2009 MLB Preview: Speaking Truth To You, By Kenny Powers

Posted on by Kenny Powers · Leave a comment

Back up the truck and get off the lawn, kids — Jockish’s 2009 MLB Previewish is back at it, this time going south to sweet Georgia with the star of HBO’s acclaimed documentary series Eastbound & Down, Mr. Kenny Powers. We were able to secure this illuminating write-up from Mr. Powers during the early days of filming, well before the events that viewers saw in the series’ harrowing conclusion. Taste the difference!

kennyp There are some people who think that I don’t know anything about baseball because I’m a loudmouth redneck ex-closer that’s all washed up and fat and shit. One of them’s that Rick Reilly asshole. One time during Spring Training, the guy had the stones to ask me to pee in a cup one time. I said sure, and I dropped trou and whizzed into his Dunkin’ Donuts super chai mocha latte right there. Test that, fuckstick. The other one, I dunno, I think he’s dead. Fat season-ticketing son of a bitch, wearing a Lemke jersey with that warpaint on his face, screaming all sorts of wokka-wokka nonsense from the cheap boxseats, waving around that stupid ass tomahawk like it was his third pecker. Whatever. Those two no-talent ass-scratchers and anyone else with a problem can lick my balls until they taste like a Chik-Fil-A patty. And for the record I’m talking about my figurative balls. I would not even let Anna Kournikova’s hotter younger even dumber sister put her pretty little mouth anywhere on my marbles. It’s not sanitary. Hell, no nuts are! And second most of all, it’s not right. Show me in the Bible where they talk about sucking on your balls. There ain’t no Psalm about “lo, let the male testes rest gently upon thy tongue tip like a sweaty crown of thorns” last I checked. Also, my tender vittles are still very sensitive from a shaving accident I was the victim of during my minor league days that I would rather not talk about at this time, so stop fucking asking.

But I am wise beyond my years and know all sorts of shit. This mullet ain’t just for show. For one, here’s a little wisdom for all the womenfolk out there that are trying to drop a dress size or two: men love tits and ass. They don’t want to stare at your sad little raisins dangling off your bony ribs while you’re shaking that droopy roast beef all over their jalapeno poppers that they only bought because they had a coupon, god dammit. Men want something they can hold onto. Men want something they can sink their teeth and sundry marital aids into. Men want something that’s actually nice to look at to. Most importantly, men want something that other men want to look at, and then they can say when they catch your cheap pud-wacking ass taking a peak, “Stop staring at my lady’s plump and juicy funbags, asshole, they ain’t for you.” In other words, they don’t want that fucked-up twiggy lesbo Lindsay Lohan, they want the Lindsay Lohan with the WalMart-sized cans and J-Lo booty that was all up in your face in films like Mean Girls and Disney’s The Parent Trap. Not that I ever watched any of that shit. The only skinny bitch I ever let fuck me was Done Dirt Cheap, a no-good “pedigreed” greyhound that lost me five large when she came up lame at Daytona Beach. Never again, I said to myself. And it’s only happened ten other times since. And that’s just at the track.

So, yeah, I once brought it for the proud city of Atlanta, home of a lot of cool shit that I’m too cool to even talk about. But all you folks rolling in the gritty city of Georgia know’s what’s what. Like that place with the hot sluts and the cheap drinks? And that mansion with the sick dog fights? Hells yeah, boy. What what in the hizzouse! But in case you all forgot how to read, while I’ve been around the world of Major League Baseball, I was the man up in the ATL back in the ’02, getting big ass saves on the reg, and just doing the all-around damn thing. But, man, that place sank right into the soggy yeast-filled vagina after I took off. It’s like Pueblo, Colorado up in that bitch. I mean, letting that Glavine guy go after he was totally washed up and getting him to sign with the Mets, that’s some dirty next-level Keyzer Soze shit right there. But then they bring him back? I mean, I totally would’ve banged his wife, too, but come on! Then they let playa-playaz like Raffy Furcy and Andruw “Popeye’s Chicken” Jones take a walk? And they let that Mark Tex guy with all the I’s in his name that I ain’t gonna learn to spell, he fucks off to fancy-ass New York all la-dee-dah.

And now Smoltzie is pitching for the Bawstan Red Sawx? Are you fucking serious? When I was there, Smoltzie and I, we used to be tight like Jamie-Lynn Spears’ poop chute. We’d be out on the golf course, kicking back some Bartles and James, winnings skins over all sorts of overpaid corporate assbags just happy to be smelling the farts off my golf shorts, then hitting Chipper’s favorite Hooters afterwards for a little R&R. That’s Rumps and Rum & Coke, by the way. But, yeah, now my boy’s gonna be up in the Northeast, eating the chowdah and the lobstah and putting his pinky up in the air while he drinks his Samuel Adams Lager. As a great man once said, what the fuck.

Thank God Chipper is still keeping it real. Sometimes, I think he’s the only goddamn ballplayer they still got in that joint. Everyone else is either too young, too old, too shitty, or a starting pitcher. OK, I wasn’t going to say anything about this, but fuck a starting pitcher, and here’s why. One: when they’re doing good, they act like they don’t need the bullpen to actually close out games for them. Like whoop-dee-shit, you got the first 7 innings out of the way, and then leave because of your “pitch count.” Poor baby, let me get you a Flintstones chewable and some Massengill.

Meanwhile, me and my boys, your Mike Gonzalezes, your Rafael Sorianos, your Mike Fucking Stantons and Esteban Fucking Yans, we’re all down in the trenches, picking up after your lazy shoulder-icing ass. And if we make a mistake, which is only human and happens to everyone? Well, then, fuck you, Mr. Famous Rolaids Closer Fireman, you’re a clubhouse cancer and shouldn’t be allowed to say anything in response to the world-famous soft-tossing “chicks dig the longball” bitch that couldn’t get the job done his damn self. Even Smoltz, man, before he became a Powers-esque closer, that dude would whine like a little teabagger when it came right down to it. You know, let he who is without sin try getting an 0-2 slider by that fucking Brad Ausmus with a guy on first, am I right? It’s easy to ride my ass when you’re riding the pine. Man up and throw a fastball past the other team’s second-best pinch-hitter with two out and two strikes in the ninth with a four-run lead on the line, and then talk to me.

