Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Reeva SteenKamp...

In Memorium-Reeva Steenkamp 
Aug. 19, 1983-Feb. 14, 2013

This woman should never have died such a senseless, violent death at the hands of her boyfriend, the  paranoid, rage-a-holic gun nut Oscar Pistorius. Yes, it turns out that this hero to the disabled athlete community, and the first person to have taken part in the Olympics as a track star with state-of-the-art prosthetic legs, had issues. To be fair, in South Africa, violent crime is at outrageous proportions, and it's well-heeled citizens must take extra security measures to protect themselves from the marauding herd of thugs that terrorize South African society.

But famous star athletes, due to their financial situations, can take extra security precautions the average person cannot. Pistorious lived in a gated community with 24-hour security. Yet his paranoia ran so deep he had guns strategically placed all over his home "just in case". We here in the states know all too well that the nutbags who call for more guns for the sake of protection are the ones who live in communities where they are touched the least by minorities and gun violence, a combination many right-wing maniacs equate as going hand-in-hand. Here is a photo taken of his bedside back in 2010, and as we all know, happiness is a warm gun. Nothing like a silver Taurus 9mm pistol with a full clip to help one count sheep when irrational paranoia doesn't let you get any shut-eye-

The couple in happier times-

Unfortunately, a dismaying fact of life the world over is that celebrities like Pistorius always get away with behaving poorly because pretty young women will always be attracted to them. And if he had some sort of bad-boy persona brewing beneath his clean-cut, pretty-boy image, then he would appear all the more alluring to the opposite sex. This does not mean Reeva Steenkamp had to perish in such a manner because she found him attractive, shot four times through a bathroom door in the middle of the night by this lunatic. But what it does mean is that if he had exhibited a previous pattern of abnormal, anti-social behavior, someone should have called him out on it. And if she had any inkling that this dude had problems, she should have stayed away from him. And yes, she dated star athletes and was a reality-show star, something we loathe with abandon here on "Busting Chops", but her life also revolved around intellect and doing good for others, so she gets a pass.

The details of the initial investigation have been well-documented. The original detective assigned to the case was released from it due to his own issues with crossing the law, under investigation for some charges that include murder. then there is the question of the cache of performance enhancing drugs supposedly found in Pistorius' home on the night of the murder. His contradictory story about what happened aside, the facts that have been established are bad enough to seriously question who this man really is. He deserves a fair trial no doubt, but what he doesn't deserve is to make his deceased girlfriend into an active participant in her own demise. What we need to know are the events that preceded this madness, and only Pistorius knows the truth. Don't expect it. A man fighting for his life is going to lie to get out of this situation, so let's celebrate this beautiful, intelligent young lady, a model since the age of fourteen, law school graduate, and a fighter against bullying and violence against women, something to which she needlessly lost her life to.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

The Gym...

We are going to profile the myriad characters that inhabit one of the last vestiges of publicly sanctioned indecency, the local gym.

There are different types of gyms, and here in NYC we have all the bases covered. We have public gyms run by the city which offer bottom-of-the-barrel amenities (including aging, rusting equipment that NEVER gets updated, just thrown out when it doesn't work anymore and never replaced) for the financially challenged and borderline mentally unhinged. We have chain-store gyms like Planet Fitness that cater to the overweight and slovenly in low-income neighborhoods. We have boutique places like Equinox that offer upper-tier privileges at upper-tier price scales, and Crunch Fitness that offers all types of semi-pro workouts for perpetually frustrated weekend warriors who can't let go of their high school days as premier jocks before they went off to college and found it easier to compete at Beer Pong and Butt Chugging than athletics once the competition ramped up. This scenario always reminds me of what a friend once told me about athletes who get hammered once they branch out to compete outside their community-"If you're a local hotshot and can't cut the mustard on a bigger stage, don't leave town!!! You WILL be exposed!!!" Truer words were never spoken.

But who are these denizens of the workout arenas? Are they an amorphous mass of swollen-headed douchebags who simply live to compete against anything and anyone past the point of relevance to the outside world? Are they a bunch of over-privileged yuppies joylessly stomping mile after mile like Clydesdales on treadmills to simulated courses of marathons they'll never run in real life? Are they a bunch of Chef Boyardi beef pillow-eating slobs whose only incentive to join a gym is the specter of grim death due to a stroke or heart disease, the  #1 killer in America? Who are these motherfuckers? We'll break it down for you here on "Busting Chops".

