Monday, June 23, 2014

The 2014 Giro D'Italia...


Unfortunately for all the European jingoists out there, this year's Giro D'Italia was dominated by Colombia. The top two podium spots were taken by Nairo Quintana and Rogoberto Uran. The mountains classification was another display of Colombian talent, with Julian Arredondo coming in first, Quintana third, and Jarlinson Pantano ninth. The young rider classification was more of the same-Quintana first, Sebastian Henao fifth.

Let me tell you why a country like Italy, whose terrain is 70% mountainous, can't produce any climbers-drugs. Aside from whatever Miguel Indurain was doing in Spain, it was the Italians first and foremost who embarked on a hardcore EPO regimen. As a country, THEY were the ones who introduced it, they were the ones who abused it the most, and their doctors, specifically Dr. Conconi, Dr. Ferrari, and Dr. Cecchini, were the prime movers of EPO administration in the pro peloton. This trickled down to the amateur ranks, where tales of 16 year-old riders already being put on heavy doses of EPO and other drugs have been rampant for years. During the late 90's early 2000's, the Italian junior ranks, according to an old report from Cycle Sport magazine, saw a collective increase in hematocrit levels that would have made Richard Virenque blush. This would have raised eyebrows anywhere else, but not in Italy.

A respected member of the "Busting Chops" home office and one of the founding fathers of this blog said it best-"After a certain point, the amount of drugs you must take to ride stop working". If the top Italian juniors for the last 20-plus years have been saturating themselves with PED's, it's no wonder their collective performances start to level off and fizzle away when they become pros. Reading "The Death of Marco Pantani" by Matt Rendell, it was patently obvious that Marco rarely, if ever, rode without drugs. Despite his romantic aura, which was in direct contrast to Armstrong's corporate mercenary appeal, and his legion of diehard fans, he was just as much a product of drugs as Lance was. He may have had more natural talent to ride hills, but the truth is still the truth. The sad fact is, that despite turgid arguments over level playing fields among dopers, doping still conveyed undue strengths to riders who never possessed them in the first place.

Flawed hero Marco Pantani in better days-


Colombia is a land of high mountains and even higher altitude. This makes for the perfect breeding ground for climbers, and historically this has been the case. But only recently has there been breakout of young stars who can compete for three week grand tours. Time trials have always been the bane of climbers of any nationality, where a dedicated climber can lose upwards of four minutes in a flat time trial, negating any advantage they might hope to gain in the mountains. This is why it was a great move for team  management to have Quintana ride the Giro instead of the Tour. The Tour this year had too many flat time trial miles to make anything but the King of the Mountains jersey and a top-three finish a realistic goal. A win in a grand tour for any European team is worth its weight in gold, even though in order of impact and importance the Giro sits second between the French Tour and the Spanish Vuelta. The Giro itself is mythic, and its climbs harder than those in France, though this is negated by the better quality fields of the French Tour to a degree.

Nairo Quintana comes from a small town that sits at 9,000 meters in altitude in Colombia, and rode a bike as a youth to get to and from school. He was climbing the second he began riding. A young man winning a grand tour at the age of 24 is auspicious enough, but of course, thanks to Lance Armstrong and others, there are those who believe EVERYONE in the peloton is on drugs. There hasn't been a hint that Quintana has ever doped, but don't tell that to his detractors. It's unfortunate that Quintana and other Colombian riders have to ride in an era where there are no grand tour riders with any talent or panache, but that is not their fault. These cycling fans are left cheering the likes of Cadel Evans, who is running on the exhaust fumes of a hearse, Vincenzo Nibali, who is the second coming of Ivan Basso (an impotent-legged bum who can't ride without dope) and other assorted nobodies like the Schleck brothers, who are so beyond their sell-by date they are beginning to reek of sour milk.


