I routinely hear on-air phrases like "that's the deepest penetration the Jets have enjoyed all day," I just don't know what to believe anymore.

Sometimes I think that we're losing our ear for innuendo altogether. But fear not: Any time an announcer cries out the words "Salami time!" into the night, I will be here, ever vigilant, to point out the undeniable truth: that he basically just said "Penis."

Here's Johnny

Bruce the Intern dug up this grainy video footage of what appears to be Yankees outfielder Johnny Damon taking part in an exciting and somewhat unusual offseason endeavor. I for one had no idea he was such a talented and empassioned dancer. Please note the breakout just before the 2-minute mark. Bravo, Monsieur Damon. Bravo!

Would You Mind Chopping Off This Ligament For Me?

In baseball, it has become something resembling a rite of passage: Blow out your elbow, visit Dr. Andrews, go under the knife, rehab, and come back throwing harder than ever before.

Have you had your Tommy John surgery today?

Though it's commonplace in the world of baseball, ligament replacement surgery has not been prevalent in two other sports that prominently feature throwing: football and dagger toss. But while dagger toss has continued to be a largely surgery-free sport (aside from those random instances when a dagger misses the target and hits a bystander in the gut), it appears that the Tommy John phenomenon could be on the cusp of breaking through to the NFL.

Unless I'm forgetting someone (and research indicates that I'm too lazy to check), the real pioneer in this regard was Panthers QB Jake Delhomme, who had ligament replacement surgery last year, and has come back to throw for 860 yards through Carolina's first four games. Now, there are rumors that Cincy QB Carson Palmer may need to have his elbow ligament replaced as well, which has led to reports that a certain fantasy GM (read: me) recently threw his desk through the third-floor window of a Manhattan apartment building.

Regardless of whether or not those Palmer rumors are true, it's not hard to envision a day when having a new ligament is the norm rather than the exception in the NFL. It's also not hard to picture some knucklehead tearing up his elbow in a recreational baseball or softball match and opting to have T.J. surgery so as to continue his recreational sporting career.

I am here to tell you that with your support, I would like to be that knucklehead.

I am 100 percent willing to go under the knife and perform the necessary rehab if it adds 5 mph to my fastball and 10-15 yards to my deep ball (not to mention adding one more notch to my dagger-tossing prowess). Shouldn't every half-serious recreational athlete feel the same way? And for that matter, shouldn't every flacid-armed QB in the league (Chad Pennington, par exemple) be hoping for a ligament eruption so that with just one year of rehab he can come back as a QB who finally commands some goddamn respect?

Chapter 1, Section 3, Article 1.2 of the Official Dagger Toss Rulebook states: "The most noble competitor shan't fear the knife, so long as it is pointed at the appropriate target, and not at his gut, spleen or some other vital organ."

The same could be said for those all across the world of sports who are facing a rendezvous with Tommy John. Don't fear the blade. Embrace the blade. Let the blade embrace your elbow. Let the blade chop your elbow into little bits. Then come back stronger than ever before. Your NFL career (or your flag football league) will never be the same again.

Hello, Neighbor

Early Wednesday evening, as I walked back from [undisclosed location] to my palacial New York City apartment, I caught sight of a man I immediately recognized as Marko Jaric. The extremely brief encounter left me with more questions than answers.

For one, did his presence in New York City have any bearing on the seemingly dormant trade rumors that had him going from the Grizzlies to the Knicks in a deal for Zach Randolph?

And why is it that every year, Marko Jaric inevitably summons an extremely high level of play for random stretches (see his lines of 16 pts, 8 rebounds, 10 assists against Golden State followed by 15, 8 and 10 in his next game against Phoenix in January) only to end up my fantasy team just in time to revert to disappointing, maddeningly unproductive Marko Jaric?

Perhaps more importantly, why was he wearing sunglasses at 5:33 p.m. on a late-September day, when the streets could be described a thousand ways other than "sun-drenched"? (And don't give me the answer that he was trying to avoid being spotted -- I would put myself in a relatively small percentage of sports fans who would actually recognize him on the street.)

Speaking of which, does anyone in the NBA more perenially look like he just stumbled out of a club at 5:22 a.m. than Jaric?

Another question: Why is it that I can't ever hear his name in my head without internally pronouncing it in a Pirate's voice? (Marko YARRRRRR-itch)

Why, also, on the one occasion when I randomly spotted him on the street, was he walking around with some random dude instead of Adriana Lima?

And, lastly, a question we may never fully be able to answer: Why, as I walked past, were he and his compatriot thinking about walking into that nondescript establishment on the corner about two blocks away where I once went for brunch, only to have a rather disappointing omelette?

I See Yardage Totals

Last Monday, I wrote a post on this blog touting the potential of Raiders rookie RB Darren McFadden. Towards the end of that post, I said:

"If you're in a fantasy league, it's time to hope he throws out a 14-carry, 42-yard clunker next week, and then trade for him and don't look back."

McFadden's line yesterday against Buffalo: 14 carries, 42 yards.

This can only mean two things:

1) As I suggested last week, it's time to attempt to trade for McFadden immediately;

2) More importantly, through circumstances I can't currently explain, I may have been endowed with some sort of psychic, number-predicting powers. Of course, me forecasting McFadden's 14-carry, 42-yard line came the same week that I dreamt that 49ers QB J.T. O'Sullivan would throw for just under 500 yards and 5 TD's while rushing 40 times for -96 yards. That, of course, did not happen. However, I would be remiss not to point out that Saturday night, I did have a dream that Dolphins RB Ronnie Brown was going to have a big game against the previously stout New England defense. (Brown's line on Sunday: 113 rush yards, 4 rush TD's, 1 pass TD)

These factors lead me to two definitive conclusions:

1) I may be psychic;

2) I really need to stop wasting so much time and brain space thinking about football.

O'Sullivan's Wake

Last night I dreamt that 49ers QB J.T. O'Sullivan (who this week will be in the starting lineup for my fantasy football team, Waivers Rancheros) threw for just under 500 yards with 5 TD's, connecting on two of those TD's to Bryant Johnson, who is also in my starting lineup this week. As you can imagine, this brought the comatose me a great amount of joy. It should also be noted that in my dream, O'Sullivan ran 40 times for -96 yards (yes, that's 40 carries for negative 96 yards).

The fact that my subconscious was so focused on a pair of semi-obscure San Francisco 49ers got me to thinking that if there was a rehab center for fantasy football addicts somewhere out there, I probably wouldn't check in. But I can imagine that there are some poor bastards out there who really need help.

Me, personally -- am I an addict? Absolutely not.

So what if I blacked out last week and came to at an Internet cafe in Mumbai, where it was 10:57 p.m. on Sunday (12:57 p.m. Eastern time), as I frantically attempted to set my lineups in time for the 1 p.m. kickoffs?

Seriously, I don't see what the big deal is. I've always thought you watched too many Hill Street Blues reruns, but I don't call you an addict for that.

So if you would, please back off -- you're suffocating me. Besides, it's very difficult to tend to important business such as pondering my weekly lineup and making meaningless waiver wire transactions when you're hovering over me like that.

Thanks for your understanding.

(Relapses)

(Blacks out)

(Wakes up Sunday morning in Azerbaijan)

See Darren Run

Somewhere around 2 p.m. yesterday, Darren McFadden had 5 carries for 10 yards in the second quarter against the Chiefs, and -- having invested in McFadden in two fantasy leagues -- I was browsing the Wikipedia page on how to commit Seppuku.

But shortly after that, Raiders starting running back Justin Fargas' groin exploded, McFadden erupted, and I sheathed my Samurai sword (only to take it out and run it across the sharpener when I realized that I had McFadden on the bench in one league).

My own completely gratuitous self-inflicted fantasy football torture aside, McFadden (apart from a wee fumbling problem) looked positively awesome on Sunday. If you're in a fantasy league, it's time to hope he throws out a 14-carry, 42-yard clunker next week, and then trade for him and don't look back.

Of course, if McFadden does mess the bed next week against Buffalo, I will most likely be dusting off that katana blade once again (figuratively speaking, Jeff).

