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  • NBA All Star Weekend

    Happy Dead President's Day, y'all. I, my ownself had me a productive Valentine's Day yesterday, even if it was damn near Mission Impossible to make it to the houses of all the naughty girls here in Calgary with my sack full of...oh, let's go with toys on this one in just one night.

    But it's certainly worth trying.

     

    Turbo Tax Moneyshots. The first, last and only time I'll be down with the notion of corporate sponsorship taking over the wonderful world of sports.

     

    The fuck is a Jabbawockies?

     

    Jordin Sparks doing an anthem? What, Ashlee and/or Jessica Simpson weren't available? Hell, even Zellers has Ashlee pimping ugly clothes for us, and we're slowly going broke.

    And Tamia Hill. I remember when she was hot young snatch on the hoof. And now? I guess the budget was blown getting the world renowned Jabbawockies to work their magic.

     

    Umm, Craig, the suit. Although, to be fair, I almost wore the exact same thing to my high school prom. Of course, it was the '80's, when bad taste really knew no limits. And I'd just suffered a sharp blow to the base of the neck.

    Please, please, PLEASE tell me somebody called him on this crime against fabric, as I didn't have the sound on during the pre-game rigamarole. Ralph Lauren's rolling over in his grave and the fucking guy ain't even dead yet.

     

    Superman should've saved the 12 foot dunk for the finals.

     

    Anyone think Danny Granger would still go 17th overall?

     

    Shaq's entrance was pretty Cool. Amare should've been announced last, it being his team's city and possibly his last game there and all. And yes, Shaq can still play.

     

    Now that Shawn Marion's a Toronto Raptor, I'm now a Toronto Raptor fan. Hopefully his 2nd trade will make the Suns' Marion jerseys I bought in purple and orange about a month before he went to the Heat ironically retro.

     

    Iverson's new look works. Hopefully he'll drop some retro game soon, as I have him in several pools.

     

    Rumors of Kobe Bryant's selfishness with the ball are greatly exaggerated.

     

    Okay, Muhammad Ali's a living legend, but listening to everyone metaphorically suck his dick gets tiresome after, oh (looks at watch), 30 seconds or so.

     

    Kevin Durant should've been in the big game.

     

    DWade's Urkel look was really something. Not sure about the blue thing under his eye, though. Happy to see him back.

     

    For Valentine's Day, I had Taco Bell, cheesecake and 2 bouts of frenzied monkey sex and was home watching wrasslin' by 7. It don't get a whole lot better than that.

    And all I had to drop was cash moneys for some Easter candy, as my special friend rolls like that, bless her heart.

     

    Joss Whedon's new show, Dollhouse, looks almost as good as Eliza Dushku does in it. And I would in her.

     

    Can't wait for the long anticipated return of Reaper. No new episodes of 90210 until March 31st sucks dead dogs, though.

     

    It was nice to see Beyonce and some guy in the crowd.

     

    J.R. Smith really needs some more ink. Why do anything half-assed?

     

    I loved Michael Beasley's shoes.

     

    I still don't get the appeal of Will Ferrell, after watching Stepbrothers. Save yourself some time and coin, download it and skip to the closing credits, which is the only funny part. And yes, he'll ruin Land of the Lost.

     

    I'm glad the NBA Cares, because I sure as fuck don't.

     

    John Legend needs to change his name. Maybe John Jabroni? Cute backup singer, though.

     

    A remake of Street Fighter? Because the world really needs one in these trying times.

     

    I fell asleep watching the Young Stars game on tape this afternoon. Must've been a real nailbiter.

     

    A major setback in my resolution to be 300 pounds by next January 1st. Turns out I only weigh 215, not the 225 I did at my last weigh-in. Sigh. Apparently the plus calories meal replacement milkshakes I've been knocking back aren't working at all.

     

    I really wish my current place of employment was a more target-rich environment. It would give me a chance to work harder, not smarter.

     

    The other night, I caught something called Sexy Car Wash on TLN. If you haven't DO. Soon. Trust me, I know what I'm doing when it comes to nudity and beheadings.

    Everything else, I'm pretty much just flying by the seat of my pants.

     

    When was the last time a halftime show didn't kill all enthusiasm for proceedings?

     

    I'd have liked to see Marc Gasol slip in and play a few minutes as Pau. Because, really, who can tell them apart? After all, all white guys pretty much look the same.