The Uber-Yuppie-
This goofy prick is the prototype of the Equinox/Crunch Fitness crowd. He's the one who purchases the complete Elite Gold Package, which of course doesn't include personal training sessions-those are separate. He has his personal trainer on speed-dial just in case there's an emergency, like GNC running out of protein mix. He is the guy constantly staring at his heart rate monitor so as not to go over his lactate threshold and brings a GPS for his rides on the stationary bike so he doesn't get lost. He is the dickwad who does two spin classes in a row so he can get a leg up on the competition, which includes but is not exclusive to other assholes such as himself.

He is the guy who takes steroids just to do laps on his $15,000 bike around Central and Prospect Parks. He trains hard, supplements like crazy and chides people who clearly don't give a flying fuck about proper nutrition and periodization. He shops at Whole Foods and Fairway, either has a fake tan or is extremely pale, and must always be in cock diesel mode, meaning he is always posing as if he were doing a photo shoot for Men's Fitness magazine. His shirts are always too fucking tight, and he takes himself so seriously that for him going to the gym is the equivalent of curing cancer, substituting energy bars and Fitness Water for chemotherapy. This graceless goon is a real hoot at parties, which is ironic seeing as he never goes to any because on Saturday and Sunday mornings he's at the gym before they open, racing to be first on the elliptical machine. He is also the asshole you see in 23 degree weather walking to the gym in a sweatshirt and shorts. Don't understand why it's a problem to put sweatpants on so as not to freeze to death-wait a minute, then people may not know this guy's on his way to the gym, and what could be more important than that?

The Wretched-
The Over-The-Hill Gang. These are the senior citizens who inhabit the public city gyms. They are the ones who are in their late 40's-early 50's but look older because their bodies, minds, and spirits have been ravaged by the ghetto life-a high-pressure, high-stakes game of Loser-Takes-All that is an offense to anything civil that exists in this wonderful country of ours. The conditions are all the same-hypertension,
cholesterol and  triglyceride levels so high they could resuscitate dormant volcanoes, diabetes, heart problems, and so on. You get the picture. Now that the large majority of their friends are either dead, in jail or in nursing homes being fed baby food through a straw up the ass and having to endure the disgrace of wearing adult diapers, suddenly physical fitness becomes a priority. It's too late for them, of course, because the damage has already been done.

You can't undo years of drug addiction, alcoholism, and family dysfunction by taking an aerobics class when you can barely walk. But they think at this late stage, when all is already lost, they can manage to stave off the inevitable decline by doing a few arm curls and twenty minutes on a raggedy treadmill. The outfits are a dead giveaway. I saw one old school Puerto Rican cat wearing (get this) tight running shorts with sweatpants underneath. This was the style back in the late 70's-early 80's used mostly by paddleball players who graced the courts at Yankee Stadium and Van Courtlandt Park. That was a long time ago. I can't believe this ensemble is legal to wear outside the confines of one's own home. I can say with all assurance that anyone who rocks this particular outfit still has plastic slip covers on their sofas.

The Ex-Con-
These are guys who've been in and out of prison most of their lives, and wear their incarceration time with the type of pride most associate with graduating from college. In fact, hang around long enough and from their conversations you'll be able to ascertain that jail was the best thing that ever happened to these losers, but I wouldn't call them that to their faces. They do reps with weights normal people max out on. They have arms bigger than most people's legs, and are so ripped it seems impossible to be so fucking cock diesel without steroids. But diesel they are. And it's obvious they don't do steroids because they can't afford them. In prison, motherfuckers spend their money on drugs or peanut butter for the obligatory "tossed salad" (don't ask-you don't want to know). On the outside, just look at what they wear. When your workout gear is also the clothing you use for everyday life, budgetary constraints have a tendency of overriding pretensions to sartorial splendor.