What I’m trying to say is someone better tell Derek Lowe growing a trimmed neck beard doesn’t help hide any of that chin fat, and won’t make him suck any less than he’s about to for the next four fucking years. I don’t know that Vazquez guy — what is he, Cuban? Viva la revolution, homes! I dunno about that Swedish German guy either, that Bjorn Bjorg djude. Should I be getting him some wood clogs, or should I be on the look out for Panzers and nihilists or some shit? As for that import they brought in: Kenny Powers ain’t gonna ever domo that arigato. Ever since the Seibu Lions straight-up clowned and disrespected my ass during that so-called “workout,” this man only buys American, be it North or South or good old Middle American. Besides, sushi just makes my bowels all stupid.

You know, all those fancy so-called experts are probably gonna waste your time, talking to you about the development of the infield prospects, or how weak their outfield is, or what Brian McCann means to them as a lineup anchor. That’s all college English for, “I have no idea what’s going on in the world today.” Well, Kenny Powers sure as shit knows what’s what in today’s fast-paced world of technology and sex. And what this Braves season comes down to is two things — my boy Chipper keeping his hammies loose and his dick clean, the bullpen getting healthy, and my other boy Jeff Francouer. Those three things, those are the keys to the fucking kingdom.

And let me just say this about my boy Francouer. He is a goddamn Ball Player, and that is with fucking-A capital letters. The sooner someone in that Braves front office figures this out and leaves him the fuck alone, the sooner they can get back to winning some goddamn ball games again. Even the dumbest writer fomerly of Sports Illustrated can see that it’s all the tinkering and messing-arounding that’s fucked the poor kid up. He was great when he came up to the Big Show — why mess with that? There’s only one other player I’ve ever seen in my vast baseball experience that’s possessed that same combination of athleticism and intellectualism and sheer male sexual charisma. I called him Whole Grain Oats, because he’s both good and good for you. But you know him as John Fucking Mabry. Look it up.

I know, it’s all popular to try and force players into doing what they can’t do because of some stupid book Joe Morgan wrote or whatever, but that’s just dumb. The only book any of you shold be reading that’ll help you with baseball is You’re Fucking Out, I’m Fucking In, by former and future Major League Baseball great Kenny Powers. Visit your local online auction store, check out my state-of-the-art website, or call my soon-to-be-established hotline 1-976-FUCK-OUT for deals on that and other priceless Kenny Powers memorabilia, including bobble-head dolls, toilet seats, ceramic condom trays, and photocopies of the unfinished manuscript for Kenny’s 2nd book, Fucking You Sideways: A Baseball Life In Reverse Negative, signed by Kenny Powers and various semi-professional adult entertainers. Fuck a Snuggie and buy my shit!

Former MLB reliever Kenny Powers hit 43 batters in his five-year career.

2009 MLB Preview: Blue Isn’t Anything Except A Color

Posted on by Rush Limbaugh · Leave a comment

Better late than never, here’s the first of what hopes to be a thirty-part series called The 2009 Inaugural Jockish MLB Preview / Post-Preview of Baseball Things & Stuff (AKA our ill-timed 2009 baseball preview). We begin in a place where the season’s ended far too early these past years, and with a man whose reach and appetite knows no bounds. Kansas City, here we come!

rush1Greeting, my friends. This is Rush Limbaugh, El Rushbo, darling of the liberal media, the man who is patiently waiting for President Barack Hussein Obama or one of his lackeys to debate me, coming to you over the internet from the EIB offices with a very important message concerning the Kansas City Royals of Major League Baseball. Now let me get this out of the way right here. I want to make this plain as day so even the Drive-By Media gets it. Read my words: I am not here to talk about that scourge of athletics known as steroids, especially where it concerns the health or well-being of an effeminate hair-dying multi-millionaire that lies every time he takes a breath and treats the institution of marriage like it’s a fantasy sport. I have nothing to say on that topic except that I have nothing to say on that topic. So please don’t expect me to hold court on a topic that I have nothing to say about.

No, today I am here to talk about the Kansas City Royals, my hometown team, a once-proud organization that actually employed me, Rush Limbaugh, as their Director of Promotions, back some thirty years ago. That’s a long time ago, folks. This was back during the glory days of the franchise, when they had a successful team and were the envy of all of baseball. It might surprise some of you aware of my expertise in the field of football, but when it comes to athletics, it is America’s pastime that I cherish the most. It is one of the proudest things I can say about my life that I can consider Royal great and Baseball Hall of Famer George Brett a friend. That’s why it upsets me so that the Royals are where they are today.

Now it should come as no surprise that I’m no fan of all these fancy numbers that “statisticians” like this Nate Silver fellow like to toss around to confuse the layman fan. It might surprise some of these number-crunchers, but there were some simpler stats around back in the nascent days of the sport that work just fine in telling fans what they need to know nowadays. No need to plow money and resources into finding new ways to say the same old thing. Unless you’re a member of the Democrat Party, because that’s all you know is finding ways to waste money and time to no apparent purpose except to feel superior about yourselves. For my money, there’s no better measure of baseball success than wins, and that is one thing the Royals have not had many of these years. In the last 18 seasons, these Royals have had only three winning campaigns. And don’t think I chose that time period arbitrarily — it’s no coincidence that the Royals’ stretch of futility coincides with the arrival of Slick Willie into the Oval Office.

It doesn’t take a smart man to make the connection — a Spendocrat comes into power, taxes hard-working Americans into oblivion, and what happens? Teams like the Royals and their brethren are forced to cut corners and bear the brunt of these socialist policies, and the impact is devastating. They lose their best players because they can’t afford to keep them, their farm system dries up because they aren’t able to properly educate their players, and they have to overpay to attract any sort of marquee name to wear their uniform, fans stop showing up because they can’t afford to come to the games, and the vicious cycle perpetuates itself into infinity. George Bush tried to make things right during his honorable Presidency, but even he couldn’t right the ship that these liberals had taken off course, and now we’re doomed to another four years of elitist welfare policies that don’t help anyone except those making the laws. They certainly don’t help the common folk, nor do they help the Kansas City Royals.