That's what I'm talking about-

Nairo Quintana representing his country at the 2013 Road Championships-

There is no one left except Alberto Contador and Chris Froome, two guys who have been hounded by doping allegations seemingly forever. Unfortunately, this is the backdrop into which Quintana has been thrust. There is no doubt there is some anti-Colombian sentiment at work here, as the Anlgos have no one compelling to cheer for. They have only themselves to blame for this. Quintana's physical attributes play to his strengths-he is not tall, doesn't weight much, and has an incredible ability to crush it in the mountains. If he could improve his time trialing, or at the very least become good enough in this discipline to avoid losing major portions of time, he'll be one of the all-time greats, much to the chagrin of many who think anyone who rides a bike is on dope, especially if they hail from Colombia. Casting aspersions on riders such as Quintana has become all the rage, and people have made comments over what is going on in South America. But this cat did not come out of nowhere, a la Chris Froome or 2012 Tour winner Bradley Wiggins, with their improbable physiques and their back-dated TUE's for cortisone during competition. If their team is up to no good, they will be found out in due time. Until then, we cannot cast doubt on every rider just because they win. Save that for the putrid Italians, who have a clear history of organized, systemic doping that one can argue is culturally embedded to the point where they can't ride without cheating.

Nairo Quintana's coming out party, Tour de France 2013-

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

The 2014 NBA Playoffs...

Now that the San Antonio Spurs completely dismantled the Miami Heat, let's cut to the chase. In speaking of what the Heat need to do to get back to the finals and win, not one commentator/analyst spoke of the biggest dilemma facing this squad going forward-the "Big Three" as currently constructed have had their run, and now it is pretty much over. Here is why-

1) Dwayne Wade has no cartilage left in one knee. None. The procedure that Kobe Bryant and a few other star professional athletes have undergone in Germany is no miracle cure for this. On the contrary. All it does is mask the pain for a certain period of time. It actually makes the condition worse, because it fools the body into thinking the joint can take the same impact it could when there was cartilage to protect the joint. There is only one cure in the foreseeable horizon, and that lies with cartilage retransplantation, a procedure where doctors take cartilage out of the knee, grow more of it and transplant it back into the joint. This is not happening anytime soon. Scientists have been at it for years and are no closer to perfecting it than when they started.

Here's another dilemma-arthritic knees are not just the result of athletic wear and tear. There are proteins in the body that act as an agent that attacks cartilage and eats it up for apparently no good reason. This has been the scourge of many a suburban housewife, weekend warrior and elite athlete alike. Dwayne Wade can no longer be paid or given the minutes of a superstar player because the Wade who used to be able to do THIS is long gone...



...having been replaced by THIS, a player who gets horsed in the paint by the likes of Tiago Splitter of all people-



2) The Opt-Out Clause-Wade has two years left on his contract at $20 million per. The thought of either him or Chris Bosh opting out to re-sign for less money so the Heat can go after bloated one-dimensional ballhog Carmelo Anthony or overrated stat whore Kevin Love isn't going to solve their problems, and it's certainly not going to turn the clock back for Wade. This is his last chance to cash out while he still can, and forfeiting that type of loot for the good of the team would be a stupid financial move on his part. Unlike Lebron, neither Wade nor Bosh make the type of money from endorsements and investments that would allow either player to recoup that money elsewhere.

As a global icon and one of the best to have ever played the game, James is certain to continue to generate revenue way after his playing career is over due to his so-called "brand". Not so for Bosh and Wade. They need to get paid NOW, because when the spotlight fades for them, so will their revenue streams.

3) There wasn't one analyst who watched this series and thought "if only Carmelo Anthony were on the Heat. That would have solved all their problems". Look up and down the roster and see how limited to nonexistent the production was from Greg Oden, Michael Beasley, Mario Chalmers, Ray Allen, Rashard Lewis, and Chris "Birdman" Anderson. (By the way, his white trailer park trash shtick is done like an overcooked goose because he's no longer the player he once was, which was borderline on his greatest day. I don't understand how he became the Caucasian equivalent to Dennis Rodman, but that scenario never did play itself out.) All these cats need to be fumigated, because they no longer have a place on a squad trying to compete for a championship. This was the only memorable play from this bunch all series. It was a good one., but in the end it turned out not to matter one bit-



