Monday, March 13, 2017

Observations While Eating Pancakes on a Random Tuesday in a South Philly Diner

This is a picture of pancakes because this article
has something to do with pancakes. 

I used to work with this guy named Brad, and he's exactly the type of Brad that you think he'd Brad.

He drank Muscle Milk. And put paste his hair. And one time when we were out to lunch he called a waitress "doll" when he asked her for more oyster crackers. I was mortified. By the time the young lady had brought Brad his crackers, I had crawled under the table, crab-walked out of the restaurant and put in my two-weeks notice back at the office.

You see, there are very few people in this world who can pull off calling someone "doll". One is my Aunt Frayda (who is not my real aunt). Another is Don Draper (who is not a real person). And then there are waitresses in South Philly diners, the type of women who not only smoke a pack of Newports a day, but probably eat them.

This was not my waitress but it might as well have been.

As I stopped into a South Philly diner last week, I was greeted by one of those waitressesDonna, dark-haired woman with even darker mascara who might've served in Vietnam.

"Just the one today, Doll?" Donna asked me.

"Yep," I said as I nodded by head, even though I'm now realizing that saying "yep" and nodding your head are basically doing the same thing.

"Sit anywhere you'd like, Hun."

"Thank you terrifying woman," I said.

And so I did, grabbing one of those big ole booths with the long leather seats. The kind of booths where you need to slide on in, like getting into the front bench seat of a 1963 Buick Skylark, not that I've ever been in a 1963 Buick Skylark, or even know what a Buick Skylark is, but it just seemed like the right analogy here so let's just go with it. 

Immediately after sitting down, another waitress (who was wearing Skechers Shape-ups) came over to me and also asked, "Just the one today, Doll?"

This question somehow stung a bit more than the first time it was asked. Possibly because this new waitress spoke in a much louder tone so everyone in the place could hear her. But then again, who cares, there's nothing wrong with eating alone. Plus, there were only like three other people eating in the restaurant, and two of them were over the age of 90 and possibly dead. Regardless, I nodded and she gave me a menu. It was 86 pages long.

I obviously didn't need a menu. No one who goes to a diner needs a menu. They're all the same, and have everything you'd ever want to eat: omelettes, veal parmesan, raisins. Besides, I had come for pancakes, and planned to get whatever version of the Hungry Man's Special that this diner offered (they offered 12). So I put my menu down and took a look around. Donna was playing pinball. 

Over the speakers, Billy Joel was playing on the radio because every time anyone has ever eaten in a diner Billy Joel has played on the radio. In fact, after the Billy Joel song ended ("Only the Good Die Young"), another Billy Joel song came on ("It's Still Rock n Roll to Me"). I'm not lying. I know that I have a tendency to lie a lot, especially in this blog, and I even lied in the first paragraph about Brad being named Brad. His real name is Josh. I just called him Brad because I didn't want to hurt the real Josh's feelings if he ever read this post. But I know that Josh isn't much of a reader, so I doubt that he'd even read this far down anyway. Either way, Josh is actually a really nice guy, and a good friend, and he probably loves Billy Joel. As does my Aunt Frayda and literally every other Jewish person you will ever meet.

The rest of the diner looked pretty normal. There was a counter. And a bunch of booths. And people who looked like they were going through serious bouts of depression. I felt right at home. 

This is a picture of a diner. 

The pancakes and eggs and sausage and bacon were all pretty ordinary (in that they were fantastic). I gobbled it up quick and drank a cup of coffee and took notes for this post that said things like "whipped butter is bout dat LYFE." But I did see something that I'd never seen before in my 39 years on this earth: a man eating two bowls of soup.

He didn't eat them at the same time, that would be ridiculous. But he still ate two bowls (which is somehow almost as ridiculous). After he finished his first bowl (pea soup, I believe), he simply slid his bowl over to the waitress and said, "Give me another."

Such confidence. 

Such rudeness! 

But such confidence!

Who eats two bowls of soup?! This guy apparently, who proceeded to slurp up his second bowl while yelling at a woman on his cellphone. He kept telling her, "Damn girl you must be pregnant because you don't normally act like this." As of the writing of this article, it is unclear if he or she is still alive. 

As I sat there in awe—at both the fact that a man would eat two bowls of soup AND talk to a pregnant woman that way—I suddenly felt a rumble bumble in my stomach. I took a deep breath, shoved some more pancakes into my fat slut mouth, and tried to ignore it. Then I felt another rumble. And another. Then I prayed to Jesus. I was going to shit my pants.

I looked around for my waitress to get my check, but she was nowhere to be found. I figured maybe she was sitting in the back enjoying a nice warm bowl of raisins. After around 15 seconds, and seven more rumbles, and sweating through my entire shirt, I got up to try and find her. We had a crisis on our hands. And potentially in my pants.

As I walked up to the counter, searching for someone, anyone, good god where are these people, and who the hell eats pea soup, I was pretty much shuffling around the place like James Brown. Then finally, my beautiful disgusting rough wonderful waitress walked out of the kitchen.

"Oh hey!" I yelled, voice cracking, waving nine dollars in the air. "Is it possible to get my check?"

"Nope, not possible," she said with a sarcastic smile, clearly unaware that at any moment I might blow the doors off the entire block. 

I fake laughed and threw a wad of bills at her. No idea how much I threw. Could've been $20. Could've been six. I can't even believe I was carrying cash. But I just chucked it as far as I could and duck-waddled to the nearest bathroom. It was occupied, obviously, so I grabbed a fork off a nearby table and smashed it into my shin. Then I thought about using the ladies room. Then I decided to use the ladies room. Then I got scared to use the ladies room and power-walked five city blocks back to my office where I had a full-blown seizure in an elevator before I destroyed the industrial strength plumbing in my building.