But there might be a glimmer of hope in old Kaufmann Stadium this year. Last season saw them finally escape the AL Central cellar, and they’ll bring back most of the same players from that very team for this year. In addition, they’ve fortified their bullpen with the signing of hard-throwing Kyle Farnsworth and Doug Waechter, traded for a strapping young first baseman in Mike Jacobs to protect the likes of John Buck, Alex Gordon and Billy Butler, and inked an extension with ace pitcher Zack Grienke to team up with Gil Meche and give them the front of a rotation that is one of the best in the game. In a lot of ways, the grit and determination of these players is something that all Americans should be able to appreciate. And if they were located in that bastion of “art” and “culture” New York City, they would be appreciated to death by a former employer of mine. But, of course, when you’re lead into battle by a man of such virtues as Trey Hillman, it’s not hard to imagine the God-hating intellectuals finding something to complain about. But I digress.

Now it of course remains to be seen whether some of their other key players can overcome their own shortcomings and contribute to this honorable core. Will new outfielder Coco Crisp act like a blinged-out spoiled celebrity after leaving the Red Sox? Will fiery hothead Jose Guillen be able to keep his temper in check and justify his ridiculous contract? What will this Kila Ka’aihue newcomer do to earn some playing time over worthier native-born players? Is Joakim Soria a flash in the burrito pan, or a master of the Columbian necktie that will put down rallies like they’re illegal immigrants trying to escape the men and women securing our borders? Well, that’s why they play the games, as they say in baseball land.

But I have a feeling that this team might surprise some people. And I mean that in a good way. I don’t believe in making predictions that are tied to numbers, because numbers can lie in so many ways. And I certainly don’t believe in the gloom and doom that some supposedly hope-filled politicians shovel out to the American people. This country was founded on the hope that’s born of blood, sweat, and opportunity, not on naysayers and naybobs and ne’er-do-welllers. And if the Royals manage to sneak up on people and make some noise this season in the tightly contested AL Central, it will be because they have earned such a triumph. Just remember who said it first, and who said it the loudest. I’m Rush Limbaugh.

College dropout Rush Limbaugh began his career in radio as a teenager in 1967, under the name Rusty Sharpe.

Fantasy Ain’t Just a Song by Earth, Wind and Fire

Posted on by Spartacus · Leave a comment

350

¡Hola, bitches! I’m back like the body part your mom spends most of her time upon. The lame-o-nauts here at Jockitch (see what I did there) have green-lit my booty-kickin’ fantasy baseball column, as I knew they would. So sit down, shut up, put yr pants back on, and take it — just like yr grandma did, last nite.

I play in about the toughest leagues you can possibly imagine with yr tiny human brains. In one, we exclude the top-ranked 300 players and start drafting after that, then disqualify all owned players and re-draft after the All-Slut Game. In another,  the stats we use are so complicated and arcane that I couldn’t even start to tell you about them. You would die in your own filth where you sit. (One example – EqEOVo5, a hitting rate stat that we guard so carefully that none of us actually understands it all the way. Process it. )

And, needless to say, I only play with the finest baseball minds in the world. Bill James? Hah, don’t make me laugh, that dude is Joe Morgan to the likes of us. And don’t even try to ask me about sellout anti-intellectuals like Tango, Neyer, McCracken — I’m talking about the damn Baseball Illuminati here, shadowy DiMaggio Code-type mofos who are the power behind the powers that be. In order to get to my first live draft I had to be chloroformed, blindfolded, and transported in the hatchback of a 1982 Honda Civic. Even now we all draft wearing those Eyes Wide Shut masks. Anyone who quits the league has 24 hours to go into witness protection and then it’s open season.

Probably, your league is a lot wimpier than any of mine. So I’ll try to dumb it down and hook you up with some Sneaky Sleepers and some Guys You Better Just Avoid. Ho hum, so boring, so elementary…but I guess it’s not your fault you’re not as smart as me so I’ll just do this.

SNEAKY SLEEPERS

1. In every draft I try to grab Oliver Perez, who’s sure to be a breakout guy this year again. Dude might not have the flashy hoi polloi-known stats, but he’s busting it up on all my rubrics. I anticipate this will translate into some "awesome" counting stats for your league — but to be honest any league that still counts strikeouts and wins then please make sure you say hi to Fred and Barney and the rest of the fellas the next time you’re down at the Royal Order of Water Buffalos Lodge.

2. Andy LaRoche is the best secret weapon the Pirates own. Sure, his last year’s numbers didn’t look too good. But they can’t be that bad forever, and he will go absolutely bat-nuts during the first two weeks of May, which is exactly WHY you need him now. Then you better flip him immediately, because the rest of his year will be a complete tailspin, bar a couple of two-double days in mid-August. Remember, you’re never eating up a roster spot with a LaRoche–you’re Investing.

3. Two words for you: Hanley Ramirez. Oh sure, I know he’s going #1 in just about every idiot draft I’ve seen. But these people only see the hits and the steals and the homers and stuff like that, especially from a shortstop; these things are all ephemeral and can be washed away like so much scum and filth from the streets of New York like my boy Travis Bickle. What I’m talking about are OTHER indicators that are even more important for 2009. His SASSOON: a stunning 4.815, nice for a SS. His z1NKY ratio is 16/23 and his wibbL an impeccable 42. That hasn’t been seen in, like, ever.

GUYS YOU BETTER JUST AVOID

1. Albert Pujols is probably one of the greatest players in our lifetime, and certainly one of the most consistent. That is why you must not draft him. Consistency is boring and safe and only losers play that way. Well, and occasional winners, but still and yet. If all you want to do is win, especially in the protozoan league you inhabit with your brother and his friends and some college people and the next-cubicle guy, by all means take Pujols in the first round. But if you want to win WITH STYLE or else go out on your shield like a damn Viking warrior, you are much better off going mercurial and grabbing a could-go-either-way flameout candidate like Nick Swisher. That guy blows up and gets say 70 percent of Pujols’ numbers, you can be all like "YEAH TRICK YEEEEEEAAAHHH WHAT WHAT" and shame the league; if they don’t pan out, or they are crap, just be dismissively superior. WORKS FOR ME.

2. Do not draft Nick Swisher. Yes, he’ll be better than last year, but no, that doesn’t matter. He’s on the Yankees, and I hate the Yankees. Actually, I don’t really care about the Yankees or any team — I just know that if I harsh on the NYYs then haterbloggers and Red Sox fans will descend on us like they are locusts and we are old-timey Mormons. And I love controversy! Thanks for all the hate mail and harsh language…(wait for it)…Mom.