4) The Heat need to get rid of Chris Bosh. He is a 6-11 shooting guard who cannot defend  the rim or take it to the hole, where he needs to be effective in order to create mismatches in a league sorely lacking in talent at the center position. He has shot more three pointers this year than ever, and his perimeter game does the Heat no favors when facing a team with the likes of Tim Duncan. The Heat even stopped giving him the ball after a while, relegating him to an offensive non-entity because he does not create his own shots from offensive rebounds. He did nothing this finals series-no meaningful blocks, rebounds, or points scored in the paint. Even Tiago Splitter got in on the action, and he's nowhere NEAR as talented as Bosh-



Manu Ginobli is 5 inches shorter than Bosh and by no means a skywalker. On this play, he barely got his hand over the rim on liftoff. Bosh turned and stood there like a squeegee hobo on a freeway intersection waiting for someone to hand him a tip for washing their windshield with dirty water. I'll say it again-guys like Bosh were born to be tall FOR A REASON, and it wasn't for this. This is a play a 6'11" player of Bosh's talents should always make but doesn't. Instead, he settles for getting posterized-



Even Pattie Smith, the 5'11"Australian guard who last year was fatter than a pregnant kangaroo, outscored Chris Bosh in the series, and he was coming off the bench. Smith wasn't just a three-point specialist for the Spurs. He was also a Tasmanian Devil on defense, harassing even the much bigger and taller Lebron James into turnovers and botched plays.

At this stage of the game it's all about managing money concerns and bringing in better, younger, and more athletic players. The Heat cannot do this because they are hamstrung by salary cap concerns, and the league itself will run into problems because teams have to deal with players looking to get paid under conditions that don't allow it without heavy financial penalties once they overstep the cap by even one dollar. In other words, there are no saviors for the Heat out in free agency, and they only have one player, Norris Coles. under contract for next season with a [potential $60 million dollar payroll taken up by only three players.

It is hard to sell the Miami/South Beach lifestyle to potential free agents who must forfeit their fair market value to make it happen. You can only sell this aspect for so long. Players have a short window of opportunity to maximize their worth, and the only ones willing to have made the move are either retreads running on fumes or players no one else really wanted. It worked out for them these last four years, but this next coming season is different. Who out there is willing to sign for less when they've worked so hard to put themselves in a position to get paid? Certainly not Kyle Lowry, who is better than both Mario Chalmers and Norris Coles put together. May we see the return of Sebastian Telfair from Chinese purgatory? He's still young enough and at this point will sign for the veteran's minimum just to get back into the league. Is he the type opf player you're willing to bet on when he's never been more than a marginal bit player at best? SAt this point, he's probably one of the few players the Heat could afford to sign who may have something left in the tank.

That is a precarious position for them to say the least. Let's see what happens.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Cock-a-Doodle Don't...


The reigning queen of Whore-opolis is none other than Duke University co-ed Miriam Weeks, aka "Belle Knox", a college undergrad turned porn star who is now a national media sensation. She has been on talk shows ranging from "The View" to Piers Morgan, and has actively defended her right to fuck in front of the camera as an "empowering step forward for women's rights". Little did we here at the home office of "Busting Chops" realize that pushing a feminist agenda required huge cocks and two-girl blow-job scenes (remember-one of you sucks the cock and the other licks the balls).

Apparently, this bulbous-nosed little twat couldn't afford the tuition at Duke, and she didn't want to saddle her parents with student loan debt. She is supposedly ineligible for loans to pay for school herself (or so she says), so like any other self-respecting, financially strapped college student, she decided on a career as an onscreen jack-off princess. In one of her movies, she is seen holding a gigantic cock next to her enormous head while taking a photo of it with her phone. The penis starts at her chin and reaches the top of her head with ease. Glad she got a photo of this for posterity. The cock she poses with must have been humongous, seeing as the size of her cranium would make the carvings of Mount Rushmore cower in fear.