Not really sure what the point of this whole story is. 

I think maybe it's that pancakes are delicious—and that you need to seriously reevaluate the type of things you're reading on the internet.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Songs by Black People that are Way Better than Songs by White People: "Why I Love You" by MAJOR

There's a lot goin' on with that collar. 

If you don't know MAJOR, you better ask somebody. Preferably a black person, because I asked around 12 different white people if they had ever heard of him and none of them had. But then I asked the one black chick I work with, Brenda, if she had heard of MAJOR and she was like, "Fuck yeah, Evan!" and then she was like, "How you know him?" and I was like, "C'mon Brenda, I'm a muthafuckin starboy," and then she gave me a pound and called me her "Black Jew" which is BY FAR the greatest nickname anyone has ever given memuch better than "Mr. Mouthbreather" (given to me by my wife) and "Captain Fuck" (also given to me by my wife).

MAJOR's debut single, "Why I Love You," is some real, grown-up type shit. Nothing like that hashtag millennial JuJu on that beat type shit, or that thirty-something Michael Buble sipping on that rooibus tea type shitI'm talking real, sweet, sensual, I'm gonna put a baby inside your vagina and then help you raise that baby and also show up to his soccer games and clarinet recitals and later go to couples therapy with you and work on being more present and communicating better and LISTENING, truly listening, and taking in what you're saying and not just nodding and smiling but really learning how to accept your answers at face value and not think that you have some sort of hidden agenda type shit.

Listen to the song here.

MAJOR (and yes his name is really written in all caps, in fact it's actually spelled with a period at the end too, like this: "MAJOR." but I left the period out of this post because my readers (all six of them) tend to read at a fourth grade level and I can't imagine they'd be able to follow a post with random periods thrown into the middle of sentences) (in fact I'm guessing that most of them are just skimming at this point or have moved onto

MAJOR's real name is really Major (his mom wanted him to make an IMPACT, and he is). "Why I Love You" was the first single off his debut album, and it went to #12 on Billboard's R&B charts. He's also got another banger, "Keep On", and recently sang at the Soul Train Music Awards and yes the Soul Train Music Awards are still a thing. Patti LaBelle also covered the song at a recent concert of hers and yes Patti LaBelle is still a thing. Major sounds a little like John Legj and a little like Stevie Wonder and absolutely nothing like Patti LaBelle who is very old (and lovely!).

Omg close the drapes it's so goddamn sunny are you serious with that?

If I have one critique of the songand it's not even the song really, it's the videoit's the way it starts: with MAJOR waking up some chick from a deep slumber by pushing her hair out of her face. I once tried to wake up my wife to tell her that we were an hour and a half late for a flight and that I knew she was cheating on me because there was another man sleeping next to her and she spit her mouthguard in my face (even though that she finds it very soothing and comforting to wear). Plus, the all-marble bathroom in this video is wayyyyyyyyyy bigger than any normal person's bathroom, and MAJOR only has 4,061 Twitter followers so I can't imagine he's really living dat marble bathroom lyfe. Still, dope ass song. Bomb ass video. And I highly recommend getting a mouthguard to sleep with if you grind your teeth like my very real and not made-up wife.

All right, you've heard enough from me.

Let's hear from some real black people now, courtesy of the always absolutely fucking incredible YouTube comments sectsh:

Good point, lee yoojin.

Pretty sure Misty Cotton is the first person to throw an "ing" at the end of JK.

Oookkaaaayyyyy, Nesha.

And RIP to Nesha's boyf!



If you're interested in learning about another song by a black person that's way better than any song by a white person, check out my post about Ciara's "Ride" here. Or don't. I don't give a shit. I really, really don't give a shit. 

Thursday, December 8, 2016

An In-Depth Breakdown of the New Bachelor Contestants' Shoe Choices

There are plenty of ways to judge the new lady contestants on the Bachelor: Breast size, vagina size, a new formula I've come up with that compares the size of a woman's breasts to how deep their vaginas go. Unfortunately, ABC does not provide their viewing audience with such detailed analytics -- so instead we are forced to rely on simple full bod shots in order to form our first impressions.

Soooooo, seeing as my blog is already blocked on my friend Dave's work computer server, I figured why not perv it up a bit and write a blog post about a subject/fetish that my therapist says is "somewhat healthy and probably fine."

Okay? Okay. Let's check out the ladies' ever-important taste in footwear.

To the shoes!

Elizabeth S.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Elizabeth is rockin' the classic Corkboard Chunk-o-Rama ($69, Evan Picone), easily the worst shoe anyone has ever worn in the history of life. The wedge heel looks like a goddamn wooden roller coaster -- and the wicker straps (are those wicker? I think they're wicker) is sure to cause deep, deep skin abrasions. This woman should be ASHAMED of herself. I expect her to make it to hometowns.


Christen, Christen, Christen. Forget about the jelly roll snap bracelets that are wrapped around the top of your ankles, why is there a loose piece of string dangling off the bottom of your right pant leg? I know this post is supposed to be about footwear, but c'mon Christen, you're on a nationally televised prostitution game show! Clearly when you went on this photo shoot you had to be aware that grown men all over the internet would be magnifying pictures of your feet and writing about it on their (one-time very popular to mildly popular) blogs. Also, what is up with the slalom ski stance that she's posing in?

Shout out Alberto Tomba!

This is Alberto Tomba!

Elizabeth W.

I'm really doing this, huh? I'm really writing an entire post where I just talk about the new Bachelor contestants' footwear? Okay, well, these seem like a decent pair of standard beige pumps, the same color as literally every room in my mother's home, but what's with the platform sole? That just SCREAMS low class. And yeah, I get it, it makes it easier to walk in, but I've never met a woman who snagged herself a man because she could walk. I've also never met a live, non-mouth-breathing woman.