3. Hanley Ramirez. Nuff said.

Okay, now that I gave away all my Just Okay Tips, saving of course my HOT STUFF BANGERS for only me and my subscribers, have at it. Catch ya on the flip-flop and don’t eat any wooden nickels.

Physician, Stop Healing!

Posted on by Dr. Ricardo Salvay · Leave a comment

Once again, friends of mine, a hello! It is me, your own personal doctor for the Jockish, Ricardo Salvay, here to discuss with the likes of you some injuries that I have been read for about! Specially today, we have a triad — a three ring circus, if you could — from the National Basketball Association, or as my friends liked to call it back home in Sicily, “that version of the sport with the lack of fundamentals and defense and all the dunking and tattoos.” But you should know I am already kidding! It is a game that we must love, according to famous movie star of sexiness Dyan Cannon. So let us get it on!

Least of all, we have the hurting shoulder of Orlando Magic point person Jameer Nelson. In case you have been aware of nothing, Nelson hurt his torn shoulder labrum, and had repair surgery to his shoulder to end his basketball this season, which I do not agree with 100%. Labrum actually stands for “lip” in its original Latin form, which means that Nelson really has what some educated doctors like to call a “busted lip.” And you know what it calls for that? The shoulder version of chap stick! Meaning a nice & tight sling for your shoulder and adjoining jointed areas, and some cool restorative salve!

You see, the problem with doctors (like this Mr. James Andrews doctor person) is that they see the word “tear” and “ligament” and they immediately think “surgery” without more than a second or third thought. They cannot wait long enough to get their scalpels and other metal objects into your body to do their work and justify their ridiculous paycheck. And the lot of it has to do with so-called “physicians” not practicing enough so called “preventative medicine.” If you are basketballing and are at risk of tearing a labrum by landing on your shoulder? Land on it on purpose! A lot! Get into the rough house with it! Toughen up that labrum like it stuck you with a ridiculous bar tab for your birthday in Ibiza and then had sex with your then-girlfriend in the Privilege bathroom hallway (and don’t think I’ve forgotten, Francesca — I cannot drop my Ecstasy all alone without crying a little and thinking of your no-tan lines)! So, yes, give yourself a nice “fat lip” through rigorous and wanton abuse, and the only tears you have to worry about are the checks you tear up that you will not have to write to doctors and their scalpels!

And since you know me well enough by now, you can imagine what I will say about a detached retina! The eye is a very important organ for people, because it allows you to see things as they really are. But especially for athletes, like Amar’e Stoudemire! And when your retina detaches, it is obviously hard to see the way you want. But, again, is the answer always surgery for these things? Could you not put faith into the restorative body powers, and just let it heal as nature wants it? Cuts heal on their own, with a little help and tender loving care — why not bigger injuries as well? Don’t assume that invasive surgery and two months of rest will fix every sort of ouchie boo boo. Be sure that you take your time and do it naturally! A little eye patch to let the eye (which did you know is an organ?) rest, a little topical numbing agent the patient can choose to soothe the orbital socket area (also known as “around the eye”), and a little elapsed time to let the retina re-attach itself. In about 36 months’ time, you can remove the eyepatch and have nearly unaffected vision in at least 50% of your eyes! And then commence with the dunking and open-field traveling, Amar’e!

Now there is at least one person who I see is doing the right thing and listening to what God has to say about their body. Mr. Kevin Garnett hurt his knee doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary except whatever hurt him. Therefore, the only thing that is sensible is to do nothing out of the ordinary to let it heal. Just relax, pretend like nothing is happening to it, and the world in the sky will keep on turning like Journey says. Honestly, I do not understand the need for doctors to doctor all over the place — they are like lawyers, except lawyers can’t remove your appendix very easily! So remember, people — when it comes to your physical well being, don’t let a professional do what you can try to do for yourself. A dollar in the hand is worth two or three in the hands of someone else! And until I say something else, this is Dr. Ricardo Salvay, telling you to please wait until I come back!

Dr. Ricardo Salvay is currently writing a online doctoral dissertation on the treatment of lung cancer through bloodletting and trepanation.

That Thing Around Your Neck Is Called A Whistle

Posted on by Tom Heinsohn · Leave a comment

tommy

Don’t get me started.  I gotta tell ya, it’s been taking a lot of my energy and patience to keep from talking about the referees as much as I want to these days. My producers tell me that it "alienates some impartial viewers," but I could give a rat’s fig about that. I’ve been watching some of that NBA Sunday Ticket, and if folks in Cleveland and Chicago and Denver get to call that sort of announcing "impartial," then I’m Queen of Sheeba.   Never mind that Mason down in Detroit whose does the public announcing.  If I never again have to year him yelling about "the gritty city of Compton" or "All Sheed" or whatever mumbo-jumbo he’s saying, it’ll be about three years too soon.

But I digress.  The reason I actually mind my P’s and Q’s on the air is because every time I start to voice my well-justified displeasure regarding the quality of the league’s officials, I get this look from my broadcast partner Mike Gorman. It’s the same sort of look Red or Russell or Couz used to shoot me if I missed a pick or bricked an open banker or dribbled the ball off my foot. That "cut the ball-hog prep school shenanigans, Heinsohn, or I’m waxing the Parquet after the game with your face" look.  And after a certain incident in Sacramento some years back involving a Bic pen cap and a post-game encounter with a heckler which I will not discuss amongst mixed company, I don’t mess with Mike. 

But I’m gonna say what I gotta say, and if I can’t say it there, then I’m saying it right here. And after watching last night’s travesty of a game against the Utah Jazz, it’s gotta be said. I mean, first of all, who the heck are the Jazz that they can push and grab and punch and gouge like that? Since when did this game go from being about scoring the basketball to being about technical knock-outs? Is Jerry Sloan a basketball coach, or a self-defense instructor?  I’m all for "letting them play," but GIMME A BREAK BAVETTA! CALL IT BOTH WAYS! If Matt Harpring can have Paul Pierce spitting blood from a blatant shot to his kidneys, then let Gabe Pruitt play some defense instead of calling him for some piece of garbage touch foul against Deron Williams. And would someone PLEASE notice when Leon Powe is getting manhandled by guys twice his size?  It’s not like he’s missing those wide open layups on purpose! Contact is contact is contact, I don’t care who or what or where it happens! And David Stern’s gotta realize that. But, then, Stern’s part of the problem, isn’t he?