There is nothing particularly alluring about her other than the fact that she attends a prestigious university and has that slutty, all-American tramp-next-door look. This is why she's a novelty, but one that will grow stale very quickly as more and more shameless, amoral, money-hungry losers like her follow in her footsteps. It's indeed titillating and at the same time shockingly disgusting that an eighteen year-old from a so-called "good family" would resort to pornography, but here she is, and I'm sure her parents must be extremely proud. Then again, she has admitted to be a porn enthusiast since the age of twelve. Goes to show you that sexual deviance knows no socio-economic bounds.

Her father is a military doctor who just returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan to find out what he was really fighting for-the right for his daughter to deep throat massive yards of immense penis. I cannot imagine how someone from such a background cannot afford to pay for college, or seemingly didn't take into account how much the school actually costs before stepping on campus and maybe going somewhere more affordable. She has to suck $47,000 worth of dick to pay her yearly tuition, despite the alleged free ride she received from Vanderbilt. What she will find out sooner rather than later is that her fanbase will be calling for more and more depraved acts of debauchery, meaning getting DP'ed, throated, screwing black guys and getting double-analed. And she will have to perform these acts or get shelled out the back, as they say in cycling parlance. Guaranteed she'll have an asshole the circumference of a Frisbee in less than six months.


Our dirty little debutante is currently stripping in New York City. She claims people don't understand that her choice is a power move for her, that she is always in control, she never performs any act she doesn't feel comfortable doing, and that her career goal is to become a lawyer to fight for women's rights and gender equality amongst sex workers. She had the audacity to say the backlash she's experienced illustrates that we still live in a male-dominated patriarchal society. I can't imagine a level of societal oppresion that must be relieved by grabbing a cock and a camera and proceeding to live down to every stereotype society has about porno sluts.

I feel soooo empowered...right up my ass!!! Hi mom and dad!!!

No, darling. You got it twisted. We celebrate whores in this great land of ours, that is true. But not the type that disingenuously use promiscuity and sexual deviance as a vehicle to promote their own twisted, sexually perverted agenda, attempting to pass it off as some demented Freedom March from the Civil rights Movement. You're not Rosa Parks, bitch. You're a run-of-the-mill, dysfunctional, white trash freak. So please spare us and let us know when you're doing you're first anal scene. That's all we care about.

Poor Oprah. The floundering ratings of her network has forced her to interview douchebags like this, leaving her wondering-"First Lance Armstrong, now this asshole. What the fuck..."

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Book Recommendation of the Week...

Cycle of Lies-The Fall of Lance Armstrong
Author-Juliet Macur



There have been two books of note written in the immediate aftermath of the Lance Armstrong debacle-"Wheelmen" by Reed Albergotti  and Vanessa O'Connor and "Seven Deadly Sins-My Pursuit of Lance Armstrong" by David Walsh, but neither are quite like this one. Juliet Macur interviewed over 100 people and covered Armstrong's life from the very beginning right until the recent present. After 394 mind-numbing pages, the reader is left gasping for breathe until the epilogue, where we find Armstrong inexplicably as defiant and arrogant as ever, despite the fact that his whole world is crumbling on top of his head. Much has been made of his psychopathic tendencies, the infamous killer instinct that he used to combat cancer and his rivals on the bike, an instinct he never could turn completely off, even when he was enjoying his greatest success. Evidence of his state of mind is disturbingly on full display on almost every page, but the most stunning tales involve his easily disposable gang of doochebag mafioso-style enablers. How ironic that the only figure in Armstrong's life to escape all this with some semblance of dignity is Dr. Michele Ferrari, the man most responsible for his drug-fueled success. The rest of the pathetic cast of characters? Ah, fughettaboutit....

This book is an exhibition of dysfunction, mental illness, and entitlement run amok, starting with Armstrong's mother, the serial-marrying, can't-keep-a-husband, white trash loser who painted herself as the struggling single mother sacrificing all to raise a precocious, super-athlete son all by her little lonesome. The reality is nothing of the sort, yet it didn't stop her from concocting this fabricated past to sell on the professional speaking circuit for thousands of dollars a pop. Fortunately, these engagements have all but dried up, and we can be spared any more of her revisionist drivel. I guess no one wants to listen to a washed-up wanker talking shit about a past that is as full of lies as her son's own spiral up (and eventually down) the ladder of success.