FINALLY something worth masturbating to!

The stringy tie thingies are perfect for wrapping around a man's throat, and the pointy heels could dig into your jugular at just the right angle. This woman clearly knows how to have sex with a man on national television the night before a different woman has sex with the same man (just in a slightly different hotel suite). Haircut's a little too Jewy though.


Ugh, Astrid's rockin' the Pottery Barn special. These shoes look like they were meant to be displayed on some dumb coffee table right next to a bowl of fake apples and flimsy wicker balls. It's a shame because her innie belly button is ON POINT. Unfortunately this is not a blog post about belly buttons this is a blog post about hold up this woman's name is Astrid?!


Pretty sure Rachel had these shoes made by her local cobbler. Ugh, they're horrible. Just horrible. I've also never heard of a black woman named Rachel. Rachel Cobbleberg.



Who knew that Spalding was throwing their hat into the shoe game? If she rotated her shoe a mere 45 degrees to the left you'd see Roger Goodell's signature on the other side. And what's with the cork board heel?! I wanna thumbtack my phone number on there and offer up some SAT prep tutoring. This might be Sacajawea's signature shoe.


Apparently Lacey just finished up touring with Soundgarden. Yeesh. Although I do sort of like that little peek-a-boo ankle. And the buckles are kinda hot too. Don't these women get blisters? I might be gay.



Here is a woman who knows how to perform a colonoscopy. I love everything about Corrinne's shoes: the pointy toe, the spikey heel, the Ukee Washington wrap-a-round straps. Doesn't hurt that her pants are tighter than Fort Knox. This lady is BOUT DAT LYFE. I'm not sure which life that is, I have never actually had a conversation with the kind of woman who'd wear these type of shoes, but I would pay top dollar (probably six bucks) to watch Corrinne smash a watermelon between her thighs.


Well, there's not much Halley can do with those size 14 floppers is there? But I appreciate the simple three-strap leather sandal (also $69 from Evan Piccone). Her feet kind of look like platypuses though, right? Either way, this is a woman who can go to a casual gastro pub by day and frog kick her way across the Pacific Ocean at night. #Respect

Jasmine B.

Chunky heel much?!?! I don't mind the fabric, the fabric is fine (what is that, velvet?) but why is her heel firmly planted on two of Hacksaw Jim Duggan's 2x4's? There is no way that this woman knows who Hacksaw Jim Duggan is.

This is Hacksaw Jim Duggan.


Baby Iiiiii don't need dollar bills to have fun tonight... I LOVE CHEAP THRILLS.

Raven will be starring in the upcoming Marvel movie, "Silver Nips," where she attempts to fight off bloggers who smell her hair whenever they walk past her on the street. That being said, I don't hate Raven's silverados. Also, for the record, there's a guy at work who I'm friends with and our entire relationship is based around talking about Marvel movies except that I have yet to tell him that I have never once seen a Marvel movie.

That'll probably end well.



Ugh, Briana's shoes are disgusting (and her pants don't even fit!).



This is an insult to Dominique Wilkins. What is even going on here?!



I feel like Taylor should be holding a clutch here. With chap stick and lip stick and her ID and credit card and AAA card that expired three years ago but still works because she's hot as fuck and can bat her eyelashes and get anything she wants. How did Hillary Clinton lose the presidency? How do women not run everything? We are seriously the stupidest species on the planet. Her feet look so soft by the way (you can't deny it!).


Her shoes are filthy. Her shoes are legitimately filthy.


While I appreciate the high arching left foot, it's hard not to focus on her enormous, enormous, enormous breasts (and exposed midriff). I can't believe I went this long not talking about chicks' breasts. The rest of the post will be used to do just that.


God dammit.


Monday, October 24, 2016

2016 Sixers Thoughts, Complaints and Other Stuff that I Felt Like Posting on my Blog and my Blog Only and No One Else's

Name a more iconic duo. I'll wait. 

It's been almost 1,000 days since Joel Embiid last stuffed a basketball down a white person's throat.

1,500 since the Sixers were relevant.

And nearly 4,000 since Metta World Peace ran into a crowd and tried to fight an entire city.

And while the whole Malice in the Palace thing has nothing to do with the Sixers' upcoming season, it's important to sometimes sit back and remember that an NBA player once leaped into the stands and ran up 27 rows to pummel an innocent man (and his friend). The Pacers/Pistons melee remains the most incredible sports moment I have ever seen in my life, right along with that time Clint Malarchuk got his throat slashed by a man's ice skate and anytime Manute Bol did anything, ever.

But now the Sixers are ready to do some stuff!

Finally armed with a roster that does not include Isaiah Canaan, it's time to almost sort of maybe care about Sixers basketball. A few weeks ago, when I woke up on the day of Joel Embiid's first preseason game, I registered a whopping 17-feet 3-inches on the JoJo #bonetracker.

When I got home later that evening, I had trouble fitting through my own doorway -- and then subsequently knocked over three lamps on my way to the couch to watch the game. Suffice it to say, Sixers fans are FLYER'D UP for this coming season.

So let's take a look at some of the most compelling storylines going in -- while also complaining about stuff because this is my blog and I can do what I want.

All right, JoJo, enough with the twirly bird shit. 
It's time to ram on people's necks.

Look, we get it. The guy's got good footwork. And I love seeing his little dipsy do's just as much as the next dipshit. But when JoJo catches the ball in the post, faces up, and then shoots that little 15-footer, HE IS BAILING HIS DEFENDER OUT. Not that his jumper's not wet. It is. It is so, so wet. But at 7-foot-9, 485 pounds, not even Hakeem Olajuwon and his magical dream dick can stop him.

