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.



Sunday, July 28, 2013

Jay Z and the Brooklyn Nets...


There's been a lot of buzz going around over rapper/entrepreneur Jay Z's foray into the sports marketing world. He's signed a couple of important athletes like Robinson Cano, Kevin Durant and others to his newly found Roc Nation Sports Agency. His street-smart ghetto mogul persona is the antithesis of someone like superagent Scott Boras, the prototypical conservative, granite-jawed white man who has reigned supreme in this field since the advent of the sports agent. But the question remains-is all the publicity just smoke and mirrors, or is there any substance to what he's done? What has been his legacy as minority owner of the Nets?

Jay Z's ownership in the Brooklyn Nets has been terribly overhyped. Before he was forced to divest his shares due to conflicting business interests, his stake was 1/50th of 1%. The most valuable part of the deal was the free courtside seats for him and his equally over-hyped, wigged-out, lip-syncing "chica plastica" wife Beyoncé, which he still gets to keep (nothing like mega-rich assholes getting freebies). Before we get into what he's gotten done, let's go over what he HASN'T accomplished as the bulbous-lipped aardvark face of the Nets franchise-

1) Luring A-List free agents to play in Brooklyn-
No. The revamping of the Nets' image, with new uniform colors, a brand new stadium in the heart of Brooklyn (easily accessible via public transportation-not a coincidence) and Jay Z sitting front row has done nothing to lure free agents of any magnitude to the franchise. J-Hova was supposed to get Lebron. That went busto. Instead of Dwight Howard, who had been screeching during his last two years in Orlando that he wanted to play in Brooklyn, the Nets were forced to sign the lead-footed, Frankensteinian Brook Lopez to a long-term contract. That's like getting stood up to the prom by a beautiful babe and having to take Matilda Gorilla as consolation.

They managed to re-sign point guard Darren Williams to a maximum level contract he clearly does not deserve, but only because he was already on the premises via one of the myriad of future-choking trades the Nets have partaken in, in which they have managed to trade away almost all of their first round draft picks for the next twenty five years. Though I'm sure he'll be glad to take all the credit, the only players of note the Nets have acquired were through a trade that netted three washed-up derelicts from Boston-Garnett, Pierce and Jason Terry-three stinking carcasses the Celtics were dying to unload.

Gangster's Paradise-Russian thug Prokhorov and ex-crack dealer Jay Z lunching with the mayor of New York...

2) Creating "Buzz" to rival and supplant the Knicks-
Absolutely not. No one gives a shit about the Nets, and for good reason. Who the fuck wants to watch, much less pay to see, a bunch of tired, perpetually injured veterans well past their best years tank in the playoffs and totally tune out their coach against a beatable Chicago Bulls team totally depleted by injury and illness? Those self-aggrandizing billboards on West 34th street near Madison square Garden proclaiming their arrival in New York City didn't work. The Knicks suck, but the Nets are worse. Message to Mikhail Prokhorov-this ain't Russia. You can't fly over here on your private jet fakin' the funk with your champagne bottles and your $5,000-a-day intergalactic space whores talkin' about competing with the Knicks and usurping their fanbase. Here in NYC you must WIN SOMETHING BEFORE YOU START TALKING THAT BULLSHIT.

3) Being Jay Z-
Egomaniacs don't come larger than those in the rap world, and Jay Z takes the cake like no other. He's modeled himself as a mogul whose mere touch turns everything to gold. First of all, he's lucky to have survived the streets of Brooklyn. He could have easily been shot or done serious jail time for drug dealing, his previous profession that he still brags about both in interviews and on his tiresome rap albums. Second of all, his success can be chalked up to luck more than anything else. If Notorious B.I.G., Tupac and Big Pun had not met untimely deaths all around the same time, Jay Z would have been relegated to the Instructional League of Hip Hop. After those cats died, the door was left wide open and he stepped through due to fortuitous timing. If anything, his career trajectory exemplifies the importance of being in the right place at the right time, which can supersede talent and hard work more than people realize.