Then there is Terry Armstrong, who adopted Lord Gunderson and gave him his last name. Terry turns out, unsurprisingly, to be a toolbag as big as his adopted progeny, the type of dad who ceaselessly regaled little Lance with stories of how losers never win. They are no longer on speaking terms, and Lance once had him removed from one of his fund-raising athletic events by security.

The moral of this amoral story is Armstrong did not exist and thrive in a vacuum. The list of reprobates who satisfied his monstrous ego and kowtowed to his every whim for a whiff of his jock and the ability to make money off him was enormous. They ranged from companies like Nike and Trek to ass clowns like Chris Carmichael, who swiftly took Armstrong off his promotional ads for his coaching website once he was stripped of his seven Tour de France titles. They too are no longer on speaking terms.

The myriad of characters are seemingly endless, and they come in all shapes and sizes. From Floyd Landis and Allen Lim to his biological father's side of the family, who have been shunned through no fault of their own, Armstrong left a legacy of broken relationships and an attitude about human beings befitting a Pol Pot re-educator. I found myself having to put it down every now and then from sheer exhaustion. It was tiresome reading about it, I could not imagine anyone taking any sort of glee living such a life devoid of any human emotion towards others other than "what can this person do for me". The worst part was his relationship with John Thomas Neal, who nurtured this graceless punk as a youth only to have him show up at his funeral disrespectfully wearing flip flops and then going over to his sister and saying, "I don't do funerals".

I leave you with the photo of the back of the book, which should tell you all you need to know about Armstrong's feelings of contrition-

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Happy Thanksgiving...


While at the gym on the morning of this festive holiday and feeling depressed that there were no good-looking broads to gawk at (the pathetic clientele looked like extras from "The Walking Dead") I was watching the latest news on the screens in front of my zombie treadmill and it seemed everyone was up in arms because the Northeast was hit with a bit of a storm that delayed and cancelled flights all over the Northeast. Poor babies. Nothing worse than watching a bunch of middle-aged lard-asses fuming that they have to wait for their flights a little longer than expected at the airport. 

I'm sure grandma doesn't mind, as Thanksgiving for her is always the same. Nothing like being verbally abused over her age by a pathetic bunch of worthless relatives and smart-aleck, sexually inappropriate kids"twerking" all over the newly installed beige carpeting that makes her living room look like an undertaker's reception area.


She'll also be looking forward to being inundated with cranberry sauce belches and turkey farts from racist Uncle Ned, who's still pissed off that his job was sent overseas because a bunch of gooks in China will work for slave wages and no benefits just so his plastic enema bag can be sold at Walmart for less than five bucks for a package of three.


Meanwhile, grandma Gladys is having a hard time basting the turkey with embalming fluid and trying to wrap the inside with barbed wire (makes for a nice surprise when you bite into it) from the comfort of her motor scooter, which has a reclining leather seat so she can relax while cheering on the rednecks who hunt wild boar and manufacture moonshine on reality tv. Don't forget these scooters come with an optional Kevorkian feature (patent pending), a hinge you can attach to the arms of this rolling sarcophagus so that a medically assisted suicide via an IV mixture of scopolamine and rat poison is only minutes away. Makes a great stocking stuffer for that septuagenarian loved one who's outlived their usefulness, especially if they are as sick and tired of you as you are of them.

Then it hit me...if these motherfuckers can't get home for the Holidays, maybe this little hiatus will do America some good. Nothing says bloated, entitled, gastronomic goonery more than Thanksgiving. Nobody gives thanks for anything because everyone's way too angry at someone or something. If it's not the politicians they voted into office, it's the rival political party. If it's not them, it's the minorities. Somehow, these people feel they are not getting their fair share of the American Dream (which is becoming more elusive than a shaved, Vaseline-slathered gerbil)  for being hard working, law-abiding, apple-pie eating Americans because someone undeserving is taking it from them. To these people I say "now you know how the Native Americans felt when your diseased, baloney-assed ancestors landed on Plymouth Rock and proceeded with the most comprehensive and surgical mass genocide of an indigenous people the world has ever seen".