There were two possessions this preseason when JoJo seemed to recognize this. On the first, he had a MOUSE IN THE HOUSE and demanded the ball down low, but was called for an offensive foul for being too big and strong for his wimpy defender. On the second, he got the ball, lowered his shoulder and barrelled to the hoop -- and was once again called for an offensive foul. But you know what?


This isn't a goddamn tickle fight!

Make the refs blow their whistles!

In this era of small ball -- as little midgets are running around and whining to the refs any time they get breathed on -- you gotta turn into a guy's chest, stick your elbow in his throat, go straight up and capitalize words at the end of sentences for EMPHASIS.

As a former point guard who played high school ball with Jesse Federman, I like to think that GUARDS.R.E.A.M, but the truth is that big men dominate. That being said, I do love watching JoJo launch threes like Glen Rice, so yeah, I'm honestly not really sure if I really agree with anything I just wrote in this section ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

Nik Stauskus is TRASH

I'm sure Nik Stauskus is a very nice person. In fact, I interviewed him once and he was just that: very, very nice. Had the personality of a mailbox, but nice. There was just something missing with him.

Ugh, Nik and his dad look so happy. Now I feel bad for calling him trash. 

That pretty much sums up Nik's game, too. For a knockdown shooter, Nik rarely knocks down shots (which should be enough of a scouting report right there), but he also coughs up the ball anytime anyone applies even the slightest bit of heat on him. And sure, sometimes he'll drive down the lane and mega two-hand ram on some guy's tits and you'll be like, "WHOA, NIK STAUSKUS WITH THE TIT-RAM" but the only reason you react that way is because you would never expect Nik Stauskus to ram on a guy's tits. Because he sucks.

Once again, nice guy. Loved that vid of him hitting 46 straight threes in the rain. Loved when he blew kisses to Michigan State's fans after taking them down. Even loved that corny-ass handshake that he did with his dad on draft night. Just a terrible, terrible basketball player who I will now be calling "Trashcan Johnson" from here on out.

Shoulda signed Matt Barnes!

The biggest mistake the Sixers made this offseason was not going after unrestricted free agent and undeniable lunatic, Matt Barnes. Barnes is known around the league as one of the absolute best teammates (listen to JJ Redick interview him on his podcast -- great story about how in Orlando, Jason Williams called everyone "Bubbs" and when Redick moved to the Clips, he started calling everyone "Bubbs" and then the Clippers flipped it on him and now everyone calls JJ Redick, "Bubbs."). Anyway, Barnes will stand up for his guys on the court and teach them how to shove a guy's face into a Cuisinart off of it. I'm not saying Matt Barnes woulda signed here, but we could've at least offered him more than the paltry 2 years/12 milly that Sactown gave him. C'MON.

Is it real son, is it really real son, let me know it's real son, if it's really real. 

Richaun Holmes is better than Nerlens Noel 

Chew on this bad boy for a sec: In 2011, Nerlens Noel was voted USA Today's High School Player of the Year (Ben Simmons won the award in 2015, Jahlil Okafor in 2014).

For those of you who don't understand words when you read them, that means that Nerlens Noel was considered THE BEST high school player in the country a mere five years ago.

Since then, he has played one year at Kentucky, spent one year rehabbing his knee with a professional basketball organization, and played two years of NBA basketball -- and yet he has still yet to develop one single solitary offensive skill.

On one play this preseason, Nerlens caught a pass in the paint (which is a whole thing in and of itself), then turned and flipped up a right-handed jump hook that missed the entire basket. And while, okay, whatever, sometimes people miss the entire basket, and there are many reasons why a person might miss the entire basket: the ball slipped, the person felt dizzy after running up and down the floor over and over and over again, the person's name is Shawn Bradley, but this type of missing-the-entire-basket-stuff happens with Nerlens ALL THE TIME.

I know, I know, he's a great defensive player. He can guard all five positions. He might be the first player ever to complete a flip dunk. But dude only averaged 1.5 blocks a game last year (which is not that many blocks!) and now he's having a minor surgery on his knee because the words "minor" and "surgery" normally go really well together and that's fine.

Hi Richaun

Then there's Richaun Holmes -- who has no business being better than Nerlens Noel, but is way better than Nerlens Noel. Richaun finishes at the rim. He throws people's shots. And he doesn't blindly fling the ball at the hoop with his off hand like my next-door neighbor Irene. Maybe Nerlens will be better in the future, I don't know. But as far as I can tell, his NBA ceiling is someone like Taj Gibson. And Richaun Holmes's ceiling is also someone like Taj Gibson. And Taj Gibson is not going to make or break your roster, so it's time to cut ties with Nerlens and trade him for a running back who can hold onto the ball when we're trying to milk the clock late in the fourth quarter.

Also, for the record, I think I am one of the 11 people left in the Philadelphia metropolitan area who still thinks that Jahlil Okafor is good. And I get it, I'm not sure if he can co-exist with JoJo either, but at least he can take a round leather ball and put it through a ten-foot hoop. Plus, as a Duke guy, he must know how to play basketball a little bit, and normally when you take a guy who knows how to play basketball and put him next to other guys who also know how to play basketball, they end up all being pretty good at playing basketball together.

I read this article a few weeks ago by Don Nelson about Nellie Ball. Basically, all Nellie was trying to do was find a way to get his five best players on the court at the same time, regardless of position. Essentially, let players who are good at basketball play basketball together and they'll figure it out. I'm not saying the Sixers should do that (especially with a surplus of bigs), but if they did, their best five would be: Ben Richard Simmons Simmons, Dario Saric, Jahlil Okafor, Joel Embiid and a half-pound plastic bag of Cooper Sharp cheese. That being said, I will fucks with Cooper Sharp cheese (and Ben Richard Simmons Simmons) any day of the week.

Shameless plug alert!