See ya in Miami, son-

If it seems like I'm giving this multi-jillion dollar ghetto fabulous philanthropist short shrift, it's not because I'm "a hater", as the denizens of the inner city love accusing people who dare criticize public housing rats who make it big. It's because gangsters like Jay Z and Mikhail Prokhorov are beloved for one thing and one thing only-their lavish lifestyles, fuck how they made their money. Despite all their supposed business acumen, they can't street hustle their way to an NBA championship. Nor can they overspend their way to the top. Just ask the Steinbrenners, who as owners of the New York Yankees have spent over two billion dollars on player salaries over the last ten years and have one championship to show for it. ONE.

Putting together a championship caliber team takes knowledge, patience, the fine art of finagling the salary cap, and a willingness to develop talent. This last and most crucial aspect the Nets have shown absolutely no interest in. Just being Jay Z isn't enough to lure quality ballers to Brooklyn. Hell, I'd rather go to Flatbush Avenue for Junior's cheesecake than to play for the Nets, where I'd run the risk of tearing an ACL on a fast break tripping over Jay Z's humongous lips. The next time you see the Nets it will be exiting the playoffs in the early rounds. They are one injury to one of their aging stars from irrelevance, and given their collective lack of athleticism this will happen sooner rather than later.


Jay Z, the former crack dealer who dodged a major drug trafficking charge after getting pulled over on I-95 by Maryland State Troopers while headed to Baltimore with cocaine hidden in the sunroof of his car because the drug sniffing dogs of that particular police unit were tied up elsewhere, who shot his own brother for stealing his jewelry, whose own father succumbed to heroin addiction, paired with Russian Oligarch Mihkail Prokhorov, a man whose life story is full of the same type of brutish gangster behavior, albeit Russian style, to get the Nets to Brooklyn and have yet to fulfill even one iota of the promises they've made.

Jay Z certainly has done well off the publicity, as he is co-owner of the company that handles the Nets marketing and was allowed to christen the new Barclays Arena with a string of nine consecutive sold-out concerts. Prokhorov doesn't seem to give a flying fuck, either about the team or about how much money he has to pay in luxury tax, the percentages of which are so onerous it makes one wonder how one can spend so much money just to be mediocre. He hardly ever attends games and when he does, he watches from the sanctuary of his luxury suite high above the action like some detached feudal lord observing his serfs from the confines of his castle. But don't blame that on Jay Z. He's just happy being in the right place at the right time.

A young Jay Z during the crack epidemic of the late 1980's, sporting the ubiquitous drug dealer regalia of the time-


Tuesday, July 16, 2013

NBA News and Notes Pt.II...

The Houston Rockets-


Our collective national nightmare is over. We can all sleep now that Dwight Howard has decided to bolt from Los Angeles. What hinders Howard more than anything else is his goofy personality and the perception that he'd rather be having a good time and lose than be miserable and win. This year he was miserable AND he lost. But don't blame him for wanting to get the hell out of Dodge. The mercenary attitude Kobe Bryant exhibits on a nightly basis on the court doesn't translate well to civilian life, and this was never more apparent than last year when he showed the world (again) that he has serious issues playing alongside another player, especially a big man, who has the same talent and sense of entitlement as he does. These two pricks managed to buddy-fuck each other out of what could have been a  formidable team, but I must lay the majority of the blame squarely on the shoulders of Bryant.

He never publicly supported Pau Gasol when Phil Jackson spent their last playoff run of any significance (against Dallas when they won the title), ripping him to shreds for the whole world to see. When Gasol aired a few grievances publicly, Bryant shrieked back at Gasol to "put his big boy pants on". This is what an insufferable prick he is. His abhorrent treatment of his personal staff is well-documented, and like I always say, that rape incident in Colorado was indicative of his personality. If I have a hot Mexican hoochie at home to plow every night, why would I have to go to a hotel to rape a hapless female staff member who was more than likely just looking for a photo and an autograph, and would have happily traded a fat blowjob and some dick up her ass for the privilege? He probably thought she enjoyed getting sexually assaulted, and only sued him to get some money. Well, she got paid lovely in an undisclosed settlement, but life for him arrogantly went on as if nothing happened.

This time, Bryant met up with a dude who wasn't having it. Howard didn't leave because he feared the bright lights of the big city. That happens only when you're a villain. Gangster rapper turned fake tv family man Ice Cube went onstage and called him a coward. If Howard had signed with LA this is the first guy who would have been sucking his cock, so take that for what it's worth. Houston has a bigger upside. They have Kevin McKale and Hakeem "The Dream" Olajuwon to mentor him, but Howard has to show more of an inclination to get better than just doing shoulder presses in the weight room.