It's That Nice Young Man From the Motor Club

I probably don't need to remind you of the scene in Groundhog Day during which Bill Murray -- in the midst of his quest to essentially complete the perfect day -- spots a group of elderly ladies who have run aground on a flat tire. But before they're able to decide how to handle the situation, Murray's character of Phil Connors has deftly jacked up their car and replaced the tire.

I bring this up because recently, Cowboys QB Tony Romo did his finest Phil Connors impersonation, pulling over at the side of a Texas (not Punxsutawney) road to help Bill and Sharon White, a local couple who had blown a tire. As Sharon told the Ft. Worth Star Telegram, "Bill was fooling with that tire, and I was standing beside the car watching him. The next thing I know, a nice-looking young man, very well-dressed, but with something strange on his chin, he walked up, smiled, and said, 'Hey, you need some help?'"

It's the "nice-looking young man" line in particular that calls to mind the scene in Groundhog Day when Tony Romo/Phil Connors is at the dance and sees the women he had helped out earlier, prompting one of them to say, "It's that nice young man from the motor club!"

And naturally, the prevalent (and logical) response to Romo's actions is to laud him for his act of good sumaritanism. But it should also be noted that Romo's apparent likeness, Connors, had a memorable dark period in the film, during which -- among other attempts to rid himself of the cruelty of waking up in the same Pennsylvania town every day -- he hurled himself off a building, drove off a cliff, climbed into the bathtub with a toaster and kidnapped Punxsutawney Phil, the iconic groundhog.

If Tony Romo really is the golden boy that everyone's making him out to be, we most likely will not be seeing him attempt to murder himself or steal a famous mascot, but with any luck, perhaps we could see him defend Jessica Simpson's honor in a snowball fight.

Have You Seen This Man?

Question: Is there an official term for the opposite of the Midas touch, whereby instead of gold, everything you touch turns to shit?

I seem to be afflicted with this condition when it comes to my fantasy football squads. They went a combined 0-3 during Week 1 of the NFL season, and while I realize that this shouldn't significantly affect my demeanor or outlook on life, the prospect of having crappy fantasy teams makes me want to douse myself in kerosene and take a headlong plunge through a half-inch thick plate glass window.

Thank you for listening; that is all for now.

Baums Away

Pretending like the blog hasn't been in a coma for the past two weeks...

I was watching tennis the other day when I happened upon a match featuring Sybille Bammer of Austria. And during said match, it came to my attention that her last name is pronounced "BAUM-er," which immediately called to mind "The Baumer" himself, Richie Tenenbaum, the depressed former tennis pro portrayed by Luke Wilson in The Royal Tenenbaums.

Which immediately made me think of the man working at the graveyard in the film who spots Wilson's character walking past, prompting him to say "Hey Baumer! Alright!" a phrase that will heretofore pop into my head every time I see Sybille Bammer take the tennis court for all the rest of my born days (which is to say, probably about five or 10 more times).

Perhaps this is too much to ask, but I would greatly enjoy it if "The Baumer" of real life women's tennis would have a meltdown on par with that of the fictional Baumer in the film, sitting down on the court and taking off her shoes and only making a cursory effort to swat at every shot that came across the net.

And lastly, I know it's Austrian, but why in the blazes is her name spelled Bammer and pronounced "BAUM-er"? Do they call prison "the SLAUM-er" in Austria?

Very important issues at hand here, as you can see.

Pardon Me, This Yacht Has No Teat

When you see a story that says a baby whale in Australia has mistaken a yacht for its mother, you generally say to yourself: That is pretty amusing.

And when you read further down on the page, and discover that the whale has attempted to "suckle" from the yacht's nonexistent breast, there's really only one thing left to be said:

Outstanding.

The Old Automatic

It probably shouldn't be that enjoyable to watch the greatest basketball player of all time annihilating a bunch of school kids, but for some reason, it is.

Also, I know these are just high school kids he's schooling, but seeing how automatic his fade-away still is, is there any doubt that the 45-year-old incarnation of MJ could suit up and score 18 per game in the League right now?

Le Baron Strikes Again

You may have already seen this elsewhere. If not, you must watch. Baron Davis is fast becoming the king of pro athletes when it comes to bizarre, semi-underground Internet videos (see: Baron on roller skates for reference). It should also be pointed out that Baron's co-star in this short (Steve Nash) has some frighteningly good dance moves (and a remarkable pair of shorts).

Dog Baron all you want for not finishing what he started in Golden State, but it's hard not to like a guy (or guys in this case) who are willing to don ridiculously nerdy outfits, hop on a tandem bicycle and have a dance session on the street for no apparent reason whatsoever.

Quiet... Almost Too Quiet

You know how in the middle of the summer people leave New York and it gets really quiet?

You also know how in the middle of the summer, the streets of New York smell like a vile combination of puke, excrement and fecal matter combined into one vicious nostril-assaulting toxin?

You also know how sometimes, you put a photo on your blog, and it ends up showing up vertical instead of horizontal, but you don't feel like changing it?

I bring this up (the first thing, not the second or third) because you may see the occasional tumbleweed blowing through these streets during the next month or so. This, as they say, is my busy time of year. That's not to say that I won't have any new thrilling posts, so please keep checking back so that you can have the joy of stumbling across one such post, or so that you can curse my name for not having added anything new in [insert number of days here].

Thank you for your time, understanding and continued support.

Sincerely,

Mark Lemke

Where Perplexing Happens

Taking a break from my unintentional blogging exile (forgive me readers, it has been rather busy around these parts) to wonder why on God's green earth a first-place team would sign a 50-year-old woman, as the Detroit Shock have just done with Nancy Lieberman.

More importantly, though, why the hell am I writing about it?

Perhaps it's partially because of Shock coach Bill Laimbeer's quote: "Can she still compete at this level? I don't know. But I'm going to throw her in the fire." Something about a 51-year-old man saying that about a 50-year-old woman conjures the image of him quite literally picking her up and flinging her headlong onto the hardwood floor, at which point she breaks a hip.

Okay, I think I'm done. We can all go back to throwing darts at Hawks GM Rick Sund's face.

Dallas: A Place Where Ankles Stay Maddeningly Swollen, and They Don't Give Away Kia's for Free (at Least Not to My Friends)

Well, the smoke has cleared, and as you can gather from that rather economical headline, our man in the NBA Kia Motors Performance Challenge gave it a go on his gimped ankle, and while no one came within two seconds of Mike W.'s 17.8 seconds time from the qualifying round a couple months back, his ankle just couldn't withstand the rigors of the obstacle course. Fact is, when he took to the court Sunday, the thing was still swollen up worse than a guadeloupe (the guadeloupe, for those not in the know, is a distant cousin of the canteloupe. Check that -- I'm being told that Guadeloupe is a French territory in the Caribbean).

In any case, as much as I would have enjoyed doing e-brake turns in that new Kia, looks like we'll just have to wait until next year (and most likely attempt to qualify for the finals ourselves).

Before we go, let's take a second to pour out a small dollop of St. Ides for The Atlanta Representative, who made a hell of a run just getting on the plane with that mangled ankle of his.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

Dallas, Baby. Dallas.

We interrupt whatever the hell else you were doing with this important news bulletin:

Friend of the blog Mike Walbert (a.k.a. "Mike E. Dubs," a.k.a. "Mickael Pietrus," a.k.a. "Pro Form," a.k.a. "Ice Pack" a.k.a. "300") is in Dallas this weekend as the Atlanta representative in the NBA Kia Motors Performance Challenge (follow this link and see Mike on the left).

For those not in the know, the Kia Motors Performance Challenge is just like the skills competition at NBA All-Star Weekend, and it doesn't take a goddamn professor of religion to realize that only one competitor in the nation (some dude named Steve Clark from D.C.) has posted a higher regional score (16.8 seconds) than Monsieur Walbert, who clocked in a 17.8 seconds in ATL a few months back in front of a confused crowd who had absolutely no idea who this guy was.

Given that he had the second-best score out of nine competitors, if you were a gambling man you'd probably be wise to throw down a little coin on the kid from ATL. But here's where it gets interesting: This past week, while playing hoops, the Atlanta Representative suffered a rather vicious sprained ankle. As just told to The OCC via secure telephone connection, the bruise from the sprain spread down his foot and partway up his calf with the reckless abandon of the Bubonic Plague. Mike was told by more than one person in the medical profession that he most likely tore some ligaments (they couldn't confirm with x-rays because the ankle was too damn sickeningly swollen to look at). But thanks to a steady regimen of rest, ice, compression, elevation, pilates and peyote, he's on the ground in Dallas and is actually walking (or perhaps more accurately, limping).