A few weeks ago, the Kobe-Evster vid that we made on Comcast Sportsnet won a (regional) Emmy for "Best Sports Interview/Discussion."

First of all, yes, regional Emmys are a thing. I know, I didn't believe it either, but they actually give you real Emmy statues when you win one (sort of). Sadly (and fucking bullshit'ly), CSN did not list my name in the credits as one of the six (6) people who contributed to the video, despite the fact that the Emmy literally has the words "Kobe and Evster Reunited" engraved on it. They also did not give me a trophy, because I'm not a "full-time employee." But hey, as the great Chuck D said, "WHO GIVES A FUCK ABOUT A GODDAMN GRAMMY?!"

BFF Forevs

TJ McConnell and Sergio Rodriguez are both semi-decent point guards who are perfectly fine and at least know how to play basketball (which is nice)

I know this fall we're supposed to be all excited about Dario Saric and drinking tea and wearing #vests, but it is still REALLY FREAKING SAD that Ben Richard Simmons Simmons got hurt. Don't forget, you're allowed to be sad about that. It's a major, major, major body blow to this franchise. That dude would make this team SO much better, but still, TJ and Sergio are both very capable point guards who in no way, shape or form suck.

Personally, I think Sergio is better at basketball than TJ -- but that TJ is the better basketball player. Does that make sense? I feel like that makes sense. Sergio is niftier, has better skills, a better beard, a wayyyyyyyyy better haircut. But TJ ain't no muthafuckin slouch. He grinds. Has great vision. And is not afraid to get all up in Isaiah Thomas's face when Isaiah is trying to bring the ball up the floor all business casual-like. Also, TJ (ugh, I'm embarrassed to even think this out loud let alone write this) does all the little things that help teams win (sorry).

Other stuff that may or may not be worth talking about

- I think Jerami Grant is not horrible/somewhat good? I like that he attacks he rim. I like that he takes pride in his defense. I'm not saying dude can be Dennis Rodman, but maybe dude can be Dennis Rogbert (my next-door neighbor Irene's father whose name is actually Dan and is absolutely nothing like Dennis Rodman or Dennis Rogbert (who is not real)).

- I know that Brett Brown has had noooooooooo talent whatsoever before this year (and still lacks real talent), but he needs to do SOMETHING with this team. The sheer fact that he played Isaiah Canaan EVER made me really question his basketball IQ. And yes, I realize that I'm a guy who once wrote a 5,000-word article demanding that the Sixers sign Chaz Villanueva, but I stand by that article and by his totally bonkers wife. Brett Brown on the other hand? I dunno. He needs to lay down the hammer more. I still think that Chuck Villanueva would be a solid veteran pickup by the way, especially as a guy who could show Ben Richard Simmons Simmons how to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on Lamborghinis.


- I think Gerald Henderson is fine, whatever.

- Robert Covington is also fine, sure.

- Jerryd Bayless is muh dude.

- I was really skeptical about how KD would fit in with Golden State this year. Based on the Hakeem/Clyde/Charles/Scottie Rockets and the Shaq/Kobe/GP/Mailman Lakers and the Kobe/Pau/Nash/Dwight Lakers and the Rodman/Rogbert/Dan/Ding Dong Bing Bongs, I really wasn't sure what to expect. Then I watched one of their first preseason games and they kept popping the ball around, swinging it from side to side, passing and moving and passing and moving like they always do, and then the ball got to KD and he just pounded the dribble and jacked up an off-balance 20-footer and I thought this is going to be a nightmare. Then, a week later, I saw this video and am now convinced that they are going to be the greatest team in the history of everything.

- I saw a great movie the other day on Netflix called Güeros. It's a Mexican film, and it's really slow and really dry, but it's also really funny and really subtle and really well-shot and really sweet and I absolutely loved it. It's basically about a little brother who is sent to live with his older, slacker brother in Mexico City, and the two of them and their idiot roommate go on a little journey to find some dying musician. But the movie's not really about that, it's about other stuff, and I can't imagine that any of you fuck face Billy Ripkens will actually watch it, but if you do I will give you a free subscription to TVMWMWMMWWM for life.

- Here are some guys who I am looking forward to see play this year: Zach Lavine, Kris Dunn, Karl Anthony-Towns, Andrew Wigglesworth, every single player in the history of the T-Wolves franchise, Eric Bledsoe, Kristaps Porzingis, Tomas Satoransky (he's a foreign dude on the Wizards and he's absolutely incredible), John Wall, Russy (obvs), everyone on the Warriors (obvs), literally everyone in the whole league, Kawhi, Kyrie, Bron-Bron, Dame Dolla, Kemba, Rondo, D-Wade and Butler together (I mean, all three dudes know how to play basketball, how are they not gonna be good?), Blake, DeAndre, DeAndre, DeAndre, J-Crossover, Nic Batum, literally everyone, Julius Randle, how could you possibly still be reading this, Jabari Parker, Kenneth Faried, Elfrid Payton, Emmanuel Mudiay, seriously everyone, Dario Saric, how did I not talk about Dario more in this article, Gary Harris, Steven Adams, Andre Iguodala, Joakim Noah, Dennis Rogbert, Dennis Frogbert, Dennis Johnson RIP, Dennis the Menace, my brother's next-door neighbor who is named TJ and honestly reminds me so much of Dennis the Menace, he sometimes shows up at their house and knocks on all their windows to see if they're home and I recently played a game with him called "let's throw sticks at that tree" where we took sticks and threw them at a tree, Matt Barnes, Lance Stephenson.

All right, enough of all this blibber blabber!

Enjoy the season, everybody!

It's showtime!








Friday, August 19, 2016

OLYMPICS: What happens when that French hurdler dude who false-started has to go back to France and tell people about what happ'd?

Nice head. 