The tell-tale sign of such a cat is best described by the term "penitentiary torso". Normal guys who work out are either big or ripped, usually not both. Or they just stay bloated. The guys I'm talking about are both big AND ripped. In the joint, they have bench press, sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and all the time in the world. Despite all the machines in the gym, they revert to doing nothing but pull-ups, set after set after set. Why? Because it reminds them of the good old days in the big house, where they spent the best days of their lives.
And they have no legs, because no one does squats in prison, at least not the type that get your legs big, in case you're wondering (and I hope you weren't). Their conversations usually start off like this-"When I was locked up..." After that intro, rest assured you will be regaled with tales from the joint you never want to hear again.

The Meathead-
This guy is just too much, and every gym has 'em. They come in various forms, but the behavior is similar enough to have its' own category. He is the one who does arms and chest every single workout, and in between sets parades around the gym with other like-minded pricks, looking at themselves in the mirror and looking around to see who's looking at them. They hold their arms at their sides as if they were unbearably heavy slabs of meat protruding from their necks, hoping to impress and/or intimidate the other members. They prance about like peacocks with their chests puffed out, because clearly as evolution has taught us, women find nothing more attractive and alluring than the bloated, protruding male chest titties of a "Wrong Said Fred" video reject, who is just too sexy for this blog-

The Undercover Homosexual Thug-
There are some serious homo-erotic tendencies on display with these particular cats. Women who go to the gym don't acknowledge meatheads and don't give a fuck about them, so who are these dickheads preening for? Each other. They do this not only in the gyms, but outside in public parks wherever there is an area designated for calisthenics, pull-ups and whatever else have you. Just as some of they got a taste of working out while in prison, they also picked up homosexual proclivities they know are not acceptable in the hyper-macho world of the 'hood. You see this even amongst the most hard-core dudes who one would think would never engage in such acts. But like I stated above, some of these guys received a real education in the slammer (like a taste for getting slammed), and apparently liked what they learned. I have no problem with homosexuals, but keep in mind where these guys learned to refine their taste for sexual partners of the same gender-in jail, where rape is used not only as a weapon of intimidation and violence, but as a vehicle to express pent-up anger, hostility and rage. Not the type of dudes you want to get friendly with. Give them a wide berth and you'll get through your workout in relative tranquility. And whatever you do, once you spot one of these cats, DO NOT make eye contact, even for a split second. To them, that's a come-on and you'll be in trouble.

The Weirdo-
The type of behavior you see at your local gym beggars belief. Most of the time you're good if you mind your own fucking business, but it's impossible not to be exposed to the carnival of lunacy due to the enforced close proximity of these retards. Here are a few examples-

1) A guy who walks around with a huge blue tub of protein powder because it doesn't fit in his locker. He then proceeds to tell no one in particular, and in a loud voice, that he has to take his protein, and then spills half the powder all over the locker room bench without cleaning it up. Don't ask me why he can't mix the concoction at home and bring it in the plastic cup he drinks it in.

2) At one local gym, there are two machines that, for whatever reason, are positioned uncomfortably close together in a corner. So if there are two people using them simultaneously...well, there shouldn't be. As soon as I hit the calf machine, there appears some bozo with the same black t-shirt and painfully short white-and-pink candy striped Richard Simmons shorts to zoom over to use the other machine. So as I'm working out to the incessantly inane beat of Rihanna's "Diamonds" blaring overhead, I have this numbskull literally pushing his stupid face right into mine instead of having the decency of waiting until I finish. What's worse, he never speaks, just grunts and yelps like a goat. His cacophony erupts not during his workout, but in between sets, as he's walking around. I attended this gym for exactly one month before going elsewhere, letting the other 6 months expire.

Never go to a public gym with a pool. If you have to, avoid the locker room at all costs. The nightmare scenarios that will envelop you are an outrage that will leave you scarred for life, and no amount of Primal Scream Therapy will be able to undo the damage. You'll need a frontal lobotomy just to be able to cope.

Towel Man-
Fuck if someone who behaves like this should not be in prison alongside Jerry Sandusky. If you know your body is totally and irreparably disfigured-overblown stomach, grotesque liver spots, oblong, bison-sized asscheeks hideously out of proportion to the rest of your body-why walk around with your towel open, either from the front or the back? Because people like this are perverted, sick fuckos who need to be strapped in straitjackets and tossed off a bridge. I was watching a National Geographic documentary on hippos in Africa, and one evening the film crew found the stinking, bloated carcass of a poor hippo who died of natural causes. It was turned on it's side, it's limbs shot straight into the air from rigor mortis. The poor thing wore the most wretched death masque you could imagine. This is what some of these goons look like in the locker room of this particular gym, and why I stopped attending after one month, even though I had six more to go on my prepaid membership.