"If I win, which is a long shot now, it's gonna be a hell of a story," says the young Walbert.

He's got until Sunday at 5 p.m. to consume enough booze to get that swelling to go down, then get out there and win the damn thing.

I'll be the first to say that I'm not putting it past him to get it done.

We'll be back with updates throughout the weekend.

Oh, by the way, did I mention that the winner of this bitch gets a brand new Kia?

As a great wiseman once said: Stay tuned.

Hey, Isn't That...

I found the answer to that question you were wondering about. The answer is, six years.

The question, in case you have forgotten, is "How long does it take for you [you being a former Knicks guard who goes by the name of John Starks] to sufficiently fade from the limelight after your playing career concludes so that you can blend in on a commuter train from Connecticut to New York without being harassed or accosted by anyone?"

This is all a very roundabout way of saying I saw John Starks on the train yesterday. He was wearing a suit. No one else seemed to notice him. However, I think he noticed that I noticed him, and he was probably terrified that I was going to make a scene. I didn't.

That is the end of my story.

What Tasty Bullets That Gun Has

On Monday, as I am occasionally wont to do, I boarded an airplane. The flight was rather long, and about 4.5 hours into it, I exhausted most existing means of entertainment (I stopped short of eating the pre-packaged, microwaved cheeseburger that could undoubtedly survive a nuclear holocaust).

So I turned to the Sky Mall magazine. I killed about two minutes flipping through the first 39 pages, until, on page 40 -- I spotted something.

THE MARSHMALLOW SHOOTER, said the font below the silly-looking purple gun.

The description read: "This clever pump-action device shoots sweet, edible miniature marshmallows over 30 feet, and it even has an LED sight that projects a safe beam of red light to help locate a target for pinpoint accuracy. The easy-to-refill magazine holds 20 marshmallows for fast, nonstop action."

I immediately went down to the lab (not located on board the plane) to check my blood for traces of peyote.

This clever pump-action device shoots sweet, edible miniature marshmallows over 30 feet?

Are we so lazy as a society that we have to blast our marshmallows across the house to one another instead of getting up to retrieve them from the bag?

Are we so obsessed with guns that we need a gun that shoots candy? (and a candy gun with a laser site, at that.)

Not wanting to miss out on this offer, I immediately ordered six Marshmallow Shooters, at $24.95 a pop.

The Dirty Bird

Today I was walking on the street when a ruddy-faced drunken man zig-zagging his way down 9th Avenue suddenly had a moment of semi-lucid thought upon spotting my red Falcons t-shirt.

"The Falcons!?!" he said. "You don't know anything about... Atlanta."

So I punched him in the face and stole his booze.

My Deepest Sympathies for Your Junk

To Chris Snyder's unborn children:

Daddy suffered a pretty horrific injury recently. A fractured left testicle. Didn't know testicles could fracture? Me neither. Maybe you'll learn about that someday in science class.

Now if you'll pardon me, I'm going to go make myself vomit and then weep uncontrollably for about 5 minutes. After that I think I'll feel better about all this.

Entendre (x2)

Something else I heard today in the first inning of the Red Sox-D'Backs game on NESN after an errant pickoff attempt:

"That one almost thrown away by Johnson -- nice play by Conor Jackson to reach around the rubber."

As Michael Bluth would point out, there's gotta be a better way to say that.

What a Remarkable Knob You Have

Wednesday I was watching the Brewers-Braves game when a question from a viewer came on the air for the announcers to answer.

Bill from Elkhorn wanted to know, "Why is the knob on Rickie Weeks' bat so big compared to others?"

Pardon me for being so juvenile, but I'm not sure I would have been able to answer that one with a straight face.

The Old Switcheroo

They're probably gonna need to get this rule about a switch hitter facing a switch pitcher sorted out before Pat Venditte goes too much farther in his professional career.

It's Headley

On May 29, actor Harvey Korman, who played Hedley Lamarr in Blazing Saddles, died at the age of 81.

Nineteen days later, on June 17, the San Diego Padres called up prized prospect Chase Headley.

I'm still trying to figure out what this all means.

But I'm pretty sure it's something big.

What Are You Up to Tonight?

Before you get all bent out of shape about it, let me ask you this: Who among us hasn't been spotted at Tryst (the nightclub in the Wynn casino in Vegas) spraying bottles of Dom P. all over the assembled masses, only to be found unconscious with an orbital fracture on East Flamingo Road approximately 36 hours later?

So before you go judging Raiders WR Javon Walker for his actions (or for whatever debaucherous sequence of decisions led him to be laid out on a street corner Monday morning), just realize that sometimes when you go to Las Vegas, things happen a little bit differently than planned. If you can't handle that, then you probably ought to stay planted in your seat with your little cup of coins playing the video slots, and leave the champagne spraying and street brawling for those of us who are actually looking to have a good time.

Crippling Diarrhea, Most Likely

Clearly, something was bothering Rockies second baseman Jeff Baker on Sunday, as he came into the game for a pinch hitter, then was removed for a pinch runner after reaching on a hit. But in an astonishing development -- and in a notable departure from recent episodes in which it was revealed that Kaz Matsui had an anal fissure and Carlos Guillen had hemorrhoids -- Rockies manager Clint Hurdle did not reveal what was wrong with Baker, instead invoking the (apparently quite rare) phrase, "I'm not at liberty to say." Which of course begs two questions:

1) Why couldn't the Astros and the Tigers taken the same strategy and decide not to sell out Matsui and Guillen's terribly embarrassing butt problems?

2) What in God's name was plaguing Baker, and how am I supposed to find out if no one is going to be senseless enough to run their mouth about it?

The People You'll Meet

This morning I was in Dunkin' Donuts when the woman behind me (probably in her 50's or 60's, looking slightly down and out and more than reasonably troubled) suddenly said to the man walking past her, "Please talk to me, please talk to me. Please talk to me!"

He proceeded to walk right past her, at which point she lamented, "He thinks I hung up the phone on him. And he's probably gonna hold that grudge for the rest of his life." This was my first true hint that the woman was insane -- the fact that she clearly believed that an accidental phone hang-up could possibly lead to a lifelong grudge. Actually, it was my third hint that she was insane. The first hint was the fact that she clearly looked insane. The second hint was when she started yelling out "Please talk to me please talk to me please talk to me!"

When no one responded to her (clearly we were all following the man's lead), she said, "Fine. Do it." As if to say, "Go ahead, hold that grudge -- see if I care. (On second thought, please don't!)" She then started muttering about how these long lines at Dunkin' Donuts kill her.

She was probably late for a business meeting.

John Smoltz is Having Shoulder Surgery

Shit.

Proper Protection is Advised

From the files of "Jesus, that sounds uncomfortable," it has come to light that Padres pitcher Chris Young is suffering from a severe case of I-don't-know-what-you-call-it-but- something-is-really-wrong-with-his-head (the result of his taking a line drive off the face from Albert Pujols on May 21). As Padres manager Bud Black told the San Diego Union Tribune,

"He can't taste his food. His sense of smell is not there...He'll probably have to have a septum procedure. At this point, the main focus is on the small crack in the skull. That has to close up so they can feel very comfortable about no infection getting in his brain."

That sounds terribly uncomfortable. And frankly, the way Pujols is lashing the baseball these days, it's probably a good idea to either a) sport a helmet on the mound (see photo above) or b) release your pitch and promptly hit the deck. Then again, that option leaves your kidneys and other vital organs dangerously exposed. File this under the very rare instance (the other being Greg Maddux peeing on teammates in the shower) that I'm actually quite happy to not be a Major Leaguer.

Please Pass the Spear

Sometimes you read things that make a very sick and crass part of you happy. Today, I saw this quote from Tigers manager Jim Leyland (speaking of Carlos Guillen) in the Detroit Free Press:

"He can hardly move -- he's got hemorrhoids so bad. He's been playing with hemorrhoids that probably need to be lanced. He probably shouldn't have been out there (third base on Monday)."