This past Tuesday (or Monday, or it could've been Sunday, I dunno, I can't be held responsible for remembering these types of things), French hurdler Wilhem Belocian false-started in the opening heat of the 110-meter hurdles and was immediately disqualified from the eventending his Olympics experience before it even started.

If you didn't see Wilhelm's gaff, you can watch the clip here. Or you can just skip it entirely. Doesn't matter to me what you do. I already got your pageview, and in the world of #blogging, that's all that counts.  

But poor, poor Wilhelm. It was so sad. And pathetic. And he knew he screwed up the second he heard that buzzer, proceeding to flarf around in a haze of disbelief, with his hands on his head, wondering how he let that happen. Then, as he made his way off the track, he just crumbled to the ground, crying and slamming his fists in frustration. Embarrassed, ashamed, with no one to blame but himself.


Wilhelm's false start epitomized that whole ABC Wide World of Sports agony of defeat thing perfectly. You know, when that ski jumper wiped out and plummeted 50 feet to his death. But this was worse. because at least that guy died. Wilhelm now has to go back to France and explain himself to his idiot friends and family.


WILHELM: Nope. My name is Claude. Claude Giroux.

SOME DUDE: Yoooooooo, Wilhelm! What's poppin' mon ami? It's me, Carl! Carl DeLafleuve!

WILHELM: Oh, hey Carl.

SOME DUDE: Yo, didn't I see you in the news recently?

WILHELM: All right, Carl. Catch ya later my man.

SOME DUDE: Yes. Yes! You were in the Olympics!

WILHELM: Great seeing you, Carl! Hit me up on LinkedIn, aight?!

SOME DUDE: That is so cool, man. That is just so, so cool. The motherfreakin' Olympics! Pole vault, right? I don't know how you guys do that, just run down the track and then BOING.

WILHELM: Hurdles actually.

SOME DUDE: Yes! Hurdles. That's right. Run and jump. Run and jump. Dude, that must be exhilarating.

WILHELM: Yeah, I'm gonna walk out of this store now, Carl.

SOME DUDE: I remember in high school you were ALL ABOUT IT. Like, with the training. Constantly, with the training. I remember asking you to come out with us and you were always like, "Sorry, bro. I gotta wake up at 4am to train."

WILHELM: It was 5:30, but ...

SOME DUDE: And we were like, "DUDE. We got these Dominican chicks lookin to wile out."

WILHELM: I'm an early riser in general, soooo, 5. 5:30. Anywhere in the 5 o'clock hour really.

SOME DUDE: I slept with four women that night!

WILHELM: I sleep in a hyperbolic chamber.  

SOME DUDE: You'd always be eating that broccoli, too. So much broccoli. What'd we used to call you? Broccoli Boy?

WILHELM: It was asparagus.



SOME DUDE: I always doubted you man. But you showed me. Wow. The Olympics. How'd you end up doing in Rio by the way?

WILHELM: What are you doing these days, Carl? Still selling life insurance?

SOME DUDE: Baguettes. Baguettes and pastries. But who cares about me, man? You raced at the Olympics! What's it like? How's it feel to RACE? To be out there, in the blocks, nervous as hell, knowing you worked your whole life for this moment. And then BOOM! Off with the wind.

WILHELM: That's a very good question, actually.

SOME DUDE: You get that medal, dawg? You get that medal? How'd you finish up?

WILHELM: Well, it's not about how you finish, is it?

SOME DUDE: Good point. Good point. It's about the COMPETITION. It's about leaving everything you have out on that track. About the sacrifice. The determination. And just running -- and jumping! lol, can't forget about the jumping!

WILHELM: Sometimes you can forget about the jumping.

SOME DUDE: Hahahaha, yeah. Fuck the jumping! 

WILHELM: So Carl, you don't know where I can get a shotgun around here, do you?


WILHELM: To blow my brains out. That's why I want to get a shotgun. To blow my brains out all over this parking lot. 

SOME DUDE: Aw man. Great seeing you, Wil. I know you're modest as hell, but I'm gonna go home now and pull your race up on YouTube. 

WILHELM: I mean there has to be a shotgun store around here somewhere. 

SOME DUDE: Wait, I can probably just watch it right now on my phone! 

WILHELM: Wellllllllll, probably best on an actual computer. Bigger screen. No buffering. 

SOME DUDE: No no no, I'll pull it up right now. 



WILHELM: I jumped the gun! I got disqualified. 

(more silence)

WILHELM: I didn't even get to race. I did nothing. 

(sounds of little French birds chirping in the background)

WILHELM: I literally didn't do anything. I took a plane ride to Rio. Walked around for a little. And then flew back.

(so many birds)


(cheep cheep cheep)

SOME DUDE: You wanna go fuck some Dominican chicks with me?

WILHELM: Ugh, I can't. I chopped my dick off immediately after the race. 

SOME DUDE: You can borrow one of my extra dicks. I'll give you a loaner. 


Friday, August 12, 2016

Olympics Week 1 Wrap-a-dap Dap-Up

Yo, check out Rowdy Gaines!
Holy fucking shit. 

We did it. After five days of sitting on our couches, we are all now experts on synchronized diving.

“Aw man, gotta tuck the leg there or it’s a six tenths deduction.”

This is a car commercial.

“That's a nice car.”

On Wednesday, I overheard a woman at Jiffy Lube call Michael Phelps the “most decorated athlete of all time.” And while that’s true, and she is using the proper nomenclature, only a person who takes their car to Jiffy Lube would use that kind of nomenclature. (And only a person who writes the world's dumbest blog would use a word like nomenclature.)

But that's ok!

Because people are into the olympics! And that's fun for everyone. So seeing as I am a horrible, horrible person (who completely made up that story about Jiffy Lube), might as well make fun of some stuff.