I see what’s going on, folks. I might not be the sharpest tool in the hardware store, but you can’t fool old Tommy. You see, since the NBA is all about LeBron James and Kobe Bryant this year after the Celtics got their one measly championship last year, they’re gonna make it harder than heck for Boston to get back to the Finals. And they’re gonna do it by hook AND by crook!  And by faceguarding, if they can get away with it!  Which they can! And it’s not just yesterday’s game against the Jazz. Look at any loss this year by the C’s, and you’ll find someone like Bavetta or Kenny Mauer or that beady-eyed black guy with the moustache making a TERRIBLE call that costs Boston the game. Like that foul against Kevin Garnett during the Spurs game. I mean, if all you have to do is whine to the refs like everyone on the Spurs does to actually get a call, then I suggest Doc spills some milk before every game and tell everyone that their mommies didn’t love them. I mean COME ON!

And while I’m here — now Tim Duncan’s a great player, sure. Great two-way player, great leader in the locker room, has nice soft hands and fantastic fundamentals.  And he should’ve been a Celtic, too, in case you forgot. But if there’s anything that’s going to keep him out of the Hall of Fame, it’s that pathetic groveling look on his face after he gets whistled for obvious contact. I’ve seen teenagers getting dumped by ugly fat girls show more self-respect! Believe it or not, Tim, even the most perfect players in the world foul other players. It happens. Just because you’re Tim Duncan, The Most Perfect Player In The World, doesn’t make you immune. And the same goes for LeBron, who’s developing a really bad habit of whining everytime someone actually dares to put a body on His Royal Majesty the King of James. All you fancy-pants prima donnas need to suck it up and PLAY SOME BALL!

And these Europeans and their flippity-flap flopping! Maybe Doc should have everyone in green grow a mullet and a beard so they get these calls that ALWAYS go against them. I mean ALWAYS. I swear, the next time I see some Luis Scola or Andres Nocioni or Chef Boyardee jump backwards fifteen feet into the stands when Perk turns his back to the hoop, I will climb out of my chair and kick that Eurotrash into the trash can! And I don’t care if these guys are from Argentina or wherever! I DON’T CARE! If you look like a scrubby walk-on from Easy Rider , and you fly through the air whenever Big Baby breaks wind on the other end of the court, then you are European, and you are KILLING. THIS. GAME. KILLING IT!

But, really, if I’m giving you my unvarnished opinion, and I am, it all comes down to the refs. I’d like to sit here and say that it’s just one or two that are spoiling it for everyone, but every single ref is responsible for this travesty. They are in desperate need of a refresher course on how to call a game. Like what the difference is between a charge and a block. Or what constitutes a moving pick. Or like what traveling looks like. I mean, did you see that clip of Corey Maggette traveling SIX TIMES before taking a shot? This isn’t the line-dancing bar! And there’s a ref RIGHT THERE in the corner looking at the play? What’s the ref looking at? Do I even want to know? Because I know for sure that he wasn’t watching the play, because if he was watching the play, he would have called a TRAVEL, and if he had EYES in his HEAD he would have called that travel SIX TIMES!

So, like I said, don’t get me started.  All I have to say is if it comes down to a Game 7 where Paul Pierce has five fouls, and LeBron James PUSHES Pierce away on a drive to the hoop to take the lead, I know which way the whistle’s gonna blow.  And don’t think I don’t know that you know I know, Mr. Commissioner.  Because I know.  Oh, I know all right.

Longtime Boston Celtics broadcaster Tom Heinsohn cares deeply for Big Baby & Brian Scalabrine, but his heart will always belong to WALTAH.

…Alex One More Time

Posted on by Britney Spears · Leave a comment

Dear Alex:

Hi!! This is Britney Spears writing to you. I heard about what is happening to you with the steroids and the cheating and the lies, and I think it is terrible that you should have to go through this in the public spotlight. And then I heard from one of my dancers’ trainers’ macrobiotic chefs that some guy on E$PN named Steve Phillips compared you to me, saying that we are watching you fall apart right in front of our eyes on TV.  So I just had to write to say WTF?!?

First of all, who is this Steve Phillips that he can say something like that about you? I don’t mean to say that folks can’t say what they want — after all, this is a free country (even if our president is an awful socialist spendocrat), and we have to obey by its rules even if the rules allow awful people like Perez Hilton or Pat O’Brien to walk around on the Internet posting awful pictures of people with computer scribbles all over them. But you and I Alex, I think we are more alike than even Steve Phillips imagines, though not because of us "falling apart." I mean I don’t know about you except from what I see on TV but HELLO I am doing just OK right now thank you very much! My newest album has sold 3 million copies worldwide, and I’m about to go on a worldwide tour.  Don’t go writing a check I can buy ten times over with plenty left to spare, Mr. Baseball!

But yeah we have been through a lot of things together, though not really together obviously. :) (Wow imagine the stories they’d write if THAT happened!!)  We have both been thrust into the national spotlight at a very young age, we were both idolized for things we could do (or wear) that no one else could, we are both very very attractive (though you should stop frosting your tips really you’d be so much dreamier), we both have reporters all up in our business  like they’re making soup in our soul kitchen, we have both made some unwise choices with our love lives, and we were both affected in a bad way by our relationship with Madonna. And you managed to do the last two things at the same time! (LOL j/k — at least you didn’t father children with a two-timing gold-digging scumbag I mean seriously how much Patrone did I drink???)