Why is this funny? Because butt injuries are funny. It's why we laughed earlier this year when we learned that Kaz Matsui had an anal fissure. It is also why we google image'd "anal fissure," and then promptly vomited.

Another reason this Guillen news is humorous is that it evokes the image of "lancing" ones hemorrhoids. Not sure about you, but for me this conjures the visual of Jim Leyland wielding a giant spear and jamming it at full speed into the buttocks of Carlos Guillen, sending his hemorrhoids one-by-one into an explosive mess of volcano-like rear-end discharge as Leyland cackles and dances and claps his hands in delight.

But maybe that's just me.

Signs of Life

One... two... three...

CLEAR

Wait a second -- I'm getting signs of a pulse here...

Please forgive the lack of posts lately. More to come soon. In the meantime, I'll tell you four things you may not have known about Denver, where I just spent the past four days:

1) The mile high air effect you so often hear about as pertains to sporting events is not a joke. I played basketball with other attendees of a wedding and you could feel the burn in your lungs almost instantaneously. I also hit a wiffleball approximately 700 feet.

2) Coors Field -- despite currently having next to no atmosphere on account of the Rockies being rotten -- is a pretty cool place to see a baseball game (tough to top a view of the Rocky Mountains from your seats);

3) Omar Minaya, in addition to having a slight managerial crisis on his hands, also is in possession of an orange suitcase (spotted him outside Coors Field on Friday night);

4) Jose Reyes, in addition to being in the midst of a somewhat disappointing season, also has at least one flamboyantly ugly white printed t-shirt (spotted him and Luis Castillo aimlessly wandering the streets of Denver on Saturday night).

You Got Change for a Hundred?

Ken Griffey Jr. recently repaid a $1,500 debt to teammate Josh Fogg by dropping 150,000 pennies in his locker.

To think that I feel guilty occasionally paying a delivery guy with $4 in quarters.

What Sort of Man Are You?

Are you the sort of man who could, if legally blind, and 78 years old, still somehow roll a perfect game down at the local lanes?

Because that's what 78-year-old Dale Davis (no relation to that Dale Davis), a.k.a. "The Hammer," did on Saturday night.

Short of Rick Ankiel, this guy may be the biggest pimp on the planet.

Rick Roll

I've often thought (and occasionally said) that Rick Ankiel had one of the most fascinating -- and these days, surprisingly satisfying -- pro sports careers of our time.

On Tuesday night, he added another chapter to his story, Roy Hobbs-style.

If you haven't seen these two throws, you best get your thumb out of your bunghole and take a look. This is pure filth.

It Putz the Lotion in the Basket

Here's the not remotely interesting fact of the day: Mariners closer J.J. Putz pronounces his last name "PUTS," as opposed to "PUTZ," as it appears (and as would be much, much better).

Another fact you might be interested in: I have absolutely nothing to write about right now.

I'll try to remedy that soon. In the meantime, I wish you a pleasant day.

Are We World Serious?

Seventeen years ago, during the Braves' unlikely run to the World Series, a friend of mine was riding the MARTA train home from one of the games when a young boy, who was...shall we say... a bit mentally challenged got a bit caught up in the moment amongst the rowdy fans on the train, and -- attempting to add his own celebratory comment to the slew of cheers -- cried out, "ARE WE WORLD SERIOUS?!?!?" (Please picture that line delivered in the voice of a boy who is...shall we say...a bit mentally challenged.)

Since that time, "Are we world serious" has become something of a rallying cry amongst my inner circle of Atlanta sports fans.

I bring it up now because as I write the Hawks have a three-point lead over the Celtics at the half and are making an insane bid to tie this series up. (This coming just a couple days after I suggested that Mike Woodson should -- in a perhaps unprecedented move -- be fired in the middle of the series, a stance I have cooled on momentarily now that the Hawks are playing with a fire under their ass.)

If the Birds can somehow tie this thing up, Game 6 is on Friday night in Atlanta, and The OCC will most likely be in attendance, assuming I/he can acquire a ticket to a Phillips Arena (a.k.a "The Highlight Factory") that is suddenly an absolute madhouse.

Are we world serious? Probably not. But this sure as hell is fun.

Putting the Wood Down, Part II

Has a coach ever been fired in the middle of a playoff series?

So Crazy it Might Just Work

If I were to tell you that Charles Oakley is pitching his own TV cooking show entitled "Cafe Oakley," is that something you might be interested in?

What if I told you that John Starks was a guest on one of the pilot episodes, and that some of the dishes prepared were "Oak's Fried Chicken and Macaroni Salad," "Oak's Pasta, Sauce and Sausages" and "Oak's Smothered Steak and Rice."

I don't watch cooking shows, and I don't watch much in the way of non-sports programming, but I'm pretty sure the level of intensity this man would bring to the kitchen would almost certainly make it worth my while to tune in.

Somebody really needs to pick this show up immediately.

Okay, You Win

I know I've been absent lately. I promise I'll write more soon. Just please tell your friend to stop looking at me that way.

Here's Poop in Your Eye

According to experts (and by "experts," I mean the people who wrote Knocked Up), pink eye is caused by "poo particles" (or particles of feces) getting into your eyes.

I wonder who farted in Wilson Betemit's face.

Someone Get This Man a Kielbasa

Fact: Prince Fielder hit 50 home runs last year.

In eight games so far this year, he has hit zero.

He is slugging .345.

Fact: Prince Fielder has become a vegetarian.

Conclusion: vegetarianism is bad.

I'll Take the Lefty

Sometimes, when you have a numbers crunch (i.e., an odd number of people) in a pickup football game, you designate one player as the all-time quarterback (meaning he plays QB for both teams).

Other times, when you're in prison with a lefty QB possessing incredible wheels and a bazooka for a left arm, you designate him the all-time QB as well.

As Falcons owner Arthur Blank told the NY Daily News, "Apparently, there was a prison football team and he played quarterback for both sides."

The only problem with this from Vick's standpoint is that it's very hard to complete an afternoon as the all-time QB without being accused by at least one person (if not an entire team) of trying harder when you're QB'ing for one of the squads.

The safest thing to do is probably pad the stats of the guys who look like they could whoop your ass.

Or, alternatively, don't go to prison in the first place.

Tennis Can Be a Frustrating Sport

My favorite thing about this video is not the fact that Mikhail Youzhny bludgeons his face with a tennis racket (though that is enjoyable). What I really enjoy is when the announcer likens Youzhny's behavior to that of Vincent Van Gogh and then -- emboldened by what he feels is a brilliant analogy -- goes on to point out that Youzhny, like Van Gogh, has short hair as well.

One man (a professional tennis player) hits himself in the face with a tennis racket because he's extremely frustrated about losing a point. Another man (an artist) cuts off his ear because he's insane (and I think it had something to do with love also). And, both have short hair.

What are the odds?

Medieval Behavior

I am embarrassed for America today.

On Monday night, Orlando Magic forward Rashard Lewis took his family to Medieval Times. Some teenagers asked for his autograph. Eventually, more people crowded around. There was pushing and shoving. A fight broke out.

This is either a statement about what horribly rabid and desperate people sports fans can be, or it's a comment on the declining quality of Medieval Times shows, which are apparently so boring that the sighting of a very good but not incredible NBA player incites full-scale mayhem.

Whatever the case, I am ashamed, and I wasn't even involved (and for the record, had I been there, I would have certainly glanced up from devouring my half chicken with my bare hands, but would not have bum-rushed Rashard to get an autograph -- if anything, I may have attempted to strike some of the teenagers with a broadsword to get them in line).

The operative phrase: Act like you've been there before. And by "there," I don't mean at Medieval Times. I mean "in the presence of celebrities." It's okay to tell someone famous hello or that you're a big fan if you deem it appropriate. It is not okay to get so desperate for his attention that you start cat fighting in the stands at a knight show.

Let's all take a second to compose ourselves.

I will now hack off three of my fingers with a battle ax as a remembrance of this terrible event.

Password Please

The other day I was watching NCAA hoops at a friend's house when it came to our attention that there was a perfect storm of close games happening at once (including Butler giving Tennessee a serious run and Davidson coming back from a significant deficit against Georgetown).

