Fantasies dead on arrival

No, not that kind.


















This kind. It was bad enough when I lost Michael Redd to a season-ending injury, and now Amare -- oops -- Amar'e. Don't want him to get pissed off and pummel me into a bloody pulp that'll dirty up his size 853 sneakers, thus causing more, um, blinding pain for yours truly.

"Dude, he can't see anymore, even you could evade him."

That's right! Take that, freakishly large man with the extensive bank account! Randal wins again!














Anyway, since my hoops team keeps on getting sledgehammered by the hardwood gods and my current third place will probably remain so only through this week as this is the last scrub team on my schedule, I figured it's time to set the Imaginary Sports Brain for the heart of the shining, crazy diamond. As I did with football, I've created a free Yahoo league hoping to gather all of my fellow sports-obsessed bloggers for merriment, whimsy and ample vulgarity. Send me an email or make your desire known in comments and I'll get you the password. BYOB.

First prize: nothing.
Second prize: nothing.
Third prize: nothing.

Bragging rights: priceless, for about an hour until you realize all the time you wasted debating over whether to pick up that speedy, backup middle infielder or the power-n-strikeout callup could have been better spent towards completing your version of the great American novel, you stupid bastard.

What a great day!

First, my man Dennis, hoping to get by with a little help from his friends, gets to show the Judiciary Committee today what a spine looks like, while everyone else will be hiding theirs under the flimsiest dog-and-pony show finery of actually giving a fuck about the law while these war criminals drunk on hubris, these thugs high on pain, their soulless political operatives and the greedhounds that bankroll them with an avarice that would shame Gordon Gekko continue to walk free in the same town as they do, getting ready to attend the same cocktail parties that evening along with the cackling circle of childish scribblers and plastic talking hairpieces that fawn over both motherfuckers and the motherfuckers' enablers for just the quickest taste of precious access to, mmmm, delicious, a single juicy morsel to fuel their pathetic raison d'être for one more miserable day.

Wait, that's not all that great.

Fucking cowards. You have no idea how much I hate you all.

Yeah, I know Elizabeth won't be there, but given that Dennis is about as handsome as I, why pass up a golden opportunity to prettify this ugly blog?

Secondly, and more importantly -- and to further prettify things in one more shade of red -- I get to perform my constitutional duty and drool at a widescreen Gillian Anderson.


















Aliens, hurry.

Oh, dguzman? She's mine.

Before I forget, I wanted to mention that after the movie, we're taking grandpa out for a bite to eat and you're more than welcome to join us.












"My friends, in West Germany, the pfannkuchen are this big."

Housewifehusband log: Stardate XXX*

If the XXX doesn't grab your attention, I don't know what will.

Free gas for a year!

Eat some beans. As you will see, there's a distinct lack of erotica. Sorry.

Closet prude!

No, that's where I keep my stash of porn. I am indeed truly sorry.
Here you go:


















Oh, Alessandra. Sigh.

Je m'excuse, Flying Nunly, you'll find no beefcake here.



















"My friends, don't I count?"

Of course not. Anyway, you have zero time for striking a pose; isn't there an election to steal? Since we're on the subject of kleptomania, the reason for thieving, for the second time in a week, a post title from the inscrutable and groovetastic Freida Bee is three-fold:

1. I'm off today, and when I'm off, I'm even lazier than normal; thus, not using whatever small reservoir of energy I still possess to think of a clever title on my own. To my credit, eventually waking the slumbering powers of my brain, I did manage to change it from wife to husband because, though I do sometimes cry during certain movies and crying is about the most womanly thing there is, I piss standing up.

2. Despite my penchant for slackitude, there is plenty o' laundry to wash and fold, so I will be, in a certain sense, playing house. And once we've shuffled the kids off to school, my sometimes-better-half and I can play doctor in the near 90° heat.

Gee, this post is even sexier than I had envisioned.

3. I couldn't think of a third thing, so read my NBA Finals preview.

Hey, where are you going?

Ungrateful bastards.

















Woo. How exciting. Celtics and Lakers. Golly, I hope we see Michael Jordan at courtside! That would make the experience super duper special! Anyone have a bucket or an industrial-size paper bag?


















"Lakers...Celtics...oh, yeah."

Dammit Stern, not again. Would someone get him a towel?

Here's what we know: the Celtics can win on the road, which in these playoffs, came as a surprise. The Hawks beat them three times, for Satan's sake. The Pistons can lose at home, which is their recent modus operandi. My bad for giving them the benefit of the doubt. Flip, you're flopped. The Lakers can win if they're playing a predominantly older team. The new-and-not-improved Big Three aren't young pups. The Spurs can lose if Manu Ginobili suddenly misplaces a leg. And what was with giving up not one, but two 17+ point leads? Assholes.

Ray Allen finally showed signs of life as the series rolled on, Paul Pierce played magnificently on the road in a game that would clinch a Finals berth and Kevin Garnett was workmanlike. The problem? Since acquiring Pau Gasol, the Lakers, including the postseason, are 40-12. Kobe has indeed been spectacular, but Los Angeles doesn't make the ultimate round without that outright theft of an all-star calibre player for a never-was, a couple of never-will-bes, a corpse and some draft picks. Fuck you, Memphis.

