For the first time in 15 years, the Nuggets will advance to the second round of the playoffs.
Three things.
1) This was a decisive victory, but let's not start blowing smoke up each other's rectum just yet. This Hornets team was beat up, banged up, and nowhere near the "on-the-precipice-of-greatness" status they displayed last year.
2) When Carmelo decides he wants to take it to the rack, there are maybe a handful of guys on the planet who can stop him. New Orleans had one of them on their roster, but unfortunately they needed the 2003 version of James Posey. The Rockets have 2 of them, but luckily the Nuggets have a better chance of donning the old rainbow jerseys than meeting the Rockets anytime soon.
3) The Nuggets swept the Mavericks this year, and have won 7 of the last 8 against them. This series will not be a sweep. While the defense is much improved, the focus and discipline still wanes from time to time. Dirk and Kidd are savvy veterans, and the Mavericks have a bench capable of keeping up with the Nuggets' (something not seen with the depleted Bees). JR and Carmelo will probably shoot away a few games.
Prediction: Nuggets in 6.
But for now: HOLY FUCK WE'RE MOVING ON I DON'T BELIEVE YOU PINCH ME SUSAN!
My blogmate, Business or Leisure?, recently had, shall we say ... an ... episode ... with his wireless provider, Sprint.
We here at the factory are not amused.
So, to counteract their nefarious business practices, shitty coverage, and overall twatfluffing existence, I say ... FUCK YOU, SPRINT.
What do you have? Verizon has that annoying asshole with glasses, and the universally recognized best coverage (which is why their rates are the highest, natch). AT&T has the boner-inducing tech allure of the iPhone. T-Mobile has the G1 which, apparently, is pretty good. And they used to have Catherine Zeta-Jones, which is a big plus in my book.
What do you have, Sprint? What sets you apart?
Oh, right. NASCAR.
FUCK NASCAR.
Fuck you and your constant claims that you're the highest-attended sport in the country. Football would draw 250,000 a game, too, if THE FUCKING SPORT DEMANDED 12 SQUARE MILES OF PLAYING FIELD.
Speaking of fields, fuck the infields and the RVs driven in from all points ... south. I'm not going to make a Southerners joke, or an inbred joke, or a redneck joke, but ... how long has it been since a car going 190 MPH got bumped and careened like a flaming meteor into the middle of the track, taking half of a county in Alabama with it? Probably due. Probably due. Just sayin'.
Speaking of cars, fuck your decades-long resistance to foreign manufacturers getting some of that sweet, sweet sponsorship money. Actually, I see your point on this one. They're absolutely CRUSHING you in the domestic retail market; why should they be allowed to have racing, too? The big 3 were greedy, arrogant, and disrespectful, and now you're taking it right up the ass. Boo and fucking hoo for you. Until you make cars people actually WANT to buy, you deserve it.
Speaking of sponsors, fuck your absolutely Herculean effort to cover every Godforsaken square inch of your cars, drivers' suits, and TV screens with the ejaculation of capitalism. I work for a company that tracks product placement in TV shows. Can you even FATHOM what you've put me through? On Mondays I'd rather scrub my penis with sandpaper than time how long the fucking Quaker State logo was on the running order.
Speaking of drivers, fuck this old boys' network that begrudgingly accepts guys because they're from fucking California. Really? The fact that Jeff Gordon, Jimmie Johnson, et al. are whiter than copier paper isn't good enough for you? For the fuck of Lord, it's almost 2010. TWO THOUSAND TEN. This is why your sport is slowly dying. America is becoming less white, not more. And yet you stand your ground. Soon, it'll be you and golf. Well guess what? I can go out and hit a few balls, play a round or two. I can't go 200 in circles for five fucking hours. DIE.
Speaking of dying, that's what Mother Earth is doing. You know ... that green shit that was there before you put 46 metric tons of asphalt over it? Yeah, that. The small reservoirs of gas you burn up every fucking week are choking it to death. All so toothless dipshits can Ooooh and Ahhhh after a crash. Congratulations. Not only are you contributing to the dumbing-down of society, you're also slowly rendering it extinct. Actually, that's pretty clever.