Being that we could only watch one TV at a time, we needed to fire up a laptop and watch online pronto.

The only problem was that the first laptop we had was a Mac, and was none too interested in opening the video player.

Our backup was a dusty old Toshiba with the battery pack ripped out. We decided to give it a shot, but were immediately stonewalled by the machine asking us for a password to log onto Windows. Unfortunately, the owner of this antique was out of town. This was an issue. In what appeared to be a good omen, I found a button that I could click on to give us the password hint.

It said the hint was "Payne Stewart."

Our spirits boosted, we began to try the obvious: golf, masters, socks, hat (Payne was of course known for his quirky socks and hat). None of these worked. Getting a little bit more desperate, we then tried "augusta." No dice.

Now we were starting to get a bit frantic. The games were winding down to the final minutes and we really needed to see Butler-Tennessee (all we had on the air was Davidson-Georgetown).

In that moment of desperation, I took a flier:

"cancer," I typed into the field.

And it didn't work. Making matters worse, I was now clearly going to hell. With the ice broken, I started firing out more inappropriate password options, but neither "death" nor "dead" worked. (I know, I really am a bad person.)

Finally, in this darkest moment, we got through to our friend who owned the laptop.

Turns out the password, for whatever reason, was "New York."

The hint apparently should have been: "Place where The OCC officially booked his ticket to Hades."

As one final gut shot, the cursed Toshiba was too old and out of date to load up the video player. So I smashed it with a battle ax, stormed out of the apartment and wandered out to the street in search of innocent people to terrorize.

March Madness had clearly set in.

Prehistoric

Earlier this week I saw 10,000 B.C.

It was the worst movie I've ever seen.

Am I exaggerating? Barely. It was clearly the worst movie I've ever paid for and not walked out of (last year I did regrettably walk into Epic Movie, but left within seven minutes and got my money back).

There were so many things wrong with this movie that I have no idea where to start. Come to think of it, pretty much everything was wrong with this movie.

One thing I will tell you is that the narrator sounded like Colombo at the end of a six-day heroin binge.

Also, there was also a character named Old Mother. I think she was supposed to be important, but I spent most of the movie hoping that someone would put a spear through her head.

At the peak of my anger, I was pretty certain I was going to throw my soda at the movie screen from about the 14th row.

In the end, I decided it would be more constructive to just put a spear through my own head instead.

Sounds Uncomfortable

"It stings me like a fissure in my ass."

--Maury Ballstein, Balls Models

"I have a fissure in my ass."

--Kaz Matsui, Houston Astros

Who Want to Impersonate Mutombo?

Allow me to take this opportunity to say once more that if anyone can find footage of Dikembe Mutombo inhaling helium on Conan (which happened about eight years ago now), that person will be named Friend of the Blog for all eternity. And while that may not seem like it's worth much... well, it's actually not worth much. But you will bring us all great joy. That glorious clip makes the above video -- which is actually pretty funny -- look like the least funny thing in the history of all of humankind.

Employee Number 9

Am I the only one who saw the Eliot Spitzer news, read the references to "Client 9" and immediately thought of Antoine Walker's old Employee Number 8 commercial?

The tag line to that famous ad was: "I make baskets."

I'm thinking the best way for Governor Spitzer to clear his own name is to make light of it, and put together his own "Client Number 9" ad campaign, which will be done in a similar style to the Antoine Walker commercial.

And at the end, he will simply say, "I call hookers."

This is the Dunk I Previously Referenced

I'm not sure that I could do this properly on a 7-foot hoop.

Don't Be Late

If you're going to a Cavs game anytime soon, you would be well-advised to make sure you're in your seat for the pre-game warmups.

Last night against the Knicks (right before he went for 50, 8 and 10), LeBron threw down a vicious through the legs, off the glass, one-handed alley-oop dunk. Bruce the Intern is currently scrambling to locate the footage, but in the meantime, please enjoy this older -- but still rather remarkable -- display of pre-game fury.

On Golden Eye and Ultimate Fighting

During my sophomore year in college, my roommates and I became hopelessly hooked on the Nintendo 64 game GoldenEye, a first-person shooting game in which you could have up to four players drinking Genny Ice out of plastic Domino's Pizza cups and attempting to riddle one another with bullets at the same time.

This addiction of ours officially reached a problematic level when one roommate had a dream in which he shot the other roommate in the head point blank with a .357 Magnum revolver.

We decided to take a break from the game for a little while after that.

I bring this up because the other night I took part in a viewing of UFC 82 "Pride of a Champion" at a friend's house and found it to be oddly delightful -- perhaps even habit-forming -- despite the completely gruesome nature of the bludgeonings that took place.

In part that had something to do with the high percentage of my five-dollar wagers that I won (all viewers were required to bet) even though I was hopped up on Liquid Charge and didn't even know what zip code I was in, let alone being able to prognosticate who might incapacitate his opponent in the upcoming match between Anderson Silva and Dan Henderson (for the record, Anderson won with what I like to refer as the "life strangulation" technique).

Afterwards, I remarked (and someone else agreed): "It's a good thing that UFC 83 isn't until April, because you really can't watch that more than once every couple of months or you'll want to kill people."

Then we fought.

Taking the Over

The other day in my rec league hoops game, I got the ball on a fast break and took off to shoot a lay-up. But right as I did, the only defender who was back put his head down and bull charged towards me like he was going to undercut me. Reflexively, I pulled up and shot the lay-up earlier than planned, as instinct told me not to run into the guy who looked like he was going to chop block my legs.

My first thought (after missing the lay-up) was that it was an irritating but kind of smart play on the defender's part. But the more I've thought about it, I have realized that it's a completely bullshit and bush league move. It's one thing (and admittedly kind of cheap) to run at a shooter and take a fake poke at the stomach while he's going up for a jumper. But the fake undercut (much like the real-life version of the haircut depicted above) takes things to a whole other level. Ultimately, is it really any different than winding up like you're going to take a swing at a guy while he's driving the lane?

I am of the opinion that such a play should be whistled a foul, even if there's no contact. Maybe it should just be a one shot technical, or a warning, or something. But there's gotta be some kind of deterrent, because absolutely nothing good can come out of the play, unless for some reason you're in favor of giving a cheap and unseemly alternative to a defender who's too small or too scared to try to block the shot.

Here's the rule I propose: Unless you are actually sporting an undercut atop your head, you should have no business fake undercutting another player under any circumstances.

And if you do have an undercut haircut, everyone is pretty much expecting you to act like an ass in the first place, so you might as well get your money's worth.

Welcome to the Next Level

This just changed the way I see roller skating, and Baron Davis, and basketball, forever.

In a word: yes.

This is What a Disfunctional Team Looks Like

And naturally, Isiah Thomas went on the record saying he was happy that this fight happened. Something about raw emotions being a good thing.

All I know is this: I'm starting to think that Isiah might actually be some sort of demi-god, because otherwise I really don't have an explanation for how the man can still have a job.

Also, in the video above, there is a sudden and unexpected clip of a blonde woman in a leopard print dress holding a sign beneath a poster of Jim Morrison. I don't know about you, but that kind of caught me off guard.

Thank You for Your Patience

I am currently working off-site in the small mountain hamlet commonly known as "China," and due to technical difficulties have been attempting to dial up onto the Internet using a hollowed out yak skull, a pipe cleaner and two cans of silly string.

I have just contacted tech support and hope to have this ironed out soon.

In the meantime, feel free to leaf through one of the magazines, or give some attention to that dog -- he is lonely.

The Management

Say Hello to My Little Friend

Imagine walking into your gym for a routine workout and seeing a 2-foot-9, 20-pound man clad in some sort of diaper-like garment and pumping iron (or, as is the case in the photo above, being creepily held like a trophy in the palm of a fellow bodybuilder).

The man in this photo is nicknamed Romeo. The skeptics among us will no doubt say he was created by Photoshop. Call me a fool if you will, but I'm going to overlook the implausibility of a 2-foot-9, 20-pound man existing and say that this little Romeo is real. He has no doubt suffered through enough trouble in his life without needing yet another person accusing him of being a digitized image.