Moral of the story? There isn't any. It's just part of the unbearable madness of everyday life.

Ron Jeremy...

Ron Jeremy showing off his post-operative surgical staples-

Jeremy giving the world a big thumbs-up with the aid of an ICU nurse-

Only in America can the most prolific male porn star/sex symbol look like a diseased, overweight hedgehog, and no one bats an eye at this seemingly untenable contradiction. It makes absolutely no sense, which is why it makes perfect sense. Ron Jeremy has been released from Cedars Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles after undergoing two heart procedures, and the home office at "Busting Chops" and it's worldwide subsidiaries have been inundated with messages of support for this, the "hardest" working man in show business.

Jeremy was feeling a little funny one day a few weeks ago while driving to the airport to catch a flight to his sister's wedding, so he peels over and hightails it to the hospital. According to the medical staff, if he had gotten on that plane he would have died. There have been better looking porn actors with dicks almost as big as his, but somehow he is celebrated as the All-American Sex Symbol that other celebrities who get their fair share of ass are jealous of. He's been getting laid on camera since the 1970's and hasn't stopped since, and he's fucked everybody there is to fuck, both publicly and in his private life. His biography will be something to behold, and hopefully he will begin to work on it now that he's gotten the scare of his life.

Ron Jeremy, reminding all of us why it's so good to be him-

The only man Charlie Sheen is jealous of-

Ron Jeremy at Corey Feldman's 35th brithday party-

Funny enough, Jeremy, the world's preeminent adult film star, didn't start out as the hairy, disgusting, lardass porcupine from the sewers of Hell he looks like today. He just kept getting increasingly fatter and more grotesque over the years and never gave a fuck. That didn't mean his female co-stars liked it, but so many considered screwing him a form of career advancement that he kept getting work. Don't really understand the logic of that, but hey, whatever. They're porn stars, who the fuck ever said their thought process makes any sense. The other odd thing that happened was celebrities from more legitimate walks of life took to hanging out with him and adopted him as sort of the guy they wish they could most be like, a sort of uncrowned king of hedonism that Hugh Hefner portrayed behind closed doors. Unlike with Hefner, there was nothing clandestine about Jeremy's lifestyle-his shit was out in the open, and because of this his legend grew.

Portrait of the porn star as a young man. Ron Jeremy's high school year book picture (Dios mio, que bestia)-

For the last dozen or so years, Jeremy has been one of the few industry male actors who are signed under an exclusive contract to a specific company, which means he makes more money performing in a limited number of films per year than the average porn star, and at the ripe old age of fifty-nine he can't go on forever. But this grotesque fat fuck managed to dodge a bullet here, because he suffered from the same condition that took out actor John Ritter. Somehow, the absurdity of life is encapsulated in this man's improbable career arc. The phrase "who would have thought" applies to this man more than anyone else. And as I always knew it, regardless of how or when he goes out, Ron Jeremy will always have the last laugh. As it should be.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

The Three Amigos...

Today I present to you the Trifecta of Stupid-Alex Rodriguez, Ray Lewis and Manti Te'o. The year has barely begun and we are already knee-deep in some of the biggest bullshit stories this side of a horse's ass.

A few years ago, Alex Rodriguez went on television and straight-up lied about his steroid use. He then later  admitted (when he got busted, of course) to being a user while at Texas. But instead of coming clean, he kept lying. He threw his own cousin, Yuri Sucart, under the bus, saying this pathetic dupe was the one procuring the drugs for him from the Dominican Republic. All throughout the myriad of injections and Yuri's trips to the Dominican Republic to procure said PED's, Rodriguez claimed to have been blissfully unaware of the products and doses administered by this idiot. In other words, A-Rod had no answers for anyone wanting to know the truth. Remember his infamous quote when asked about the details of his steroid regimen (I paraphrase)-"You know, that's the thing. I didn't know what I was taking. Remember, it was a real loosey-goosey time back then".

        Loosey goosey, baby!!! Woo-Hoo!!!