Rockets royalty welcome Howard to Houston-Ralph Sampson, Clyde Drexler, Hakeem Olajuwon, Yao Ming and Calvin Murphy-

One thing that Howard has never uttered was his desire to get better. His game over the last nine years has stagnated, and he needs to improve his offense because if all he does is get the ball in the low post just to get fouled, that is a recipe for a quick first round exit from the playoffs. He's got two cats in McKale and Olajuwon who, in their prime as players, were the most sublime scorers of all time in the low post. Howard doesn't even have to go with them to the gym-all he has to do is study their moves via dvd and copy the ones he likes verbatim. That's it. How fucking hard could that possibly be? What the Rockets need to do now is get rid of point guard Jeremy Lin and center Omer Asik. Linsanity is over, and it turned out to be a mirage. He is best suited coming off the bench or packaged like a can of sardines with their other starting bum-ass motherfucker Omer Asik. The point guard who is best suited for this team is Rajon Rondo. the Celtics don't want him, anyway and they are looking to rid themselves of any large contract they can now that they are in full-on tank mode, so this will do nicely.

The New York Knicks-

The pestiferous stench emanating from Madison Square Garden isn't from the renovations. It's from the rotting corpses they've exhumed in order to stay relevant in the Eastern Conference. The Knicks traded away two bums (Marcus Camby and Steve Novak)  in return for seven-foot stiff named Andrea Bargnani. How anonymous is this guy? He was the first pick of the first round in the 2006 draft AND I'VE NEVER HEARD OF HIM, and I follow basketball like a pimp follows his hoes down the street to make sure they're out there making that money. How could this happen, you ask? He played for Toronto, for one. Davis Stern, in his last act as commissioner, needs to make it illegal for the NBA to have a franchise in Canada. It's too cold, the taxes are too high, and the only players who wind up there are from trades and the college draft. No one goes there on their own volition except for Hedo Turkoglu, and that lasted less than one year.

You can bet your ass Bargnani won't be doing THIS for the Knicks this coming season-

Bargnani is such a "muerto", when news of the trade became official his agent called Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx to see if they had any mausoleums his client could convert into a Transilvanian condo-a solid cement structure with no windows and no ventilation. Directly below is a photo of him at the press conference to announce the trade, in all his sartorial splendor. Anyone requesting to be buried in plaid has to be a fucking burger* of epic proportions-


(*For those of you unfamiliar with this term, a "burger" is inner city parlance for someone who can't play basketball but plays anyway, much to everyone's chagrin. The phrase originated in the public high schools of New York City due to the quality of the rubbery, inedible meat substitute used in the burgers served at lunch. A highly insulting comment for anyone who considers themselves a baller.)

And it gets worse. Sources say the Knicks are in talks with Elton Brand, who, at 34 and perpetually hurt, hasn't been an impact players in the league for years. Brand was last seen averaging 6 points and 7 rebounds at a local morgue recreation league, the only league that lets customers leave the refrigerators they keep bodies in and suit up if they don't have enough live players to constitute a squad. Last year Brand received the Golden Cadaver Award for biggest, most inconsequential stiff in the NBA. First prize was a two-week stay inside a crematorium oven with the fire on full blast. Guess who got honorable mention? Andrea Bargnani. To have both on the same team is a mortician's dream come true.

Amar'e Stoudemire has been dead for the last three years, but the resident taxidermists at MSG keep stuffing him and propping him up so well he looks like he's actually running up and down the court. They've even managed to have him in uniform a few times a year and everyone's been fooled into thinking he's still alive, except when he has to play defense. Then the gig is up. But that was true of his game when he was alive, which is why no one has noticed that he's a cadaver. The Knicks are stuck with his contract, which is not guaranteed due to his egregious medical issues, for another two years, while Carmelo Anthony can opt out of his contract next year, which by all indications he's probably going to do and bolt for Los Angeles.

The Knicks have also re-signed Italian hobo Pablo Prigioni, who at 36 years of age is already at the tail end of his career, all of it with the exception of last season having been played in Europe. If you've ever seen him, he doesn't look like a ball player. With his huge Tuscan schnoz he looks like he should be working the counter of an Italian butcher shop serving old ladies slivers of prosciutto. Older and bummier is the Knicks' outlook for the near future, and it makes no sense talking about the rest of their roster. If you want a vision of what they'll look like this coming season, just Google "mass grave" and you'll get the picture.