What I am trying to say is that you need to just put all this behind you and get on with your life and your career. And by that I mean to say that you can’t let your career become your life. I mean this happened to you what five or six years ago? That is a long time ago! I could barely vote way back then. But now you and I are older and wiser because of our mistakes. And that means we should not let our mistakes tell us the way we live our lives. This is who we are now, not what we used to be. And for people in the press to bring this up like it matters in today’s world is just rotten and definitely not news. Our fans need to focus on what is important in their lives, and what you put into your body back then is not that.  And I put Colin Farrell in my body once, so I know what’s what!  ;)

You have apologized for your mistakes and that is all you can do about it at this time. Like my grandpa used to say, it’s water under the bridge, and you can’t worry about if folks drown their bags of cats in it. So you should do what you do best, Alex. Play baseball. Hit lots of homeruns and RBIs. Win lots of Gold Gloves and MVPs. And just forget about all this know-nothing nonsense. Don’t worry if people aren’t going to count your homeruns or add asterisks to your resume or put you in jail or make up more stupid nicknames for you. I wish I could tell you how to not let it all get you down, but honestly I don’t know. I mean I used to drink and take lots of drugs to try to escape and it didn’t get me anywhere except on Page Six and TMZ.  So please don’t do that!  Just find what makes Alex Rodriguez happiest and keep doing that, and If You See Kay anyone that doesn’t like it! ;)

Anyway I hope this finds you well and happy and in His good graces!  My cell phone is always on so if you want to talk about your problems or how many girls I know that got herpes from Derek Jeter (hahaha he’s so creepy) let me know!  Take care!

xoxoxoxo,
Britney

Britney Spears is sui generis.  I mean, really, come on.

The Soft Bigotry of Heightened Aggression

Posted on by Gregg Easterbrook · Leave a comment

TMQ admits, he just doesn’t understand.

Week after week, thousands of E$PN.com Page 2 readers flock to this column for the longest in-depth weekly analysis of the great game of football available on a free ad-laden website. (TMQ would also be happy to add “best” and “most intelligent,” but his Christian faith and tendencies towards self-deprecation preclude abusing those adjectives, even if he can now call both Bill Simmons and Rick Reilly co-workers.)

One of the reasons for so much return business is that this is one of the last repositories for sportsmanship alive left in the world. Everywhere, the barbarians have overrun the gates, the center cannot hold (without incurring a costly penalty), and rough beasts slouch towards Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Ordinary hard-working red-blooded Americans across the country seem to enjoy TMQ’s sermons about how college coaches should not run up the score against weak opponents, or how college coaches should not leave their contracts to take other jobs, or how the NBA is a horrible boring league of dusky dope-smoking malcontents while the NFL is jam-packed with stellar citizens of all races slapping each other’s hindquarters in the name of simple joy. And of course it would be quite unlike TMQ to neglect the hit-counter impact that the weekly cheer-babe siren-song has had upon those looking to stoke their mid-morning work-week fires.

While TMQ’s commitment to cheer-babery has never been under suspicion, the commitment to sportsmanship has been thrown into question. As loyal readers know, TMQ recently selected the Pittsburgh Steelers’ James Harrison as the 2008 Entertainment and Sports Programming Network’s Tuesday Morning Quarterback Non-Quarterback Non-Running Back National Football League Most Valuable Player. Otherwise known as the ESPNTMQNQNRBNFLMVP, pronounced “Q-y.” This was, presciently, before he made the single greatest play in Super Bowl history by running back a 100-yard interception TAINT at the end of the first half of Super Bowl XLIII. TMQ also recently praised the rest of Harrison’s Super Bowl performance (in a column you’ve already read and enjoyed, I would hope, but here’s another link just in case).

But lo and behold TMQ’s championing of the undrafted and unwanted Harrison has become controversial. Man the barricades, 13-year-old Official TMQ Son Spenser! Certain yahoos are yammering away in the comments section about Harrison’s costly unsportsmanlike conduct penalty during the game, an infraction for which no less a personage than John Madden said that Harrison should have gotten the boot. These nattering nabobs of negativity are accusing TMQ of hypocrisy on this matter. Heaven forfend! Furthermore, some of these armchair laptop pundits are pointing out that Harrison was accused this season of hitting his girlfriend with the same eager open-hand technique that he used to subdue hapless Cardinal Aaron Francisco during said penalty. Some go so far as to say that TMQ is selling out his own tendency to pontificate on the personal lives of others. My stars!

hpcheerSome serious accusations have been leveled at TMQ. So serious, in fact, that TMQ will forgo his usual florid digressions into all things astronomical, political, sociological, economical, ecological, military, and (most importantly) science-fictional. (That the TMQ DVR is experiencing some technical difficulties might be contributing to this state of affairs, but never mind.) TMQ will also limits its usual cheer-babe mention to this brief aside: watching nubile faux cheer-babe Hayden Panettiere (of NBC’s misbegotten fantasy-fiction series Heroes) twist and contort her broken body as if it were a disjointed G.I. Joe figurine was certainly Must-See TV for all the senses. Fun fact: my spellchecker thinks Hayden’s last name is Pantyliner!  And speaking of must-see, here’s a pic of Hayden in her Friday night best to rah-rah your sis-boom-bahs away.

But yes — TMQ will address these Harrison-related concerns in a straight-forward and immediate manner. To wit:

a) Replays show that Harrison clearly did not actually punch Francisco. Instead, he merely held him down on the ground after initial contact with a closed fist, and then pushed him away with an open hand (and no doubt a heavy heart) multiple times. Contact continued after the initial flag-earning hit because the play had not been whistled dead. The penalty was rightfully assessed.  The game continued.  This incident was no worse than the sort of inter-team jostling you see occur during and after any other football play. And it was a far sight better than that awful display of “manhood” that took place at the Palace at Auburn Hills one sad and tragic night in November of 2004.  From what I can see in people’s comments, context for this completely harmless act is desperately needed.

b) The assault and criminal mischief charges against Harrison were dropped after Harrison underwent anger-management counseling and psychological counseling. If the incident is no longer a legal matter, then it should no longer be a public matter.  Or, as Official TMQ Brother Frank, a respected federal judge, says, “If it’s not legal, then it’s not public, especially when the gentleman in question towers above TMQ like Taipei 101 dominates the landscape of Taiwan.”  Sound words to live by, Frank.  The other Official TMQ Brother Neil also has some advice regarding this matter, but this is a family column.

c) If John Madden is to be trusted as an authority on all things football simply because of his past glories and his association with a financially viable video game franchise, then I should be entrusted to make sure the monies promised by the government’s ill-conceived economic bailout plan are distributed and implemented as expected. But I am no Adam Smith, and John Madden is no Tim McCarver.  TMQ believes the turducken has gone to Madden’s head and severely impaired his critical (and ocular) faculties. In this light, maybe Madden should consider becoming an NFL referee.

d) With the ESPN ombudsperson having become the former ESPN ombudsperson, all of your misbegotten and ill-informed complaints and concerns have entered the same egress saved for Nigerian money scams and unsolicited Toys-R-Us ads. His spam-filter’s thirst slaked, TMQ is inspired to end this column with a haiku:

A flag has been thrown
For e-web jackassery;
Y’all can suck deez nutz

Gregg Easterbrook is a former fellow of the Brookings Institution.