So instead of questioning whether or not this man is a real person, let us laugh at how silly he looks. (Only for a second, then we'll stop). And after we do that, let us welcome him into our home, as we would do for a brother, a very dear friend, or a small novelty item.

Fatal Transaction

On Sunday morning, I picked up Richard Zednik in my fantasy hockey league.

Later that evening, he got cut by a teammate's skate blade and almost died.

To answer your first question, yes, I really am in a fantasy hockey league. My team, Hockules, has won the league title three years in a row, but has surprisingly struggled this year (or perhaps not surprisingly, considering that the other people in the league know a lot more about NHL hockey than I do).

To answer your second question, no, I am not ashamed to be in a fantasy hockey league, though I understand that based on established societal norms, I probably should be.

As for your third question, yes, I am currently having Bruce the intern look into whether or not there is some sort of hex on Hockules that may have caused the Zednik injury. I am not a superstitious person, but I will admit that it concerns me a tad bit that prior to yesterday I had probably spent somewhere in the vicinity of zero seconds thinking about Richard Zednik in my entire life, but the moment he entered my consciousness (via the portal known as Yahoo Sports Fantasy Hockey), he suffered a near fatal wound to the neck.

In case you're curious as to the methodology Bruce is using to confirm the possibility of a Hockules jinx, it's pretty complicated to explain, but basically he's adding random players to the roster over the next few days and then waiting to see if they almost die.

So far, thankfully, we're in the clear. And rest assured, until I can confirm that this whole thing was just a coincidence, I'll be sure to hold off on making any multi-player trades.

I Had the Tamarind Duck for Dinner

Made me feel a bit sluggish.

It would probably take a lot of tamarind duck to make Kenny George feel sluggish.

He is a very tall man.

If I meet him, I will ask him what it's like to have Tyler Hansbrough be your daddy.

And There Was Great Rejoicing

Words don't really do this video much justice, so we'll just say this: Moments after the Giants' Super Bowl win, emotions were running at a rather high level.

Thank you to our compatriots at whynatte.com for providing this footage. Also, please note the moment in the video when the celebrating man is warned by a concerned bar employee to be careful, and in responding to her, he seamlessly transitions to dancing with her, very nearly succeeding in getting her to commit 100 percent to the dance.

What a ballgame. If you didn't at least want to attempt a front handspring after that one, you're either a Patriots fan, or you need to have your circuitry checked.

Three quick thoughts:

1. That Eli Manning to David Tyree completion was one of the greatest pass plays of all time. The fact that Eli -- who looked about as mobile as a tranquilized rhino for most of the night -- somehow evaded that sack, and then that Tyree of all people pulled that ball off his own helmet while falling out of the air backwards was just unbelievable.

2. The Tom Brady third down throw on the ensuing Patriots drive that would have gotten to Randy Moss had it not been deflected was one of the greatest incompletions of all time. What a throw.

3. With apologies to both plays, they have nothing on Handspring Man's celebratory dance.

Putting the Wood Down

We Hawks fans have been reasonably patient (if incredibly angry at times) throughout the first half of this season, but yesterday's massive collapse to Portland was too much. As Atlanta Journal-Constitution beat writer Sekou Smith so accurately put it:

"It's beyond foolish for the Hawks to think they can routinely win games playing out of the half court sets that they've made painful to watch. They don't have the type of spot up shooters that other teams have, which would make such an approach feasible.

The Hawks are built to run, love it or leave it, that's what they are. And it only makes sense to play to that strength (they scored at will in the transition game against Portland, one of the few teams young enough and athletic enough to match them in that regard).

We could come up with countless different ways that they could have handled the end of the game. But if the Hawks had embraced the advantage they had in the transition game, the Blazers never would have been close enough to snatch the game anyway."

Now, as much as ever, it is painstakingly and brutally clear that it's time for a change.

Head coach Mike Woodson and his aforementioned half court sets have to go.

In his place, we're planning to install a man with a similar name but an altogether more ferocious gameplan:

Mr. Woodcock.

Reunited

The notion of Chris Webber going back to the Warriors is really giving me the itch to dust off the Super NES and play some old school, high scoring, nauseatingly pixelated yet remarkably entertaining computerized hoops.

NBA Live '95, anyone?

Big Willie Style

I have no idea what prompted this, but I just now started thinking about Willie B., the silverback gorilla who lived at the Atlanta zoo from 1961 to 2000. Some things you may not have known about Willie B.:

He was named after William Berry Hartsfield, the former mayor of Atlanta.

He lived for 27 years alone in a cage with a tire swing and TV.

He enjoyed watching soap operas.

He fathered no less than five gorillas.

He had a general demeanor that said "I do not take crap from any individual, be him man, gorilla or some other species from the animal kingdom."

When Willie B. died (at the age of 41), more than 8,000 people attended his memorial service.

When I told this fact to a friend recently, he said, "Dude, what's wrong with your city?"

I gouged out one of his eyes with a wooden fork.

The Atlanta Silverbacks soccer team is named after Willie B.

To date, no one I have ever exchanged words with has seen the Silverbacks play.

There are some who believe that Willie B. is still alive, and living on an island with 2Pac, Elvis, Biggie and Bison Dele.

Those people are incorrect. Willie B. is in fact dead, and has been reincarnated as new Braves utility infielder Omar Infante, who -- unbeknownst to us at this time -- will deliver a crucial pinch hit late in the month of September to deliver the Braves back to the playoffs in 2008.

Strange how these things work out.

This Just Cleared My Sinuses

Not sure I've ever seen a throwdown quite like this. Can we get a special exemption for Deron Washington to compete in this year's NBA dunk contest?

There's Been a Loss of Cabin Pressure

Bruce, I'm gonna need a fact check here: What's the worst case of airplane ear ever recorded?

I think I may be making a run at the record. And what's strange is I haven't been on a plane in over a week.

For a minute I was thinking that maybe this was my body's involuntary reaction to try to block out Troy Aikman's mind-numbing color commentary on Sunday, but I've since dismissed that as highly improbable.

Whatever the case, I now have some idea what it's like to be a crazy person -- constantly popping my ears and contorting my head to try to relieve the pressure, all the while thinking that if this condition doesn't improve soon I may have to pull a Vernon Maxwell and outright deck somebody.

Hopefully soon I'll be able to concentrate on something else, like sports. And writing. In the meantime I'm off to jab at my eardrums with an ice pick.

Either that or purchase some cough medicine.

I Hope I See None of These Lawrence Tynes-Related Headlines on Monday

"Good Tynes"

"Great Tynes"

"The Best of Tynes"

"Let the Good Tynes Roll"

"The Tynes, They Are a-Changin'"

"Crunch Tynes"

"New York Tynes"

"Right on Tynes"

"Just in Tynes"

"In the Nick of Tynes"

I'm going to be sick.

I Think It Moved

If this doesn't get you at least a little bit fired up, I'm not sure we can be friends.

When You Have To Go

In part because I felt the need to move that gruesome staph infection photo from the top spot on the site but also because I have a legitimate issue to raise here, I would like to quickly report that 2007 Bulls draft pick Jameson Curry was recently arrested for public urination.

According to the Boise, Idaho police report (where Curry is playing in the NBDL), an officer "saw Curry urinating in the alley on the west side" of a hotel.

Maybe I've just been watching too many re-runs of Season 4 of The Wire recently, but I just can't understand why public urination is, and continues to be, a criminal offense. As every one of us who has ever peed in public knows (and I'm pretty sure that every male you'll ever meet has done so), you only drop trow' (that's official public urination slang, short for "lower trousers") if it's an absolute emergency -- that being that the nearest Starbucks has a line and your bladder is about to hemorrhage right there on the corner of Houston and Eldridge.

It's one thing if the micturator has his hose out and is spraying it around in the middle of the street with little regard for oncoming traffic and passing citizens, but when someone is simply minding his own business and quietly relieving the gruesome pressure on his bladder in an otherwise secluded setting (in this case, an alley), our peace officers need to think of their own bladders and the times that they've nearly combusted and let these transgressions go.

Because if they would just wait a couple of minutes and follow the urinator closely, he'll probably do something incredibly reckless and they can bust him on public intoxication or disorderly conduct right there on the spot.