     

    Tina Thompson should see A.I.'s hairdresser.

     

    Why would anyone ever ask me if I'm married and/or have children? I mean, really. Is that the vibe I'm putting out?

     

    I bought some Hannah Montana candy canes for 0.25 the other night. The jury's still out on whether or not they taste like her.

    Or Miley Cyrus.

    And, I shit you not, I once spent 5 minutes explaining to some teenage boys that they are, in fact, one and the same. Ah, the joys of retail.

     

    I desperately need Martin Brodeur to return to action soon. I'm in 10th place (12 teams) and sinking like a stone. I really need a new phrase for that. Like a ROLLING stone, perhaps?

    Nah, it's been done.

     

    I really like the name Yoko Oden as a fantasy NBA team name. And yes, I'm glad Ms. Ono broke up the Beatles. Squashed them like bugs, as it were.

     

    Until now, I'd never really appreciated how good Chris Paul actually is. If you stop learning, you start dying.

     

    And I'm out. Halftime's finally over. Enjoy your day off tomorrow, y'all.

     

     

     

  • To quote the 'Dead

    and the high school yearbooks of every loser everyfuckingwhere since time immemorial: what a long, strange trip it's been.

    He said, apropos of nothing.

     

    So, I found myself watching the apex of Elisha Cuthbert's ouevre, The Girl Next Door, today and I found myself becoming all look at this morose motherfucker right here and shit. Tomorrow is the first day of my transfer. No, not, as so many, including Once Upon A Time, I, have wished, off the planet. Or island, or what have you. Sorry. Merely to a new location, with new people and tasks and all the usual bullshit. Whatever. I'll deal. I always does.

     

    Of late, I find myself unusually troubled by:

     

    Protein water. The world inches one step Closer to the apocalypse of DIET fucking water. I, my ownself, find that I've acquired a taste for plus calories-type meal replacement milkshakes. My resolution to gain 75 pounds this year is still on track. After watching a program about folks what kill between 15 and 33000 calories a day...let's just say I've filled my pretty little head with some ideas. Apparently, I need to add MORE junk food to my daily diet.

    And yes, it's more than okay to hate me for that.

     

    The new Fox Reality Channel. Like TV didn't suck enough already. Although I have caught a couple minutes of some hapless former teen idols attempting fruitless comeback efforts (Song of the Day: Jamie Walters- How Do You Talk to an Angel?) that will never come to pass. To drop some redundancy on y'all.

    And for that I shall burn in Hell. Next caller.

     

    Cindy Crawford pimping her own furniture line. Because we all know her for her flawless design sense and keen eye for detail, rather than that mole and the timeless classic of the silver screen, Fair Game. No, wait, that doesn't sound right.

    And yet, I somehow managed to type it with a straight face. To quote the immortal words of the venerable Ralph Malph, I still got it.

     

    I keep falling asleep whilst watching reruns of Knight Rider Season II. Which fucking baffles me, as I, like West Germany, love David Hasselhoff.

    Where have you Gone, Norm MacDonald? If you don't know, your ass better call somebody.

     

    Michael Bay's remake, revisiting or whatever the fuck of Friday the 13th. It really IS true that there are only 7 stories in the world, after all.

    Which brings me to...

    Land of the Lost. Yes.

    Will Ferrell in and ruining Land of the Lost. Not so very much, thank you.

    I think Stewie Griffin said it best when he flew cross country, bought a ladder, rang this cocksucker's doorbell, and knocked him the fuck out.

    And yes, it does trouble me that Seth Green and Mila Kunis only do voiceover work now. Okay, Green I buy, but she could at least do girl on girl or Playboy videos or something.

     

    I'm nowhere near as excited as I should be by the fact that Excalibur is offering a $25 All Day, All-You-Can-Eat pass at its buffet. I love me some buffet, and I believe I've mentioned I'm trying to gain 75 pounds. Oh well, I'm not going until May, plenty of time for the Anticipation to build. Nope, still haven't booked a hotel room yet. Flight, yes.

     

    I couldn't persuade the geophysicist to watch The Usual Suspects with me last night. It was on TV, uncensored and sans commercial interruption and everything. I ain't ashamed to admit that this makes me weep a little. It's a good fucking movie.

     

    And I'm spent. I've got some book learning to do still tonight. Sleep well, forever hold your peace, and may Monday at least give you a running head start.