Speaking of being clever ... BOYCOTT SPRINT. They make shitty commercials, shitty phones, and endorse shitty sports. Spread the word. Move to another provider. Ride a bike. Do anything, as long as it's to Sprint's detriment.
God, I love this man. He's from Denver. He knows how to run a team. His name is Chauncey, which, when I was young, was our safe word for Doorknob. (When you fart you have to say the safe word before somebody says 'doorknob'; if you fail, they get to punch you until you touch a doorknob. Beware the dreaded Double Doorknob - you couldn't touch the doorknob on the other side of the same door.)
Speaking of young, it was 1985 the last time the Nuggets held a 2-0 lead in a series. 1985. I was six. Nuggets were little rocks of gold, not buds of weed. Twenty-four years. Wow.
It's the end of the first week of the season and we're finallydonewiththisnonsense. And, as of right now, the Padres are atop the NL West. Sure, it's only one week, and they've played all their games at home, but for now - right now, this very second - I can say, in all honesty, with impunity and feeling ... fuck you, Stan. 1. The Oligarchy
"Although we exist as separate entities, we are but one mind. And that philosophy, simply, is this: we will throw strikes; we will make all the routine plays, and many of the difficult ones; we will reform the downtrodden educational system; we will move the runner from 2nd to 3rd by hitting to the right side; we will fix the contamination problem in Lake Dumbbell; we will find out the mysterious ailment hampering Joe Mauer; we will not overuse Francisco Liriano; and we will find a way to lower the cigarette tax. Two minds are better than one, especially if that one is Carl Pohlad."
Record: 88-74 Lose to Red Sox in divisional round after a plucky fight
Favorite song: "Blue Collar Man" by Styx Favorite movie: Brothers of the Head
2. The Tribal Council
"Dark times are these. Long have we been without Smiling Grizzly Bear and his left-handed arrows of death. Still, Sinkers from the Devil and Southpaw From Nowhere have bolstered our front line. But troubles in the tribe are many. We wait and tell stories of the past. And if by the middle of the month of rain and sun we continue down sad, sad path, we shall ask for tickets to Quicken Loans building to watch the Chosen One in the playoffs."
Record: 86-76
Favorite song: Anything by Gnarls Barkley Favorite movie: Dances with American Werewolves in London
3. The Democracy
"This is ... well, to be honest, this is kind of a bad time for us. In the past, we were your only choice. You had old, white socks over here, and on the other ballot ... just another pair of old, white socks. Now, all of a sudden, it's cool to have black socks. We don't want to talk about fucking black socks, ok? Got me? We just want to go back to 2005, when you had two choices: white and white. Like a big, harmless, pale Mark Buehrle, or a fat, sweaty, translucent Bobby Jenks. Can we do that? Is that cool? Do you have a time machine? We'll buy it from you, you know. We're rich as shit."
Record: 85-76
Favorite song: "Courtesy of the Red, White & Blue" by Toby Keith Favorite movie: Frost/Nixon
4. The Dictatorship
"Listen up, you worthless pieces of canine anus. We're going to score some fucking runs. Got that? R.U.N.S. All up and down this goddamn diamond. We're going to score so much Vivid Video is going to produce our end-of-the-year DVD. And whenever we score 10 - or give up 10 - Miggy's going to cook a razorback in Magglio's hair grease and I'm going to smoke 4 packs of Marlboro Lights while fucking two 16-year-olds painting a portrait of me wearing a polar bear skin. We're the goddamn Tigers, assholes. Get fucking ready."
Record: 83-78
Favorite song: LOUD FAST AND FUCKING DISORIENTING Favorite movie: Soy Cuba
5. The Monarchy
"Ahem. My people. You may look at the crown today, set against a robin's blue background, and not believe the fervor that once rippled through my body when that same crown shone of a gold so bright the Gods themselves shielded their eyes. You may not see the dried streaks of blood stained upon the sword, like so much pine tar stretched black and sick towards the barrel of the bat. We have fought before. We have won before. We have taken the field underrated, underprepared, and unafraid. Before, when you battled, when you pulled on your colors, you merely played for the names on the back of your jerseys. But now I humbly implore you ... I firmly beseech you ... I merely beg you on the knees of my father and my father's father that you - my brothers ... my sons ... my Royals ... I ask that when you step between those white lines that define us you spill your soul, your blood, and every ounce of yourself for us ... for your team ... for your City of Kansas!"
