Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Even Though There is No Reason to Watch The Bachelorette This Season, There Might Be Like, Two, Maybe Three Reasons

Ugh, I'm sorry, buddy.
I truly, truly am.  


At first glance, this season of the Bach seems the same as all the others.

The Bachelorette is completely mole-less.

There are three different guys named Clift.

And last night, while a white person told a heartbreaking story about accidentally finding out that his ex-girlfriend was planning on breaking up with him, I ripped a fart so loudly that my cat Frank jumped up, hid under the couch and missed the entire cocktail party AND rose ceremony.

But (and that's the key word here: but) (in fact, that's always the key word) (because in the history of words, the only word that has ever truly mattered is but) (well, and butt) (because you should never pay attention to anything anyone ever says before they say the word but) (because after they say the word but, then they get to what they REALLY want to talk about) (sooooooo, but), this year, there is also this guy:

Is that a soprano saxophone in your pocket or
is that four soprano saxophones in your pocket?

Forget about the fact that he's a stunt man.

Forget about the fact that there's an 83% chance that I subscribe to his PornHub channel.

Forget about the fact that this past year he averaged a career high in points, rebounds and field goal percentage for the Oklahoma City Thunder.

Look. At that. Hair.

Can you imagine?

Can you imagine everand I mean evergoing on a date, or engaging in a conversation, or running a high pick and roll with a man who looked like THAT?

Because I can't.

I cannot.

I don't know how anyone could.

But the thing is, the thing that is more mind-blowing than any sort of small land animal that might live in his hair, is that he seems like a pretty nice guy! And is far from the most ridiculous human being on the show.

Because there's also a guy with a lisp.

A black man who CRIED.

And this guy...

I've never. 


... who literally got no airtime. None. Zero. A massive mistake on the part of the producers, who chose to show us a best of three dodgeball match instead of oneand I mean one30-second clip of this man pouring essential oils into a diffuser.

Also, can we pause for a second?

Does it blow your mind that these people have the conversations that they have? Like, about anything? Like, "Hi, we've known each other for nine minutes, are you thinking private school for our kids orrrrrrrr..."

Do you ever have serious conversations with people? Because I don't. And I don't know any people who do. At least not any that don't end with one person saying, "Okay, I have to go take a shit," because those are the only types of conversations I'm interested in having. The kinds where one person tells the other person that they can no longer talk to them, because shit is about to explode out of their ass.

Back to this post that has no coherent theme or message or reason for being writtenlet's finish it off with this:

The Evster's Sex Tip of the Week Despite the Fact that I Haven't Frenched Kissed My Wife with Actual Tongue in Over Three Years

So last night, this guy posted up Becca for the old Winnepeg Wall-Banger, one of the all-time classic moves in Bachelor/Bachelorette history.

No idea what's up with this picture quality.
It looks like a goddamn Impressionist painting. 


But notice his right hand.

He's got it slapped up against the wall like he's pissing into a urinal on the New Jersey Turnpike when clearly he should have grabbed her left wrist, held it above her head, then taken her other hand and pressed her wrists together, while switching over to hold her wrists with his left hand, and then slid his right hand back down her mole-less bod, before grabbing her underneath her left thigh, pulling her leg around him, putting himself in the Cincinnati Clamper, before whispering in her ear, "Just so you know, I've seen at least four episodes of My So Called Life."

Her panties would have immediately explodedand he would've guaranteed himself a spot in the Final Three.

Okay, that's enough blogging for one week/the rest of my life.

I hate you all!


Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Sixers vs. Heat: Game 2 Breakdown. Is it Time to Die?

I want Belinelli to kiss my belly. 

There’s an old saying: You live by the three, you die from cancer. It’s completely untrue. You can also die from AIDS or dysentery or in my case, sad and alone, from some sort of undiagnosed rectum infection, as I complain to my Jamaican nurse about Robert Covington being wildly inconsistent.

I mean, as much as I love guys shooting the ball directly into the backboard, and Marco Belinelli taking off-balance fadeaway 27-footers, you can’t rely on just shooting threes. Just like you can’t survive on only eating meatball hoagies. That being said, I have eaten meatball hoagies for three, mayyyyyyyybe four, of my last five meals and will obviously die from them.

I think it’s clear that the Sixers need some sort of inside presence to get them some easy buckets. If only they had a 7-foot, skilled, athletic, hilarious African man who had a personal vendetta against the Heat’s starting center and an unrelenting desire to play.

Ooookkkkaaaaayyyyyyyyy.

Oh well. Amir Johnson was serviceable.

Of course, it’s not Embiid’s fault that the Sixers lost. They just got outplayed—specifically by a 36-year-old, possibly bloated, legend. We knew D Wade was going to go off at some point, I just didn't expect it to be on a night when tip-off took place literally a half an hour before his bedtime.

The truth is, even though Kelly Olynyk and Justise Winslow are certified bitchmaids, I kinda like how physically the Heat played, and you can't deny that they have some certified goat master generals.




Goran Dragic is a BEAST (who shoots the most adorable little floaters).

Head might've actually exploded three seconds after this photo was taken. 


Ronde DiVincenzo's tooth is hilarious.

AND an Abe Lincoln beard. 

And James Johnson seems like a real one.

He’s even got a ridiculous neck tattoo that says something like MAYMAY.

It obviously doesn't say Maymay. 