This fucking guy 
bracelets dot com

Ugh, we get it, dude. You're proud of your wife. And don't get me wrong, she's incredible. But always with the screaming and the flexing and the the pure unadulterated joy? It's disgusting. Also, you gotta wonder why he's ALWAYS alone in the crowd, without friends, without family. I mean, you don't really have to wonder, do you? It's pretty obvious: it's the man bun and OH MY GOD I just noticed that he also has a cross hanging around his neck. Let's end this paragraph exactly how we started it. Ugh.

Aron Baynes's Hair
Anyone happen to have a Getty Images password I can borrow?

Aye aye ayeeeeeeee. Aron, what are you doing? I mean, we know what you're doing. You're doing something outrageous to distract us from your insecurities, and some other part of your bod that you're not comfortable with. The bushy beard. The twirly bird haircut. I understand. I do this every day -- with my glasses and my funky sneakers -- all in an effort to take attention away from my 47-inch dork (which I conveniently cram inside my own asshole at all times).

What the freak is 361º? 
You're not gonna believe this, but you're about to get some real, actual information from TVMWW. 361º is a Chinese sporting goods company and the official uniform provider of the 2016 olympics. The brand started in 2003 (that's not interesting, I don't know why I included that) and lists its main rival as that Li Ning company, the Chinese shoe brand that sponsors Dwyane Wade and Evan Turner and no matter how many times you type the words Dwyane Wade into a computer that D-W-Y move will throw you off every time. Anyway, the 361º refers to "meeting the athlete's needs for professional functionality, plus an added degree of innovation and creativity," which is probably the dumbest thing I've ever heard but then again here I am writing a blog while the Chinamen who started 361º are ROLLIN IN YUANS (it's Chinese currency! I looked it up!).

Swimmers wear sneakers? 
Honestly, I'm ready for a little something more out of the swimmers when they're announced before the race. A couple of British dudes have done stuff -- I saw one guy dab -- but it's time to ham it up, do the Hulk Hogan hand-to-your-ear thing, raise the roof, lick your own nipples, lick someone else's nipples, chop off your SOMETHING.

How bout those little diver dudes with their little bathing suits? Have you ever seen more defined pelvic bones? 
After 4.2 billion years on Earth, men are finally showing more skin than women. I remember some chick I hooked up with in college told me that her favorite part of a man was where the pelvic bone met the hip. I'll tell you what, I gave her my pelvic bone! No I didn't. I massaged her feet for like an hour and then threw up in a trash can. Once again, this story is like 34% true (basically I once heard a girl say the word "pelvic bone").

Ryan Seacrest, my man, there can't be one person on this earth who has actually logged onto Facebook Live to see what the fuck you're up to. 
That being said, I support you.

I apologize for not talking about Aly Raisman's butt or men's indoor volleyball (which is by far my favorite sport) or Rowdy Goddamn Gaines, but I gotta go do some stuff!

Track and Field starts tonight!

Hit it, Ja!

Friday, July 29, 2016

A Letter to my Younger Self (Philly Sportsfan Edition)

This is not me. This is Dave Winfield,
who I did a book report on in 4th grade. I think I got a C. 

Evster's note: This post was deemed TOO HOT for CSNPhilly, so I'm posting it here instead. 

Dear Evster,

You know that girl in your English class with the enormous yogg yoggs?

Jenny Rothstein.

Of course you know her. In first grade, she barfed all over her desk and tried to scoop it up with her shoe. Still, to this day, you call her Pukeahontas. Well, be nice to poor Jenny, because in three years, she’s going to be DOWN FOR WHATEVA.

Get your thrills in now, Evster, because victories in the future will be few and far between. In 1990, you will get your first taste of heartbreak when Eagles’ owner Norman Braman fires the greatest coach in Philadelphia sports history (for winning). Two years later, another punk-ass billionaire will trade away Charles Barkley—for a white guy, a bag of Fritos and this clod:

These moves will change the way you look at sports forever, Evster, introducing you to the notion that no matter how much you love Philly teams, or how many caricature tees you own, it’s the owners, and the owners only, who are in control. They will buy and sell your heroes like cattle. They will charge $12 for nachos. They will promote Rich Kotite, draft Shawn Bradley and omg wait til you see Shawn Bradley he’s like a total human suck machine.

Cherish the Gang Green defense and the Thump and Bump Sixers, because once they’re gone, sports will go limp. No longer a place where third-string linebackers are paid to injure kickers. Or heckling fans are thrown through plate glass windows. You’re entering an era that prohibits taunting (seriously!) and protects quarterbacks (ugh). In hockey, you’re not even allowed to blast a guy in the brain anymore. Sad!

In 1993, your sadness will reach a whole new level as Joe Carter will crush your soul with a bat. At first, you will blame Mitch Williams (and you should), but years later, after you’ve matured and gained perspective, married and settled down, you’ll realize that he’s just a flawed human being like anyone else, and you will forgive him. Don't. The guy is a dorf. So is Curt Schilling. And even though Darren Daulton has hair like a horse, he’s a LOON. Even Nails, good ole adorable Nails, cuckoo! cuckoo! These men are not heroes. They are simply men. Although the jury’s still out on Mickey Morandini.

Later that year, you’ll meet a tall, string bean of a kid in Lower Merion High School’s gym. You and the string bean will go on to become good friends, and you’ll hook up for alley-oops in front of packed gyms all over the state. You will soon lose your virginity (LET’S GO), not to the string bean, but to an older chick who has an affinity for no-look passes. In the years to come, the string bean will go on to achieve bonkers success (like, super duper bonks, like, I can’t even explain it) and haters (that’s a word for people who hate stuff, dumb, I know, but it kinda works) will constantly ask you annoying questions about him.

“Was he always such a prick?”