Record: 78-83
Favorite song: "Feel Good Hit of the Summer" by Queens of the Stone Age Favorite movie: The Fisher King
Dear Mother, Camp is fun this year. It was the first time since I joined the older kids that no one made fun of me. I got to eat whatever I wanted and I even made the all-star team in baseball! I got to wear a new uniform and hit a homerun off of this bigger kid! Everyone was real excited and I was laughing. Man, it was FUN! Our team lost, but everyone agreed that we did the best we could. I just know that this is going to be a good year not like those last three years where everyone got mad at us.
I miss my friend Pedro. He used to teach me cool words in Spanish like "curro" which he says means "cool dog," and "bendeho" which is a nice car. I told some girls that I had a curro and they laughed. Don't worry mom, I didn't talk to them for long. PROMISE.
Anyway, the guys are going to make some water balloons, so I gotta go. I love and miss you. When you pick me up in October, I will give you a present.
Your Son, David
Favorite Song: "Holiday" by Weezer Favorite Movie: "Camp Candy," the TV Show
"The Atlanta Braves are my favorite folk song." Dearest Mother,
I got down here safely & have been very well & have got almost entirely well of my cold. Chipper is well & well contented. We are still upon the preseason & expect to leave this at 2 o’clock P.M. tomorrow (saturday). I hope we will not be disappointed, as we are all very tired staying here. I was down in Florida & the folks are all well there. Did not see any of Youngs. Went to the house & they were not at home. I was only in Florida a few weeks, the boat came along about 2 hours sooner than usual, so I did not get much talk with anyone. I believe Smoltz is going along to Boston but not any further. Chipper was at McKeesport while I was in Florida. It is pretty warm here and I think we will be pretty well “broke in” by the time we get to Atlanta. The town is full of baseballers coming home, and they all look well, hardy & all very much sunburnt. And nearly every one of them likes camp life very well and are going back again. I have seen a great many fellows of my acquaintance. A good many more of them than I thought were out all together, I saw JairJurrens this morning he is just returning & is going out again. Looks as hardy as a pine. Knot was very much surprised to see Chipper & me. Derek Lowe is in town but I have not seen him yet. As soon as we get to camp I will write to you & give you the necessary directions to put upon a letter for me. I must quit & go to practice now good bye.
Yours Truly,
Thomas Glavine
Favorite Song: "Dixie" by Anonymous
Favorite Movie: "Glory"
"The Philadelphia Phillies are my man fiddy grand."
Yo Moms,
What's good? I won 300 gs in a poker game. I'm good like that. I'ma send you a nice diamond for ya birthday.
Holla,
Shane V.
(Thought I was going with J-Ro, eh? I'm no racist.)
Favorite Movie: "Maverick"
Favorite Song: "Got Money Like Volcanoes Got Ash" Don Ho f/ Li'l Wayne
"The Florida Marlins are my favorite new phone."
mom
can u write 2 coach and get me traded nm i gotta go up 2 bat
hanl
"The Washigton Nationals are no one's favorite."
Mother Graceful and Beautiful,
This is a poem I scribed for you on the occasion of my newest surroundings in the nation's capitol:
Baseball's Sad Lexicon
These are the saddest of possible words: "Tinker to Evers to Chance." Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds, Tinker and Evers and Chance. Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble, Making a Giant hit into a double- Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: "Tinker to Evers to Chance."