One stromboli, coming up-

As time goes on, the news gets more absurd. The Knicks have signed Metta World Peace (the artist formerly known as Ron Artest) to a two-year deal. The fumes emanating from this special ed turd's declining skills are Chernobyl-esque, which will make him a perfect fit in New York. The Miami Heat have amnestied Mike Miller, a solid three-point threat who would have come cheaper than Bargnani, and despite being injury-plagued himself, would have been a fine addition to the Knicks' MASH unit. Now that Al Harrington has also been amnestied, maybe he has enough left in the tank to add some sorely needed athleticism to the Knicks front line if he can stay healthy, which was a a major issue for him last year. How many amnestied, retreaded bums does that make? I lost count...

J.R. Smith had off-season knee surgery that was more serious than expected. Not only did he have cartilage damage, but his patellar tendon needed work as well. Did the Knicks not have him take a physical before re-signing him? Regardless, they were competing against themselves for his services due to the abysmal performance on display during the most important playoff series for the franchise in years. The playoffs is when you have to come correct, not be seen partying it up at some nightclub with Rhianna of all women. So when she was blamed for his shooting woes, she immediately took to the internet to get her story out-


Now that's class for you. I'll bet anything Smith hurt his knee doing cartwheels in the bathroom of Rhianna's hotel suite from the excitement of getting all in that ass. Note to anyone who've never slipped and busted their ass on tile flooring-you can't do flips on marble. That's a landing Mary Lou Retton couldn't stick. Regardless, Rhianna is a cross between a piranha and a bronco bull-all titties, ass and an attitude to match. You can't ride her without risk of getting catapulted through the air like a rodeo clown. And if you don't handle your business (and even if you do), she's the type that will diss you in the worst way possible for the whole world to know.

J.R. Smith (right) and Rhianna on the night in question-

Smith has never met a party he didn't like. In fact, he's the type of cat that would stand in front of a new club until it opens, just to be the first one inside. There's a price to be paid for that lifestyle. Because of his horrific shooting during the playoffs, in combination with the injury and his relentless ass-chasing, he cost himself millions of dollars in a free agent market woefully bereft of perimeter scorers. I don't think he cares. At least the Knicks re-signed Kenyon Martin. Martin on fumes is better than Smith shooting 7 of 35 any day of the week.

There are rumblings that Sebastian Telfair would also like to join the team for the league's veteran minimum. This I'm in favor of. I've always been a Telfair fan, and believe he's one of the most storied players ever to waste his talent by going to the pros way too early. It must be tough for him knowing his best days as a professional athlete occurred between the ages of 13 and 18, but he still has plenty left in the tank. He's been woefully underutilized during his time in the NBA, never garnering starter';s minutes for some pretty bad teams and he's never suffered a major injury. The clock on his potential is soon running out. If he doesn't do something within the next two years to break out of his funk, he will forever be remembered as a marginal journeyman talent who too much too soon and lost it just as quickly.

The Oklahoma City Thunder-

They made one mistake, and it cost them dearly. They will probably never win a coveted NBA title because of it. They traded one of the best perimeter players in the league a year before his contract was up in James Harden. If they would have kept him, they could have utilized him as a starter when Russell Westbrook went down with a knee injury. The biggest piece of the trade for Oklahoma, three-point shooting specialist Kevin Martin, just signed with Minnesota as a free agent. So they got absolutely nothing for one of the best players in the league.

They also have not amnestied Kendrick Perkins, who is considered by many pundits to be one of the worst centers in the NBA. I have no idea what happened to this guy. He was supposedly a defensive anchor brought in to deal with the Andrew Bynams and Dwight Howards of the world, but because the center position has changed, a player who has no offensive skills and cannot hit an outside shot is basically redundant. They must get rid of him to clear some salary cap space to see who becomes available during this coming season. If not, they can very well say good-bye to Kevin Durant, who just signed with Jay Z's agency and will probably tell his client that he needs to go to a bigger market when he becomes a free agent. Way to go, OKC. You guys fucked up so bad your franchise may never recover from this series of idiotic moves.