Turns out (and I did some research on this, seriously), it actually says "NAYMIN 3.9.13"—in honor of his son who was born prematurely on that date and battled for his life. So that's nice for them.

Plus, when Johnson was on the Grizzlies, they had a neck tattoo giveaway in his honor, which is pretty much the most incredible giveaway in the history of giveaways.

L, O, and then follow that up with another L. 

By the way, further research (aka a Wikipedia search) showed that James Johnson was arrested in 2014 for beating and choking his wife. So fuck that guy.

I always thought a cool gimmick would be to make NBA shooting sleeves—or form-fitting, long-sleeve shirts—with individual player’s tattoos on them. Like you could get an Iverson one that had "HOLD MY OWN" and "ONLY THE STRONG SURVIVE" on each arm. We could call them "Sleeversons." Boom, four million dollar idea.

Sadly, the series is now all tied up at one.

I do NOT have four million dollars.

And Hal Greer is dead.

What a lousy time to be alive.

Until Thursday.

Friday, April 13, 2018

Sixers vs. Heat: 7 Not-Even-Close-to-Important Questions

Why is Richaun Holmes so out of frame in this pic?

Despite the fact that they kicked Trevor Booker to the curb, the 2018 Philadelphia 76ers have gone on to become the greatest team in NBA history.

Sixteen straight wins.

Two rookies better than Donovan Mitchell.

And one sideline reporter, Molly Sullivan, who should be required to ask the same question to every player after every game:

Can you believe that I have this job? I can’t believe that I have this job. What was your mindset going into the 4th quarter knowing that the most basic, boring, blow-dried chickenhead, had this job?

This Saturday, the Sixers will attempt to blow-dry the Miami Heat (which is something you already know, and a fact that I didn’t need to include in this article, but I did need some sort of transition to talk about the Heat, so here we are).

Just a few years ago, the Heat featured one of the most legendary NBA trios of all time: Glen Rice, Rony Seikaly and Rony Seikaly’s 10-inch cock. Now, Miami has thrown together a hodgepodge of mediocre talent that includes local products Wayne Ellington (from Episcopal) and Donte Divincenzo’s brother, Ronde Divincenzo.

Can't even come close to figuring out what ethnicity this man is. 


So, seeing as I don’t have the intellectual capacity to come up with a legitimate, coherent theme for this post, I figured I might as well take the easy way out and come up with Seven Not-Even-Close-to-Important Questions going into the series.

Let’s go!

Who Has the Worst Haircut in this Series? 

If you are a human being who has an actual working brain, odds are that you immediately thought of Richaun Holmes—whose braided man bun has, in my opinion, held him back from becoming the first player in NBA history to attempt, and complete, a flip dunk.

RoCo is also in the mix, based on the fact that he has the same haircut as every 13-year-old kid in North Philadelphia. But the worst haircut in this series, BY FAR, belongs to Kelly Olynyk.

How 'bout that one straggler hair just twangling off the side?

Honestly, it’s not just the hair, it’s the goatee. Well, and the hair. And like, the everything. Why are you doing this, Kelly? Can you imagine naming your kid Kelly?

Can you imagine naming your kid Kelly and having the last name Tripucka?

How does this man not have a podcast? 

What an amazing world we live in.

Which Player is Most Capable of Eating Another Player? 

Bam Adebayo.

Will There Be Any Questions About Actual Basketball in this Post? 

It’s possible!

(But not probable.)

Ugh, fine.

Let’s try one.

JoJo vs. Hassan Whiteside. Talk to Me. 

Not exactly a question, but okay.

Before the whole mental health craze took off—and it became cool to have anxiety and panic attacks and multiple gay lovers—we had a way of describing people like Hassan Whiteside. They had "attitude problems." My wife has an attitude problem. I once tried to show her the proper way to slice a mango and she canceled my cellphone plan. True story.

Hassan is a classic example of a man with mental health issues. An ornery malcontent, with an undiagnosed chemical imbalance, who could be triggered by even the slightest change to his daily routine.

Enter a 7-foot African man wearing a mask.

lol

Whiteside really might throw not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, but six mangos right at Embiid's face.

Honestly, I don't know what the deal is with these two. I don't know if they genuinely hate each other, or if it's all an act, or some combination between the two, but I do know that I have to go to a Bat Mitzvah on Saturday night and miss the game—is that fucking unbelievable or what?!

Sad!

Can Anyone Stop Ben Simmons? 

I’m sure there is a Kardashian out there somewhere nodding her head, but until they dig their claws into Benny Boy, the answer is no. Also, it was kind of a rhetorical question, so, whatever.

Ben Simmons is so fucking good at basketball. He is SO fucking good at basketball. It's nice that he's starting to get his due—and people are comparing him to Magic and LeBron and a young Carl Herrera—but he's still sort of underrated. I pray to God that he doesn't get mixed up with a white woman.

How much do you love Fultzy?!?

Hollywood couldn't have scripted this. Young, chipmunk-cheeked child goes #1 in the draft. Gets paid $5 million to forget how to play basketball. Sweet, way-too-understanding coach shows a ridiculous amount of patience, before he finally loses it during one, dumb press conference. Chipmunk-cheeked child agrees to try and play basketball, becomes youngest player ever to record triple double, is immediately asked by Molly Sullivan, "What was your mindset going into the fourth quarter?"

Prediction? 

Sixers in three.