In the regular season, Boston won by an average scoring margin of 10.3 points/game, the highest such mark in the NBA since the 1996-97 Chicago Bulls. In other words, they were really good. The Lakers weren't slouches themselves, winning by 7.3 points/game, third in the league. In the postseason, however, the Lakers have maintained such excellence, winning by 6.4 points/game, not too shabby at all considering the much better opposition. Yes, that leads all playoff squads. The Celtics have fallen back to 4.3 points/game, and were even outscored in one series -- by the Cavs. Grumble.



I'm with you, Herm, but the best indicator of future success is the points/runs/goals you score and allow, not your W-L record. And that, unfortunately, is what I have to make my prediction on, not the fact that Boston won 66 games beating up on scrubs like Miami, Charlotte and the rest of the Atlantic division. The Celtics certainly don't look like that steamroller anymore, do they?

Rooting for the city of Boston to win another title is akin to rooting for a Republican in anything, but I'd much rather see Kevin Garnett, for example, hold the Larry O'Brien trophy above his head than a guy named after a fucking steak. At power forward, Top Sirloin Rosenberg! Morons. Like this guy: McHale the GM was quite the opposite of McHale the player, and that, not The Logo, is who Garnett had to work under for so many years. And I didn't see a Hall-of-Fame calibre center thundering across the Land of a Thousand Lakes either.

One more, not often voiced, reason to root for the Celtics is the way they arrived at this juncture. How many times have we seen a team trade away serviceable, if not outright quality, veterans for so much young, untapped talent, draft picks, cap space, you name it? And how many times has that blown up in that team's face? Boston said, fuck no, good people of Massachusetts, let's get some old dudes and make a run. Sure, we'll be capped out and we'll lose some young players in the process, but these guys already know how to play. If the Celtics win the title, then more teams will likely follow The Dogma of Herm. For us basketball junkies, that means no more Jonathan Benders, Stromile Swifts and Kwame Browns controlling your fortunes! More blockbuster trades! Not for the future, but now! Crazy hedonism! Live for the moment! Pass that stash! Run around the house naked! If you're not trying to win a championship, you're in the wrong business! I'm looking at you, Donald Sterling!

So, drunken leprechauns dancing in the streets? Sad to say for those of us with a soul that hasn't been charred to a fine crispy texture because we're not cursed to find habitation in the sweltering concrete and plastic heap that is the City of Angels, that won't happen. Lakers in six. Fuck it. KG, Defensive Player of the Year, baby!








"Celtics in seven!"


*sorry, FB, today it's DefCon 1.

If you've been naughty...

...the Robot Santa will fucking kill you!

Before I head off to wingnut hell, I wanted to express my holiday joy that someone has taken this threat assessment seriously and is prepared for whatever state-of-the-art anti-naughtiness weaponry he'll be dishing out (I wonder if her Magical Go-Go Boots will prove to be better protection than my Sneakers Various and Sundry). So, mes amis, take heed of this timely leadership and be sure to lock your chimneys and have your nuclear-tipped, shoulder-launched rockets at the ready!


On an even darker note, since I won't be getting what I want for Xmas -


















we never do, do we? - here's sincerely hoping your suffering is at least the equal of mine. And leaving out martinis and cookies doesn't work you fools, so, bottoms up!

Lastly, sleep tight, but don't have visions of sugar plums dancing in your head.

Those are grenades.

My kind of snow bunny

I've been castigated - rightly so, I might add - for the godawful picture of Der Leader - our beloved dictator - I slapped up this past Saturday morning which apparently induced vomiting, nightmarish hallucinations and liquor stores throughout the country running out of their inventory within hours. Even my clever paraphrase of a mighty Zep tune wasn't enough to dull the throbbing pain. So, as a further part of my ongoing penance, I promised to put up more pictures of my lovely wife in order to increase the class, sorely lacking, of this blog. Hence, the snapshot of home above - and this plea:

I've sort of kinda possibly occasionally remotely not really never been good at all this year, so Jesus Claus and Santa Christ and Mithras and Sol Invictus and Humphrey Bogart, can I pretty please with sugar and vast stacks of cash and a human sacrifice find her dressed like that under the Christmas tree next Tuesday morning?

Sigh. Well, back to work.

















Je te renvoie mon amour, mon bonbon.

I've got much better things to do

Mon amant pictured in our luxurious rumpus room, waiting for yours truly.
Oh, don't worry, my wife is totally cool with it.

Everyone has been asking me if I'm going to watch, and I do mean everyone!
The right!

You can't watch that pornography! Why, it's worse than the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, and Lord knows how many young men have been permanently corrupted by that!

The left!

You can't watch that exploitation! Why, it's misogyny worse than a Young Republicans convention! Do you really want to contribute to the continued degradation of women?

The simian!

So, gonna watch that glittery, runwayesque underpantsatorium broadcast in all its opulent glory on the teevee?

Self-aware entities! Why the hell would I waste my precious time watching this tripe when I come home to the lovely Alessandra every night for sessions of lusty lovin'?

Please. Don't be so foolish next time.