Well, not knowing or remembering is no longer a problem, because the latest scandal comes with medical and financial testimony direct from the recently shuttered "Biogenesis of America" clinic (closed in 2012) run by Anthony Bosch, a self-styled biochemist with absolutely no medical training whatsoever. Bosch isn't a real doctor; he just pretended to be one in an attempt to impress his major league clientele. His father, Dr. Pedro Bosch, is the one with the medical license, and he has written PED scripts for MLB players in the past. His son was charging Rodriguez $12,000 dollars a month for services and products. He would personally go to Alex's house in Key Biscayne to administer injections every couple of weeks. One time, Bosch went to draw blood and fucked the procedure up so badly (because he couldn't fiend a vein) Rodriguez threw him out of his house. A-Rod was left bleeding profusely, probably wondering how all that money can buy him is a quack of such epic magnitude as to rival Donald Duck in sheer, unadulterated incompetence.

Here is the laundry list-a veritable cornucopia, if you will-of steroids and various other supplements Rodriguez was taking during the course of his treatment with Bosch-

Testosterone: Banned substance applied by cream at 10% strength.

L-Glutathione: Antioxidant used for cell repair Troches: 19% testosterone-laced lozenge used prior to workout.

Troches: 19% testosterone-laced lozenge used prior to workouts.

Pink cream: Trans-dermal delivery of testosterone.

HgH: Injectable growth hormone, a banned substance.

CJC: Injectable growth hormone-releasing hormone.

GHRP: Injectable growth hormone-releasing peptide.

IGF-1: Banned substance; stimulates insulin and muscle growth.

Zinc: Essential mineral used as a dietary supplement.

Amino acids: Supplement aids in recovery and building of muscle tissue.

Vitamin D: Immune system booster.

Omega-3, -6, -9: Essential fatty acids.

5-HTP: Boosts serotonin production in brain.

DHEA: Testosterone precursor.

Resveratrol: Plant-based supplement marketed as anti-aging agent.

Melatonin: Hormone that helps regulate sleep and wake cycles.

Glucosamine- Supplement used for joint and cartilage health.

Alpha lipoic acid: Antioxidant that helps turn glucose into energy.

Ibuprofin: Anti-inflammatory drug to treat minor aches and pains.

Rodriguez is concerned that MLB and the New York Yankees are conspiring to single him out to void what is left of his ridiculous contract, which totals $114 million dollars over the next five years. What he should concern himself with is how he's going to come back and play third base with a straight face after lying for so long about his PED use. Never has 647 career home runs looked so inconsequential in light of how they were attained. But remember, the average baseball fan fervently believes that steroids do not help you hit a baseball. This lie will be put to the test the second Rodriguez takes the field if and when he recovers from his latest hip surgery.

Ray Lewis, the born-again uber-zealot who spends every waking moment the camera's on him preaching to the masses who share his visceral enthusiasm for gratuitous violence and religion, has been implicated in a deer antler scandal, which supposedly mimics the effects of HgH without the hassles of tripping a potential positive test. This substance DOES contain IGF-1, which IS banned. For you non-believers, it is a Festivus Miracle that Ray came back from a complete biceps tear in two months when it usually takes the average heathen six to eight months, including rehab. And at 38 years of age, the body usually doesn't heal as quickly as it would if one were younger. To make this even more ridiculous, his first game back he records 17 tackles. SEVENTEEN. And he is supposed to have gotten this accomplished with absolutely no pharmaceutical help whatsoever.

C'mon, Ray. Please give us something more to go on than this bullshit. He supposedly called the guy who sold him this crap, some asshole named Mitch Ross, owner of the company "Alternatives to Steroids" and told him, "give me everything you got". What exactly constitutes "everything", you ask? We can only surmise that it must have been some seriously powerful shit, given the speed of Lewis' comeback and the quality of his play thereafter. Is there anything ethically wrong with using banned substances to recover from an injury? That's not the point. Just don't be a fucking hypocrite about it. Or better yet, just keep your damn mouth shut and stop telling us it was Divine Intervention that aided in your recovery. I would have been more convinced if Lewis had transfused some of Charlie Sheen's Tiger Blood-someone needs to patent that shit so Mario Cipollini can come out of retirement.