So on this day that we so gracelessly take for granted, let's send all the fat lardass freaks back home where they came from. Instead of spending time with family, go see your local gastroenterologist about financing that long overdue vertical banded gastroplasty. Since the food industrial complex lobby has Washington by the balls, let's not keep these fuckers from purchasing boxes of homogeneous processed food-let's keep them from physically being able to ingest it. It's the only way this madness will end. Americans are so fat they've managed to turn Thanksgiving into Russian Roulette with a turkey leg. How the fuck this happened is beyond me, but that's what happens when you give mediocrities an sense of superiority they've done nothing to earn. Just because you're American doesn't make you special.




When I tell people from other countries that the average American is so fat they have to have their stomachs stapled to keep from eating, they look at me aghast. In countries where people are thin because they don't have access to proper nutrition, they can't understand why Americans cannot control their appetites while eating so much crap. What they fail to understand is this is a country where binge-eating is a sport and anorexia and bulimia are fashion trends. Go figure.


Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!! I'd like to send a heartfelt thank you to all the fat, racist bastards out there who've turned American Exceptionalism into the biggest existential joke this side of the My Lai Massacre.


Whatever you do this holiday season, please keep it sportsmanlike!!!




Monday, August 26, 2013

The Alex Rodriguez Follies...


There is no doubt Alex Rodriguez is a cast iron asshole, but one has to admit a certain admiration for this teflon prick. From the outside, nothing seems to bother him. He gleefully proclaims his love for the game while single-handedly attempting to ruin it. He professes his love for his teammates while allegedly throwing one under the steroid bus. His attorney goes on ESPN citing all manner of improprieties by Yankees management and medical staff while remaining oblivious to the damage his own client has caused. What's worse is his effect on the team. This is setting a horrible precedent going forward, but the truth cannot be denied-the Yankees are a better team now that he's back, and more fun to watch. Here is the laundry list of transgressions thus far-

1) While rehabbing in the minors, Rodriguez tells everyone he's ready to play without receiving official clearance from Yankees medical staff, prompting general manager Brian Cashman to publicly issue the outrageous proclamation to the injured third baseman to "Shut the fuck up". Rodriguez then gets a medical evaluation, without the team's permission, from a doctor who claims he's ready to play without ever examining him in person.

2) During his last game in the minors, he holds a press conference and claims a conspiracy to get him out of the game so the team won't have to pay the remaining 100 or so bazillion dollars they owe him over the next four years. When pressed for details about who these parties are, he says he can't say but it should be obvious to everyone who "they" are, meaning the Yankees in cahoots with MLB commissioner Bud Selig.

3) It has been leaked to the media that someone in Rodriguez's "camp" ratted out two players involved in the Biogenesis scandal, Ryan Braun and (get this) Yankees utility catcher Francisco Cervelli. There is nothing more despicable than someone ratting out other players to save his own skin, but when one of those players is a fellow teammate, I don't understand how or why the team could possibly rally around this insufferable douchebag.

Note to Rodriguez-next time you go to an anti-aging clinic, make sure the owner doesn't look as aged as this. Could be a sign that something is wrong...

But rally around him they did. During their latest road trip to Boston, Red Sox pitcher Ryan Dempster decided to take the law into his own hands and mete out some frontier justice by purposely throwing at A-Rod not once but four fucking times, for which he received a 5-game suspension. The plate umpire, who should have been suspended along with Dempster, gave both benches a warning instead of throwing this asshole the fuck out of the game. When Dempster finally got around to dinging Rodriguez, you could see A-Rod mouthing the phrase "What the fuck..."