“Do you think he raped that chick in Colorado?”

“Did he ever try to rape you?”

Tell them he was your friend. And that he was always nice to you. And that he, like everyone else, is just a person. People won’t quite understand that, but it’s important to remember. Everyone is just a person. Everyone gets diarrhea. You will get it a lot. You will even start to enjoy it.

Dorf, Dorfburger and Dorfenstein pose for a pic. 

In 2004, or 2005, I dunno, you lose track of years when you're older, and shin hair, the Eagles will light up the league—and it will be glorious. Sadly, their quarterback (a moonwalking space cadet who you will sort of love, and sort of hate) will barf during the Super Bowl™. Like, literally, during the game, onto the field. The Eagles will lose (obviously, I mean the guy friggin’ barfed all over himself) and later that night you will start experimenting with drugs. Do them. Do them all. Try every flavor of Ben and Jerry’s. There are now so many.

It won’t be until 2008 that the city tastes another championship, and even that one will feel sort of lame. It’s baseball, which is fine, whatever, but in the years to follow, you’ll meet countless Philadelphians who named their dogs Chase. These people are nutsos. Stone cold nutsos.

By 2012, you’ll be unable to focus on sports for more than eight seconds at a time, or do anything really, thanks to a virtual chat room called Twitter. I realize that none of those words mean anything to you, but let me tell you, this thing will RUN YOUR LYFE. You will spend your days typing out words on a miniature telephone/space machine for the sole purpose of getting complete strangers to tell you how funny you are. This thing will CONSUME you. And probably ruin your marriage (although right now, you are making a concerted effort to use it less, and “be present” with your wife, especially when the two of you are watching your favorite TV show, The Bachelorette). Twitter will be by far the worst thing ever created. It’s the best.

In 2016, the world will turn to shit. The Sixers, Eagles, Phillies and Flyers will all finish in last place. But then the Sixers will draft the greatest player in the history of the world. I’m telling you, Ev, wait til you see this guy pass the rock. He’s like Magic Johnson without the AIDS.

Oh, by the way, Magic Johnson gets AIDS.

And AIDS is a thing that kills people.

But not Magic. Because he really is magic.

So is Jenny Rothstein. Be nice to her, Evster. Invite her to a Dead Milkmen show. Because if you don’t, and Jason Eisenstadt does, he will never, ever shut up about it.


- The Evster

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

The Bachelorette: Will JoJo Be the First Bachelorette to Bang FOUR DUDES Instead of Three?!

This show is so goddamn disgusting.

First of all, I'm not calling hometown dates "hometowns." That's not even a word. And you don't get to become a world famous local online celebrity/television personality by using words that aren't words. You get to be one by talking about people fucking.

Besides, that's what hometown dates are all about. They're about JoJo choosing who she wants to fuck -- because anyone who makes it to next week gets to fuck a person on national television. Actually, three people. JoJo gets to fuck three people next week on three consecutive nights. That's called a "triple bing-bong."

It was bullshit of Chris Harrison to postpone the rose ceremony for another week, but it doesn't matter because nothing matters because Scott Baio was the featured celebrity speaker at last night's Republican National Convention. Also, we already know who JoJo is picking (to have sex with).

Forget about the smokescreen with Luke, she's going to fuck Luke. No two human beings have ever had as much intense raw passion when they kiss as those two. They're going to have a great time fucking. I'm happy for them.

Aaron Rodgers' brother is gonna make it through to the fuck round too, only because why wouldn't you want to have sex with Aaron Rodgers' brother. God bless him.

Mr. Boringpants is too boring to fuck. Besides, his dad has a goatee.

And Robbie the Blow-drying Blow-dry Guy has rock-hard abs, so JoJo will want to fuck him as well -- just so she can taste those rock-hard abs, getting on her hands and knees in front of him, hovering over his stomach, letting little dabs of spit trickle down into his stomach crevices, and then taking her nipples and slowwwwwwwly dragging them over his skin, watching the saliva stretch from his abs to her nips, while Scott Baio's 2003 movie Dumb Luck plays in the background, which you can watch now for only $2.99 on Amazon Video.

Good doggie.

Honestly, I'm a little surprised that Aaron Rodgers' brother is still in the mix. The guy admitted last week that he's a picky eater. And then this week he takes JoJo to his old high school?! Ugh, if I were to take a lady to my old high school, it'd be like:

"Okay, this is the bathroom where me and Jamie Schwager used to take a shit. And this is the bathroom where a kid once took a shit on the floor. And this is the bathroom where I used to wash my dick in the sink just in case Lisa Gramberg wanted to give me a hum-job after school (she didn't). Great school, huh?! Let's go check out the metal shop. I gotta take a shit!"

I guess the real benefit of hometown dates is getting to meet the families, and deciding who has the most blatant case of mental illness. When my wife and I were first dating, and it was getting pretty serious (fucking), she asked her mom what was truly important when looking for a spouse. Her mom said "finding a man whose family doesn't have a history of mental illness." Seriously. That was it. That was the only thing that mattered. Turns out, the Monskys turned out squeaky clean on that one!


Of all the people we met last night, besides the guy with the goatee, it seems like Robbie the Blowdrying Blow-dry Guy might have the most screwed up family. So dramatic. So Florida. And owners of this sassy umbrella!

Shoulders so wet. 

Plus, after JoJo told Robbie's mom that she was falling in love with him, and "not to tell anyone," Robbie's mom went right to the camera and spilled the beans. That woman is a maniac. Did you see she was wearing a half zip-up blue fleece? Or wait, that was Captain Boringpants' mom. Either way, nutso boom buttso.

The only ones who came out looking good last night were Luke's horses. Those were some truly beautiful beasts.

Maybe that Argentinian dude from last week will fuck them.

That guy might actually be Scott Baio.