I love this fucking UNC team. I love them more than Bill Hicks, more than finding money in the pockets of jackets I haven't worn in a while, more than Tiger Woods 09 on the Wii, more than Akiri Kurosawa films, more than big men who can reliably hit a midrange jumper, more than blowjobs, more than a long shower after a day of traveling or moving, more than bacon cooked to perfection, more than transcendent performances like LeBron's fourth quarter in Game Five against the Pistons, more than a Songs: Ohia album on an early morning subway ride, more than new socks, more than old hats, more than the sound of one ball bouncing on the hardwood in an empty gym, more than my stepmom who is quite possibly the nicest person on the planet, more than payday, more than morning sex, more than getting an unexpected gift, more than scotch on the rocks, more than King Wilkie when my friend John-O was in the band, more than hamburgers that make you think about cutting it in half just to attack it, more than a perfectly executed pick-and-roll, more than quickly and correctly putting together a piece of IKEA furniture, more than writing, more than unselfishness on the fast break, more than sleeping in, more than the smell after it rains, more than harmlessly tossing something into the trash only to have it miraculously bounce off three things and go in, more than J.R. Smith lighting it up off the bench, more than the first day of March Madness, more than Kurt Vonnegut, more than a cigar at a wedding, more than every quotable line from Major League, more than The Wire, more than jeans that have been broken in just right, more than hearing people laugh at your joke, more than a Salvador Dali exhibit, more than Cool Ranch Doritos, more than a Gary Smith story, more than listening to Walt Frazier, more than a beer after going a few days without one, more than walking in New York on a beautiful day, more than cracking jokes and making references with friends at a game that nobody else in the stands gets, more than House of Games, more than an unplanned kiss, more than Phillip Seymour Hoffman, more than the Dustin Pedroia and Tim Lincecum video game commercials, more than Langston Hughes and Theme for English B, more than chicken quesadillas, more than hearing your name called out during sex, more than getting a seat on a crowded subway, more than a good shit, more than tax refunds, more than Carmelo's ability to score, more than Ninja Warrior, more than buybacks, more than the Onion AV Club, more than NBA playoff games that go into overtime, more than Immanuel Kant's beliefs on metaphysics, more than the day I got my braces off, more than watching stupid people fail, more than Alec Baldwin acting like Tracy Morgan's family on 30 Rock, more than foreplay, more than all the good times and great experiences I have had, will have, or have presently, more than all of it-- all.
I hate this fucking UNC team. I hate them more than hitting my funny bone, more than Coke Zero commercials, more than when my roommate blasts TV at 4 AM right outside my door, more than philosophically wrong Pitchfork Media reviews, more than using scripture as a basis for human thought, more than war, more than hippies, more than Don Delillo's "literary" books, more than the flex offense, more than college football's bowl system, more than the college loan system, more than the fact that banks charge you thirty dollars when you have negative money already, more than failure, more than condoms, more than hangovers, more than jovial greeters at chain bookstores, more than the word "intense," more than when people use "u" instead of you on the internet or text messages, more than people who say the NCAA tourney is "boring" when good teams win against smaller seeds no matter how good the games were, more than people who constantly claim that classic rock is underrated despite the fact that it has entire radio stations, more than people who voted against gay marriage and hate being married themselves, more than slavery, more than radio rap, more than white Jesus, more than the horror film genre, more than bad pizza, more than teams that jack up threes when they get panicked, more than bad announcing, more than Van Halen, more than David Spade now that he is old, more than reality television's vast expanse of anti-knowledge, more than life itself, more than the crippling loneliness and depression that haunts me for long periods of time, more than work, more than the word "diva," more than passive-aggressiveness, more than spam emails, more than the shakes after a binge, more than my boss, more than freedom fries, more than rhyming dictionaries, more than people who say "whoa, you must be really smart" whenever someone mentions a book over the level of "Chasing Harry Winston" et al, people who get mad when bands change their sound a bit, more than the its-it's rule, more than referees allowing big guys to get calls they don't deserve way too early in games, more than the mess I clean after parties at my house, more than hemorrhoids, more than animal rights, more than the smell of hand sanitizer, more than people that bring up politics no matter the surrounding, more than assholes who walk slower than the crowd, people who say they hate poetry because they don't "get it," more than all the petty grievances I have had, will have, or have presently, more than all of it-- all.
Hey, kids! Wanna know why there's 6 teams in the NL Central, more than any other division in the major leagues? It's because most of the teams are located in the midwest and parts of the Bible Belt. Those people don't believe in condoms. More offspring, more people. More people, more baseball teams. It's simple math.