The Yankees got the last laugh, beating the Sox two out of three games, with Rodriguez coming alive and hitting a couple of home runs, one deep to dead center a la Dave Kingman. While Dempster was taking target practice at A-Rod, his teammates came to his defense and told him to hit one out and keep it moving, which he did.

As for rallying around Rodriguez, both Robinson Cano and the newly acquired Alfonso Soriano have been hitting the leather off the ball since his return, and with 35 or so games left the Yankees may be, thanks to another possible Red Sox implosion, looking at another playoff appearance after being left for roadkill just a few weeks ago. This while everyone was saying (me included) how washed up A-Rod looked during his minor league stint.

4) Rodriguez is alleged to have paid for Bosh's lawyer, a retainer for $25,000. Rodriguez attempted to wire a further $50,000 which was rejected, according to Susy Ribero-Ayala, Bosh's attorney's spokesperson . This is what MLB believes to be witness tampering to get Bosh to be quiet.

5) Rodriguez lawyer Joseph Tacopina has gone on an unprecedented rampage against Yankees management. He has accused them of withholding the MRI results of Rodriguez's hip last October from the player, stating that the Yankees, everyone from the owners down to the manager, knew the extent of his injuries and never told him. This was the reason for his disastrous post season performance. He continued to play with a torn labrum in his left hip that lead to his latest surgery without knowing how badly he was hurt.

The strut of a douchebag, as presented by Vince McMahon and perfected by Alex Rodriguez-



I've come around on A-Rod. I despised him, but now I see the schadenfreude that has come to bite Bud Selig right in the ass. He impotently presided over the biggest steroid freakshow this side of the East German Olympic teams of the 1970's and behaved as if nothing was ever amiss. By the time he got around to doing anything about it, the power surge petered out on its' own. Marl McGuire retired, Sammy Sosa slithered irrevocably into oblivion, and Barry Bonds was sent packing with very little fanfare after breaking the most hallowed home run records there were to shatter.

The owners loved it when the money poured in and the stadiums were packed full of fans despite the fact that baseball had turned into an even more shameless spectacle than professional wrestling. But no one seemed to care then. I certainly didn't, and I still don't. Now Selig, after being showered with a big-money contract to continue his reign of stupidity, wants his legacy to read that he was the commissioner to get "tough" on steroid cheats. Too late for absolution. He will go down in history as a dumbed-down version of the UCI's "Fat" Pat McQuaid. The only difference between the two being the egregious salary discrepancy. Selig got paid way out of proportion to his expertise, but that is what baseball is like-a good old boy's network where complicity trumps competence every time.

A-Rod hawking his latest children's book called "The Man Who Took Steroids And Laughed All The Way To The Bank"-


So the Yankees get played by an even bigger asshole and liar, and a Latino at that. Nice to see one of ours stick it to the man, and stick it to him hard and deep, way up the Yankee's collective asses. This is why I now profess my undying love for the man who has made a mockery of the sport. He's been a fraud from the very moment he stepped onto the playing field as a rookie. Rodriguez has, by some accounts, been a steroid user since high school, and has forged a legacy that no other player will touch-how good could he have been if he played on the proverbial "pan y agua" regimen? Nowhere near as good as he turned out to be, that's for damn sure. Steve Austin, meet Alex Rodriguez, the $6 million Dollar Asshole once he ties Willie Mays' home run total.

During one of his ridiculously smarmy press conferences, Rodriguez professed to wanting to rid the sport of PED's. He attempted to do his part by ingesting so many steroids there would be nothing left for anyone else. He even reached out to Victor Conte of BALCO fame to get advice on what he could "legally" take to enhance his performance. And we all know Conte built his nutritional supplement empire on carb drink mixes and Fred Flintstone multi-vitamin chewables-


A-Rod is a lot like Reggie Jackson-as unapologetic and remorseless during the bad times as he is self-congratulatory in good times. And why shouldn't he be? He's the pretty boy we all wish we were, with the paycheck commiserate with his prodigious talents. We all played a role in creating this monster, this remorseless egomaniac without the conscience to feel even the most fleeting pangs of guilt. Derek Jeter may be the heart and soul of the Yankees, but it will always be Rodriguez, the most loathed player in modern american sport, who drives us to watch the game just to jeer him on.