That's a free tip, officers. In exchange, all we ask is that you look the other way when we're relieving ourselves. Just assume that it's absolutely necessary, because otherwise we wouldn't do it. Unless of course we look like the sort of person who might take pleasure out of doing something like that, in which case you should bust us for public perversion -- which, if it isn't a criminal offense, should be.

Thank you and good day.

This is a Picture of a Staph Infection

And Kenyon Martin has one on his ass.

My God.

Dolphins Hire Tony Soprano as Head Coach

Wait, his name is actually Tony Sparano. I read that wrong. Never mind.

Do My (Red) Eyes Deceive Me? (Part II)

More fallout from the delirious overnight flight from Salt Lake City on which I spotted former NBA point guard Jay Williams and (most likely incorrectly) speculated that he might be coming to NY to work out for the Knicks:

I just had a recollection that during the cab ride home from the airport, I heard a radio report saying that Mary J. Blige, Timbaland, 50 Cent and Wyclef Jean were implicated in a steroid probe.

I probably just hallucinated that, right?

Apparently not. Rather confused as to why any of these entertainers would dig the long ball. But who the hell knows. One thing I do know is that it's kind of funny to picture Wyclef stepping into the batter's box, muscling up on a hanging slider and hitting a prodigious, 440-foot drive. Would really give the old MTV Rock-Jock softball game a whole new meaning.

Wait a second, do they even play that Rock-Jock game anymore? I'm starting to think that maybe they haven't played it for a very long time. What year is this, anyway? And for that matter, where am I?

It may be time for a nap.

Do My (Red) Eyes Deceive Me?

Sunday evening, I had the distinct displeasure of being on a red eye flight from Salt Lake City to New York.

In addition to myself, there was another noteworthy person on the midnight flight out of Salt Lake: former NBA point guard Jay Williams.

It's particularly interesting timing for an out-of-work former first round draft pick to be flying to NYC considering that yesterday, Knicks point guard Stephon Marbury sat out the team's win over Detroit, and now word is that Stephon might be out for the rest of the year with ankle surgery.

Was Williams flying to NY because got a call to work out for the Knicks? Or, alternatively, does he board a flight immediately every time he sees an NBA point guard sitting out a game so that he may offer his services to the team potentially in need?

Probably not -- Williams is from New Jersey originally and may have just been taking a trip home. But you have to admit, the timing is interesting.

My guess is that even if he was coming to work out for New York, Isiah will likely lose interest very quickly once he learns that Williams in fact does not still have a grotesque amount of money left on his original NBA deal.

Please Get This Man a Bandage

Today I overheard an elderly man directing his friend towards a nearby Duane Reade pharmacy. But thanks to a faulty synapse or some other minute malfunction of the brain, what he accidentally said was "Dwayne Wade."

He corrected himself a moment later.

As I walked away, I realized that this little verbal slip-up actually made perfect sense. After all, what currently suiting up NBA player is more in need of pharmaceutical assistance (if not full-blown medical attention) than Dwayne Wade?

So it is written. From this day forth, we shall no longer refer to the pharmacy by its proper name, and no longer shall we call the Miami Heat star by his given moniker. The pharmacy in question (or any pharmacy, for that matter) is now called Duane Wade, and the malady-plagued basketball player is hereto forth referred to as Dwayne Reade.

And when that gets tiresome in... oh, say... about 15 minutes, we'll switch back to the way we did things before.

Andrea Was Here

As an individual who recently received an email link from a friend that unexpectedly led me to a video clip of two people killing a bear and then subsequently having sex upon the carcass of that dead bear, I will warn you not to click on this video clip at work. There is no sex with bear in this video, but there is an overabundance of explicit language.

Now that we have that out of the way, I bring this clip to your attention because it called to mind some recent comments from Raptors head coach Sam Mitchell that made me think he might be a fan of Curb Your Enthusiasm.

On the subject of enigmatic 7-footer Andrea Bargnani and what he (Mitchell) has to do to get Bargnani to consistently rebound, Mitchell said, "Stay on his ass."

He followed that up by saying "We're going to keep our foot in his rear end until he understands he has to continue to rebound."

And finally, he added: "Go get the ball. You can say all you want but it's go get it. Put your ass on some other guy and go get the ball."

The young Raptor would be wise to listen to his coach -- and to a greater extent, listen to the words of Leon -- in this situation.

Get in that ass, Andrea.

Unacceptable

In recent weeks, a topic of a non-sporting nature has been causing me considerable ass-chapping, and I feel the need to ventilate some steam with regard to this subject so that I (and we) may hopefully move on and all be better humans as a result.

The thing that has angered me is the existence of the "unrated" DVD as pertains to many of my favorite comedies. I own several such DVDs, and on the surface you wouldn't think this is a bad thing. After all, the notion of "unrated" primarily conjures the idea of excessive nudity or other inappropriateness that would make this new version of the film completely (and delightfully) unsuitable for viewing in a movie theater.

But that is just not remotely true. In reality, all that's included in the unrated DVD is a series of extra lines and drawn out scenes that weren't included in the original version of the movie because they aren't funny. So now, all of the jokes that were previously funny get killed because they go on too long. Which is exactly why they were edited down in the first place. It's basically like taking a funny group of people and adding that one guy to the room who invariably lobs in a comedic grenade and nukes the joke just when it was getting good.

Do not be fooled, movie watchers -- "unrated" does not mean "lots of gratuitous nudity and extra crude humor." It actually means "longer, less funny version of movie."

I shall never be foolish enough to buy such a DVD ever again. In fact, I am thinking of taking the unrated DVDs that I already do have, loading them into a burlap sack and throwing them into the East River.

If that's something that would interest you, please let me know and I can probably get you a burlap sack of your own.

Thank you for listening. I feel slightly better now.

--------------

One other thing: Last night I randomly ran into a comedian at a bar in NY. You may know him as "Inconsiderate Cell Phone Man." In real life his name is Rob Huebel. He was wearing white pants, a white blazer, a white turtleneck and a kids size "I love NY" visor. Friendly chap. Also a funny man. I went to his website. I laughed. If you have nothing better to do I recommend that you do the same.

Thank you, that is all.

Please Pass the Vitamins

So I was browsing this website www.veganhealth.org today. To clarify, I'm not a vegan. In fact, I hate them passionately.

But that's beside the point. I mention this particular website because I saw something interesting on one of its pages. The excerpt read:

"If you have not had a regular source of B12 for some time, buy a bottle of 1,000 µg (or greater) B12 tablets."

They make B-12 tablets? I had no idea. I just figured that since Roger Clemens claimed he was shot in the ass with a needle containing B-12 that tablets clearly would not be readily available. Because as much as we all prefer needles over chewable pills (which is why they have Flinstones vitamin syringes available these days), it seems that the non-injection is probably the more pleasant way to go.

I have yet to see the 60 Minutes interview on which Clemens makes his vehement steroid denials, but I know this much: Anyone coming away from viewing that interview thinking Clemens is telling the truth should be embarrassed.

As for those symptoms of embarrassment, there's really not much you can do, aside from flogging yourself for being such a pathetic Clemens sympathizer.

Though I do hear that vitamin B-12 can have certain recuperative effects.

Sorry to be So Short With You

In case you missed it, something incredible happened in the Lakers-Celtics game last night.

In case you missed me, I've been on what is commonly referred to as "a vacation." We'll be back with more juvenile and/or witty commentary soon after the start of the calendar year 2008.

Merry New Year.

Just a Sip: The Irish Pub Theory on Steroid Use

Back in the period of time known as the 1990’s, a then 17-year-old OCC went on a school-sponsored trip to Ireland. During said trip, for reasons unbeknownst to anyone, all of the students were given permission one evening to go to a pub.

The only condition of our visiting this establishment was that under no circumstances would we partake in the act of drinking alcohol.

It probably goes without saying that this particular decree held up for all of about five minutes. Next thing you knew, virtually every kid on the trip was holding a pint of Guiness or Harp, and the more ambitious among us was sipping from a glass of Bushmill’s on the rocks.

It also probably goes without saying that later that evening, after we had all returned to the homes of our various host families, one of the students in the group (not yours truly) was spotted by the confused young son of his host family drunkenly urinating on the TV set.

After this unfortunate micturation, the rest of us were suddenly under alcohol-related scrutiny, and a full-scale investigation began.