Pride (In The Name Of Young)

Posted on by Derek Bell · Leave a comment

What up, Internet world?  This here’s former Major League Baseball superstar Derek Bell  coming to you LIVE from some place in my life I’d rather not talk about.  Let’s just say that, ever since Major League Baseball was able to fulfill their one-sided vendetta against an outspoken and supremely talented black man, life decided to treat yours truly like a rubber chicken in a KFC fryer.  But I’m all about looking past the negativity and getting things going in forward motion, so all you fans out there that remember my potent mix of power and speed don’t have to worry about Derek Bell finding his feet in the near future.  And all you ivory tower bloggers getting your jealous kicks at the misfortune of another more athletic person than yourselves, I hope y’all got yourself a ticket on the karma train, and not in front of the karma train.  And that’s all I’m saying about that.  Choo-choo, haters.

I’m here today to talk to the Internet world about a little thing that some folks might’ve forgotten about these days, what with reality TV and video games and DVDs getting all up in people’s minds.  I’m talking about disrespect, and how there’s a whole lot of it going around.  It’s like a case of the clap, but with real consequences.  You see, I’m an expert on disrespect, because it got served to me nice and cold when I was slumming it with the Pittsburgh Pirate.  There I was in the prime of my career, ready to contribute my veteran presence once again to an up-and-coming group of Pirate contenders.  And they have the stone-cold balls to tell me that I wasn’t going to start in the outfield.  It goes without saying, but that’s some bullshit.  I’m not some rookie or washed-up old clown — I’m Derek Bell, a lifetime .276 hitter and a charter member of the 20/20 Club.  As the world knows, that’s what began Operation: Shutdown and my exit from baseball.  And now, when anyone thinks of Derek Bell, they think of Operation: Shutdown, and ain’t no one taking that away from me.

So when I heard that Texas was trying to make their high-paid All Star shortstop Michael Young move over to third base, I knew I had to break my media silence and speak my mind on this issue.  First of all — Michael, if you’re out there reading this, I am here for you.  I respect your struggle, because I fought that struggle for you, and everyone like you, back in the day.  I made my stand, just like Jackie Robinson did almost 40 years earlier.  And even if I didn’t win, I fought, and I fought hard.  And that’s what you gotta do, Michael.  You gotta fight for your rights.  It ain’t a matter of money, though just a bit of that sixteen million you’re getting would be doing me, myself, and I a whole lot of good right now.  But I said it ain’t a matter of money.  It’s a matter of a little somethin’ somethin’ Hall of Famer Aretha Franklin called P-R-I-D-E — it’s a five-letter word for most, but for those penny-pinchers that make all the moves and destroy careers, it’s got four letters.

myoung First of all, you don’t let them tell you what to do.  Who’s the boss of Michael Young: the people that sign your paychecks, or the person that you spend every waking hour of the day with whose name is Michael Young?  And if you don’t know the answer to that, you’d might as well not even ask the question.  People let things like money and contracts and legal obligations dictate what they do in life.  Well, look at that word "obligations" — it’s got "oblige" up in it right there, if you spell it right.  And a right-minded person with any bit of backbone ain’t obliged to do a damn thing they don’t wanna do.  It’s one thing if they came to you as the leader of your team and oldest starter and they asked you pretty-please to maybe think about moving over, especially if they got someone like Derek Jeter or Omar Vizquel to take over.  It’s a totally different issue if they’re TELLING YOU to move your ass over, and then to move it for some 20-year-old know-nothing that hasn’t paid his dues … who the hell do they think they are? Batman?

When a team tries to pull that sort of stunt on you, you know it’s only a matter of time before you’re out the door.  Look how the Baltimore Orioles treated their best player of all time ever Cal Ripken Jr. In 1997, they made him move off of shortstop for some kid, and just a few years later, boom, he’s out of baseball.  You give these suits an inch, they’ll take the whole damn ruler and shove it up your unmentionables.  First they ask you to move over for some kid.  Then they ask you to move down in the batting order for some fancy free-agent signing.  Then they ask you to sit on the bench, just for a couple of games, just because you’re in a 2-for-40 slump.  Then the reporter from some backward inbred tabloid starts asking about why you ain’t playing no more while everyone else is getting the sexy good press.  Then all that gets in your head, and it starts messing with your 20/20 game.  And pretty soon you’re riding the pine in your own living room, wondering what happened to your life, watching as those million dollar checks pile up with nothing to show for it.  And after that, you’re out on the street, hat in hand, wandering the streets like one of the Cosby kids, begging all sorts of clowns for a chance to do your thing.  And then you end up looking all fine in some Nelly video like GOD DAMN Rudy Huxtable what they put in your Fruity Pebbles?  Except you don’t.

Don’t not think that pride doesn’t come with a price, Michael Young and all you other Michael Youngs out there.  You draw that line in the sand, you better make sure it ain’t gonna rain on your parade, unless you got a bird in the hand and a smoking gun to point at all those suckers.  Protect your neck, your chest, and any other bits of you that might be vulnerable to those slings and arrows and whatnot.  Because, sooner or later, you’re going to end up in a place where they want you, and you don’t want to be there.  You want to be where you want to be.  Because if you ain’t there, you ain’t anywhere.  Take it from me, Derek B.  And that’s all that.  Keep it real, America.

Former MLB outfielder / pitcher Derek Bell is tied for 477th place in career home runs with seven other players, including former All-Star Carlos Baerga.