1. Babies of Bears
Having already won their first 20 games of the year, the Cubs will be feeling pretty good in late April. Then Milton Bradley will rip a vicious foul line drive into the crowd in Arizona, knocking the eye out of the socket of a 12-year-old girl. With a look of pained immediacy, Bradley will rush into the stands, grab a fan's keys, and re-attach the eye. When the girl passes out, Bradley performs CPR. When she goes into shock he hugs her, calms her, takes off his jersey and engulfs her within its polyester warmth. The D-Backs are so grateful, they forfeit the game. The karma continues and the Cubs roll on, unbeatable, loved, revered. In late July the Pirates take the unprecedented step of lobbying Bud Selig to give the Cubs all their wins on the season. Since Ted Lilly recommended a top-notch cardiologist to the commish, he happily agrees.
Record: 217-13 Lose in Game 7 of the NLCS after lightning hits Alfonso Soriano in the 9th inning (clear skies)
Favorite song: "Un-break My Heart" by Toni Braxton Favorite movie: The Saw series, Hostel
2. Babies of Drunkards
It's 3 pm on a Friday. Prince Fielder is eating right now. A taco? A burger? A knish? A bowl of rice noodles? A horse? The possibilities are endless. BUT WILL HE EVER STOP?
The answer, sadly, is no. He balloons at an unprecedented rate and soon exceeds 4,000 lbs. Pretty soon Fielder doesn't even have to swing: any pitched ball will ricochet off his flab and out over the fence. Unfortunately he cannot round the bases, and his stunt is outlawed. He soon teams up with an Asian importer to run Prince's Quinces, and within two years the tree is in almost 2 out of every 3 American homes.
But he still won't talk to his dad.
Record: 87-75
Favorite song: "Rock and Roll McDonald's" by the Wesley Willis Fiasco Favorite movie: Good Burger
3. Babies Who Will Grow Up And Not Make Babies
ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS. ALBERT PUJOLS.
Record: 83-78
Favorite song: "I Know What Boys Like" by The Waitresses Favorite movie: Sleepers
4. Babies of Communists
On a road trip in late May it's revealed that Homer Bailey isn't real. He's a cyborg built by home-schooled scientists in the Ozarks (hence the hair). I mean, Homer Bailey? Who names a child that? Definitely a cyborg. It all makes sense once you see this picture (scroll down). What you don't see, however, is "Homer" slicing that thing from the jaw to the jibble bits and rummaging around inside, just to see what's in there.
Also, at some point somebody has to see the similarity between Aaron Harang and Lurch. That's when the nickname Aaron "You Rang" Harang will take off. It's so perfect!
Record: 81-81
Favorite song: That one by the Flying Burrito Brothers that goes "Dah-Dah ding da da da barrrrrrump" Favorite movie: Le Cercle Rouge 2: This Time It's in English
5. Babies of Celestial Beings
Date when the Astros are eliminated from the playoffs: June 27
Date when Roy Oswalt gives up, shoots Wandy Rodriguez with a double-ought shotgun, then borrows a hacksaw from the stadium crew, saws off the barrel, puts the freshly shorn end in his mouth and swallows a shell: August 19
Date when Lance Berman buys an actual puma: April 24 Date when Lance Berman shoots the puma: August 9
Date when Jose Valverde and Carlos Lee eat the puma: August 8
We've already detailed what will happen to them, so ... please to enjoy.
Record: 0-162
Favorite song: Anything by Conor Oberst Favorite movie: A live version of The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything, starring the puppets from Avenue Q and Ron Jeremy
Look, you can argue for either side and be technically correct. Both may have acted dishonestly, both may have acted immaturely, but the thing is: Denver has TALENT on Cutler's side of the ball. The defense would've gotten fixed, somehow. If you can't see the forest for the trees, get to high-steppin' out of the Mile High City.
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
And good luck in Chi-town, Cutlerfucker. You're going to need it.
Because we only update it once or twice a week. On a good week. But you know what? We've got lives, man. Big, hairy, beautiful lives that involve loving, and drinking, and cursing, and laughing, and screwing, and falling down, and shooting hoops on mild winter days, and getting threatened by a team of Puerto Ricans in the South Bronx because a couple changeups strayed inside and grazed their jerseys, and staring out the window and wondering when the canary of destiny is going to land on our lap so we may pet its sweet, ruffled feathers before it flies away. Sometimes, sports are our canary. Other times it's a buzzard with herpes and a paternity suit. Either way, we sit at the windowsill, patiently waiting.
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