Mitch Ross and his snake oil-

Manti Te'o was not to be outdone. His story of being in an internet relationship with someone he'd never met was preposterous enough on the sheer face of it. I called bullshit on it the second I heard it. He could have stopped right there and it would have been enough, but no. Turns out he lied to his father about meeting her, and the guy who supposedly perpetrated the hoax, Ronaiah Tuiassosopo, was the fictitious girlfriend in question all along. So it was a guy who was in love with Te'o, who then goes on Dr. Phil to confess that "he might be gay". Gee, ya think? Just a little bit, asshole? I can't think of someone more in dire need of psychiatric supervision as to put himself out there on national television for their "Brokeback Mountain" moment with a straight face. Have these losers no shame? No they don't. That's why I'm writing about them.

Let's set the table here-we have a star linebacker at Notre Dame, a cat who came in second in the Heisman voting, something almost unheard of for a defensive player. Te'o accomplishes this during a year of national resurgence for one of the most storied D-I college football factories in the United States that has been floundering for more than twenty years. And this motherfucker has to resort to getting Catfished while living on a campus full of the most attractive and stunning coeds in the Midwest, women who are more than happy to line up and get fucked by a football player. Get outta here with that.

Manti's stupid face was plastered all over television during this debacle, and he was interviewed by ESPN's Jeremy Schaap, who decided that after the grilling he gave Te'o decided his story was "credible". Some people will believe anything, apparently. But not us here on "Busting Chops". We don't believe anything, and this includes this cock-and-bull storyline about a fake girl who he was in love with for three years without ever having met her, and the person he did speak to on the phone pretending to be her was a dude. Too bad she died a fake death, because she too would have been on the Oprah Show right after Lance Armstrong confessing to being part of the fraud.

This leads us to where we are now. As a society, we have issues with putting idiot athletes on pedestals they don't belong on. Eventually, children grow out of believing in certain fantasies and they get over it. Once kids realize Santa Claus isn't real, that the gifts planted under the Christmas tree were purchased by their long-suffering parents and not some stupid-looking fat white man in a red suit flying around on a tricked-out snow mobile harnessed to a bunch of reindeer, they cope. Adults however, especially sports fans, are incapable of this. Their worlds spin completely out of control when their favorite athletes are exposed as frauds and/or lunatics.

We hear the same excuses all the time-steroids don't help you hit a baseball (of course they do). Conditioning and nutrition can perform miracles (of course they don't). Elite athletes can heal and come back from injuries faster than ever thanks to advances in sports medicine (ask Greg Oden if this is even remotely true). There are certain injuries no athlete can recover from, injuries so catastrophic they end careers. If you ask him, Ray Lewis' miraculous recovery was down to some serious Holy Intervention. Turns out it was probably copious amounts of deer antler spray, and quite possibly some other products we have no idea about because he will never tell the truth.

Alex Rodriguez was under the care of Anthony Bosch up until last year, and his name has appeared in the documents so far procured a total of sixteen times. We've highlighted his career trajectory on this blog. His stats have steadily gone downhill faster than a turd flowing down a flushed toilet, yet according to this latest report he never stopped taking PED's. This is what happens with steroid abuse. His body became worn out from the superhuman effort it takes to perform at a level it was never meant to perform at, and what we are left with is an aging dinosaur with terminally fucked up hips who will never recover from his injuries to even  remotely warrant the years and money left on his gargantuan contract.

Then there is Manti Te'o, whose mental capacity must be questioned in light of his surreal and obnoxiously self-centered tale of internet love gone bad. This attention whore got exactly what he wanted, and we paid the price. But he also paid, and there is some justice in the fact that not only his draft his draft stock fell according to "The Great Kazoo" lookalike and ESPN draft guru Mel Kiper, but according to a recent poll Te'o is the second most hated athlete in American behind "Busting Chops" poster boy Lance Armstrong. It also didn't help that in the NCAA title game between Notre Dame and Alabama, the Crimson Tide boogied on Te'o like he was a dollar-a-dance hoochie in some seedy Mexican border town saloon. When those cats got through working him over, he looked like he had gotten steamrolled by a conga line of Soul Train dancers.

The Great Kazoo-

Kazoo's long-lost brother, ESPN football draft guru Mel Kiper-

Here you have it-three different stories from three different assholes. It's only February, and already the assholes are out in full force in the sports world for 2013. Stay tuned for more, because there will always be more. It will never end.