Feeling Kinda Turturro

Posted on by John Turturro · Leave a comment

Jockish has learned that "Transformers" star John Turturro (currently featured in an illuminating ad campaign for Heineken Beer — watch out, Budweiser frogs!) was also being considered for a series of ads promoting the 2009 NFL playoffs and Super Bowl XLIII.  While these promos were (sadly) never made, we’ve gotten our hands on the script for the Super Bowl spot, which we now present to you.  For extra fun, imagine your favorite Coen Brothers Turturro character — Barton Fink, "The Big Lebowski"’s Jesus Quintana, or even wacky old Pete from "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" — reading these lines.  Enjoy!

johnt This is not a sporting event.  This is a societal erection.

Two warring clans adorned in their Sunday best, pounding and rending each other for sixty minutes of unparalleled unconscious activity.  And for those of us witnessing this holy conglomeration of sparks and sweat — yes, there will be treats, my friends.  The governing lords will turn their eyes towards this conflict between bird and steel, and they shall cluck their tongues in ever widening circles of delight.  And they will bestow upon the great unwashed cinematic splendor and anthropomorphic majesty and dimwitted buxom women that don’t speaky the English so good .  And maybe a racist panda or twelve.

When our occular cherry is popped and those glistening helmets of bird and steel collide for that very first time, the silken undergarments of the world will swell with global pride.  Tumescent and triumphant, we will become one giant majestic boner, filled with various dip-laden products and succulent meats and more than a few yeasty beverages.  And for those four-plus hours of glorious circus, we will forget about that obnoxious woman in the next cube over that slurps her coffee and wears pink and white sweatshirts featuring Disney characters every day of the week.  We will forget about the onslaught of fat and old age that glacially creeps over our fraying waists and embiggened foreheads.  We will forget about the interest rate thieves and the rush-hour speed merchants and the forward-infested e-mails and all of those wearying cancers of the soul.  We will be horny with football, and we will be satisfied.

So make sure you make the most of this televised penile implant while it’s in your system, because this is not a sporting event.  This is a societal erection. 

Don’t forget to double-bag it.

Brian’s Song

Posted on by Bob Ryan · Leave a comment

bobryanWatch out, Cleveland.  Don’t look now, Orlando.  Wait on ordering those trophies, Los Angeles.  The defending World Champions — you know, those top-heavy pretenders that everyone thought were dead in the water — are back and better than ever.

Five straight wins.  Five straight trips to the woodshed for folks looking to take the C’s down another peg.  High-flying Canadians?  Grounded.  Scrappy Brooklynites-to-be?  Scrapped.  One of the West’s perennial powerhouses?  Shut down.

And look who’s at the center of it all — fan favorite Brian Scalabrine.  The former king of garbage time is now riding high with the Big Four, doing all he can (and then some!) to right the Celtics’ ship after the team’s near-disastrous run-in with a 2-7 iceberg.

Some folks would have you believe that Boston needs Kendrick Perkins, that they’ll miss his tenacity on the boards for the month-plus he’ll need to heal that balky shoulder of his.  Some folks say that the Celtics would be just fine spotting the other team a player — heck, they almost stopped a six-man Fail Blazer squad from scoring.  But numbers don’t lie, and the numbers for this year’s Celtics are decidedly in the Red these days.

And, by the way, isn’t it fitting that it’s a Red leading the Celtics to victory?  If the Italian Scallion starts lighting up post-victory stogies the way he’s been lighting up the win column, I might have to convert to Buddhism or Kabbalah.

This year, the Celtics are 28-8 when Perk is in the lineup — not bad, not bad at all.  That’ll get you home court for one series in the East, or a low-end lottery pick in the West.  But with Scal in his place, they’re a perfect 6-0.  And it’s not like Scal’s been facing European powder puffs in those six games.  OK, you had Raptors first-pick bust Andrea Bargnani in two of those games.  But hold on a second — the slight and skinny pushover’s turned into a veritable Charles Atlas on the offensive end, averaging over 20 points a game on both sides of the 3-point line in place of hoser savior Jermaine O’Neal.

There was also a home-and-home with young stud Brook Lopez, seven feet of good old fashioned smashmouth center doing damage on both sides of the court.  In another year without guys by the name or Rose or Mayo in the league, it’d be Lopez running away with the ROY trophy.  And, of course, there was the rejuvenated Shaquille O’Neal in town on Martin Luther King Day, showing flashes of the ungodly speed and power that he exhibited on a nightly basis during his days with the Magic and Lakers, back when Big Baby was, well, a big baby.

And amidst all these towering behemoths, these multifaceted man-mountain range, there was everyone’s favorite redhead, tearing them down like a pasty-faced King Kong.  These guys might still get their season averages, but it’s what they don’t get — the all-important W — that makes Scal so special.  (And for all you MIT dropouts waiting to e-mail yours truly with whatever kooky fake stats you have, save it for when your parents stop claiming you as a dependent on their 1040s.)

Now, don’t get me wrong — I’m a Perk person.  There’s no one better at taking an unnecessary power dribble and turning an easy dunk into foul shots or, better yet, a turnover.  He sets one of the best moving picks that you’ll ever see in today’s NBA — the way he uses his knees, you’d think he was auditioning for an UFC undercard bout.  And there’s no one else on Boston’s roster that I’d rather see pointlessly jibber-jabber with the refs than a guy that averages just under ten points a game and thinks he should get calls that Ewing and Hakeem never got.  What’s not to like?  He’s like Kwame Brown without the Kwame or Brown, and if Danny Ainge can turn him into some much-needed bench depth at the point, I’ll be the first one there with a pat on the back and a ride to Logan.

But then I watch the Celtics run (and I mean run) their game with Scalabrine in Perkins’ place, and I can’t help but see the difference.  The floor spacing’s better, the ball movement’s crisper, and the defense is quicker to rotate and close out.  And the crowd loves it.  Every time he touches the ball, all the Scal-a-wags come to their feet and cheer louder, hoping their hero gets the chance to take it hard to the rim or stick a corner dagger in the backs of some unsuspecting suckers.

And every time Brian Scalabrine has heard his name in the starting line-up during the 2008-2009 NBA season, the Boston Celtics have been winners.  It’s like beleaguered Oakland Raiders owner Al Davis has said plenty of times.  “Just win, baby.”  And with Scal center stage, the Celtics have been doing just that.

Bob Ryan is a columnist and blogger for the Boston Globe, and was the former host of  NESN’s sports talk show, “Globe 10.0.”