For those people who want him gone, think again. He's going to be our collective national nightmare for the next four years regardless of how long his suspension lasts. I am positive the arbitrator will not uphold the 211 game ban, which at the time included all remaining games for this year and the totality of next season. That's not happening. It will be shortened considerably. And while he and MLB battle it out in the court of public opinion, Rodriguez just passed St. Louis Cardinals legend Stan "The Man" Musial on the all-time rbi list and is now 6th all-time in that department. He also hit his 650th home run. Ten more and he equals the great Willie Mays. When this happens he gets a bonus of $6 million dollars, putting his 2013 salary at $34 million. WOO HOO!!! Watching this transpire has made a boring baseball season that much more exiting, and it hopes to get better if the Yankees get to the playoffs.

Because there is nothing better than for baseball fans to root against the Yankees when it counts-during the postseason. The playoffs wouldn't be the same without them and the sporting world's most insufferable prick.


Monday, July 29, 2013

Film Recommendation of the Week...

Beware of Mr. Baker
Release Date-November 28, 2012.
Running time-1 Hour 40 Minutes.


Drum legend Ginger Baker is featured here in all his ragged, self-indulgent glory. As a documentary, this film scores high marks for getting it absolutely right, focusing on the subject without veering into sentimentalist tripe or anarchic chaos. This seemed a tall task given that in the very first scene we are privy to Baker breaking the nose of filmmaker Jay Bulger for having the audacity to tell him he was off to interview the people he's left behind like so much residual dust back in jolly old England.

The human shrapnel from Baker's life is legendary. He has abandoned wives, children, and has been kicked or chased out of virtually every country he's lived in. He suffered years of heroin abuse, grossly mismanaged his money, and at the advanced age of seventy-three, when most people who are fortunate enough to still be alive should be enjoying their golden years, Baker is currently on tour only because he's so fucking completely broke. He suffers from degenerative arthritis and needs medication just to be able to get around. But he still has the energy to piss people off and be a complete and total asshole, which ironically seems to be his only saving grace.

Cream during their heyday-

Baker on the skins-

Baker interviewed for the documentary in his then-home in South Africa-

Baker, despicable character as he is, must be remembered for being the driving force behind the 20th Century's seminal rock band Cream. The trajectory of their meteoric rise and catastrophic fall took a little over two years to complete (July 1966 to November 1968, officially ending with the historic farewell concert at the Royal Albert Hall in England on November 26th of that year), but their influence lives on. As it should, considering that the wankers who dare call themselves rock bands nowadays can't hold a candle to bands like Cream. Baker, along with bassist Jack Bruce and guitarist Eric Clapton, were rock's very first power trio, the idea behind this concept being you start with three bad motherfuckers and you go out and kick ass. This is exactly what Cream did. During their brief spell, ass was kicked in abundance.

But, like everything in Baker's life, it didn't last long. There seems to be no reason for the cantankerousness except for the obvious fact that homeboy was born with a serious personality disorder. Either that or all those bombs the Nazis dropped on London must have fucked him up as a kid, or the loss of his father during the war. Whatever happened, it's too late to undo all the damage he's done to the people in his life. Still in all, we can still enjoy the music he left behind, though from watching the film one can only be left with a feeling of resentment that he didn't make the slightest effort to get along with some of the people he played with. We can only imagine what Cream would have developed into if they were together just a few more years.

This film captures the man in his entirety-complicated, angry, intelligent, self-absorbed, incredibly kind to animals yet dismissively brutal with his own children, and talented as all hell. Not the complete douchebag we've come to expect, but certainly cantankerous and given to fits of utter meanness that makes an interview with him like bathing in a pool of barbed wire. Whatever you think of the man, you must give the filmmaker props for capturing this genius completely, with all the contradicting traits that make him impossible to define yet fascinating to watch.