In the tense day or two that followed, a handful of us decided that our gooses were essentially cooked, and fear of being found guilty (and possibly suspended from school) if we didn’t cooperate made us think it would be wise to fess up.

But when the first one of us returned from his confession, he informed us that he had put a subtle twist on the confession process. Instead of admitting the full quantity of his consumption (a pint, or two pints, or six glasses of Bushmill’s), he had said that yes he tried alcohol at the pub, but had only had one sip.

This confession style quickly grew in popularity. It seemed perfectly logical. This way, we’d have partially admitted our guilt but wouldn't have it on our record that we were completely reckless, drunken fools.

Of course, what we didn’t realize at the moment was that it must have been horribly blatant how much we were all lying. In our desperation to clear our names as best we could, we had all made ourselves look like mildly pathetic – people who knew we had done something wrong but didn’t have the stones to fully admit it.

This story comes to mind from the annals of the past in the wake of all the new allegations that have surfaced due to the publication of George Mitchell's findings, and Brian Roberts’ corresponding claim that he used steroids, but only did so once.

Is this the same Brian Roberts who suddenly went from 4 to 18 homers between 2004 and 2005?

Because I’m one of the guys who broke the drinking rules on the school trip back in 1995 and then copped the “just a sip” excuse, a smaller scale but nearly identical principle to the soon-to-be-rampant “I only tried steroids once” line.

And as someone who understands the mentality, I’m not believing a word of it. Liquor gets you drunk, steroids make you big, and lying about all of it is much, much easier than telling the truth.

Please Take a Seat, Someone Will Be Right With You

Friends of the blog:

Apologies for the lack of new posts this week -- things have been exceedingly hectic in this quadrant of town. Please standby -- more material to come soon.

Thank you and good day,

The Management

See You in '09, Number 7

"He was my dog, yo." --Melvin "Cheese" Wagstaff

Not a lot of fresh or comforting insight to share on the day that Michael Vick gets sentenced to 23 months in federal prison, so we'll leave it to this clip from The Wire to pose the question that could apply to both the absurd dogfighting mix-up between Cheese and the Baltimore police and the epic self-destruction of Michael Vick's career: How the hell did this happen?

Nobody Beats the Wiz

Even if you're not a Wizards fan, or a pro hoops fan, it may be time to start reading Dan Steinberg's D.C. Sports Blog. I have a feeling that if The OCC and Dan Steinberg were to meet, they would most likely find themselves to be kindred spirits.

Case in point: Steinberg seems to have a knack for and an interest in digging up inconsequential yet highly entertaining tidbits about the team he covers.

Just a sampling of the latest goods from a recent post:

DeShawn Stevenson buys deodorant in bulk from Costco. Why? "In case I lose one, so I won't be musty." Great word, musty. Terribly under-used. Makes me giggle just about every time I hear it.

There's also an exchange between Ukranian rookie forward Oleksiy Pecherov and Dominic McGuire about some recently purchased Dickies suits, during which rookie guard Nick Young was practicing his dance moves in the background -- a hilariously-documented exchange that you need to read.

Also of note, Caron Butler used to have (and may currently be recovering from) an intense addiction to Mountain Dew. Steinberg reports that Caron would ingest a two-liter bottle of the semi-toxic liquid before games until he was recently banned from doing so by the Wizards.

There's also mention that Nick Young has an outrageously good nickname, a handle so unique (and presumably so offensive) that his teammates couldn't share it.

Put me down as "Desperate to find out what this nickname is at all costs."

Also put me down as "Likely to test out the effects of chugging a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew prior to my next time playing hoops."

Thank you, Dan Steinberg. Thank you, D.C. Sports Blog.

Spinning the Dreidel, NBA Style

Before you proceed any further, please watch the video above.

Now that you’ve done that, take a moment to reflect on what you’ve just seen – you may need it.

Okay, let’s break it down:

The first noteworthy moment happens almost immediately, when the decidedly goofy Elie Seckbach says to the camera:

“For centuries, Jews all over the world have been celebrating Hanukkah. But now, for the first time in history, NBA stars and celebrities want to wish you a happy holiday.”

Yes, you heard that correctly. NBA stars and celebrities have completely ignored Hanukkah all throughout history, until this moment. Now they’re finally on board. Pretty incredible stuff.

But as much as we may want to write off our friend Elie as a complete goober from the very outset (which he clearly is), you have to give him credit for managing to get access to a shocking number of players. His first interview is Shaq, who has this to say about Hanukkah: “To all my Jewish people, I love you. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah. Stay out of trouble. Love you.”

You’ve gotta love the “Merry Christmas” message, and the gratuitous and slightly disarming use of “love you” from the big fella.

A minute later, we transition to the next interview via a remix of Hey Ya that has the following lyrics:

My dreidel just spins around
and then falls to the ground
as we light the candles…

And since I don’t even know what to say about that, we’ll move on. The next interview subject is Heat forward Dorell Wright, who makes a respectable effort to sing a couple of traditional songs, including Hava Nagila. And even though he completely butchers it (singing something along the lines of “hava naveevah” and then breaking into a mumble because he knows he hasn’t gotten it right), you’ve gotta give him credit for trying.

On the flip side of the spectrum from Dorell Wright’s courteous effort was Jason Kapono, who had the following exchange:

Elie Seckbach: What do you have to say to Jewish fans for Hanukkah?
Kapono [looking pleased with himself]: Mazel Tov.
Elie: How do you know about that?
Kapono [summoning his most condescending tone]: I got a lot of Jewish friends, bub.

Use of “bub” = red flag that Jason Kapono is a medium to large-sized douchebag.

From there, we cut to Kobe, whom Elie has somehow managed to corner in what appears to be the tunnel underneath an arena. Asked what he has to say to the people of Israel, Kobe responds:

“Stay up. I know you guys are going through a tough time right now, but stay up.”

Yet again, I’m kind of speechless. This is kind of the point in the video where you realize that it’s all at once surreal, confusing and utterly hilarious that this Elie Seckbach character is somehow getting Hanukkah commentary from some of the premier players in the NBA.

Dwayne Wade, initially looking pensive but by the end of his statement barely able to keep a straight face, had this to say to his Jewish fans:

“I hope everyone has a great holiday. Spend it with the ones you love, cherish every memory because time is moving fast.”

Pretty clear that by the time he gets to the "because time is moving fast" line D-Wade is 100 percent aware of how ridiculous he sounds.

But the best interviewee of them all was very clearly Ricky Davis. His response when asked if he had a message for Jewish fans was a very enthusiastic “Happy Hanukkah! You guys have fun and blow out all the candles.”

A second later he was told by a perplexed Elie Seckbach that “No, we don’t blow them out…”

Which prompted Ricky to say, “Oh, well… just keep ‘em torched.”

Don’t think I could have come up with a better Hanukkah slogan myself.

Keep ‘em torched, y'all.

This Could Happen to You

For as long I can remember, I've always told people that my greatest fear in the world is going to prison. And I think we can all agree for obvious reasons that being locked up in the big house is a very frightening prospect.

However, I was thinking about it recently and it dawned on me that I can conceive of a far more terrifying scenario:

being mistaken for a piñata.

Think about it: If people thought you were a piñata, their primary objective would be to grab the largest nearby blunt object they could find and beat you unmercifully until candy started pouring out of your belly. And since you're not actually a piñata, there will be no candy, and the sugar-crazed masses won't stop swinging away until your guts and internal organs are mashed up like a partially-blended smoothie.

Friend of the blog Frank G. Yak has raised the point that you could potentially defend against the piñata destroyers of the world by carrying around loads of candy in your pockets, and when they started to club away, you could fling the candy onto the ground as though it had just been extracted from your brightly colored cardboard stomach. But frankly I think such a smokescreen would only serve to anger the piñata smashers, who are a very savvy and irritable sort.

In any case, there's obviously no cause for panic at this point. But should you wake up one day and find that you're shaped like a small horse or goat and you have a string on your back and brightly-colored skin that looks vaguely like papier mache, you really have only one option: leave town immediately.

But don't relax when you get out to the countryside. They really like to smash piñatas out there. And they have lots of scary farm implements with which to do so.