Tennisburger Joins KKK Rally (calm down) on Grass Waaaaaay Late, Dog Eats Homework

I find it pretty obnoixious when bloggers apologize for not posting.  It reeks of self-importance and narcissim, as if people actually count on them for something other than the occasional, semi-annual chuckle.  Besides, none of you (all 18 of you) know me, so it’d be easy for me to drop the “I’ve-been-taking-care-of-sick-African-babies-in-Africa-bomb,” or “the “I-stubbed-my-big-toe-real-bad-bomb,” thus erasing any guilt on my side all while increasing your awe of me (*the guy can watch 10 hours of tennis hosted by Brad Gilbert, and still have time to stub his toe?*).  With that rant ranted, it’d be stupid of me to tell you I’ve had a bit of a life lately filled with poon (that’s not on a computer screen), and ice cream cones in the park and hand holding and poon.  Boo-fucking-hoo, right? This doesn’t mean I haven’t been watching, but poon is kind of like a special needs kid (a retard), and needs A LOT of attention. Almost too much attention! You hear me, babe? So I’m not gonna say sorry, ’cause it would make me sound like a butthole, so ummmm, day four right?

Is um, Bondarenko’s tramp stamp a tramp stamp if it’s in between in her shoulder blades and not, ya’ know, in the traditional tramp stamp area?  I mean, it’s Harley Davidson wings we’re dealing with here.  On the other hand her sister’s first initial is in the middle, which I’m torn on.  It’s sweet to have your sister represented on your tattoo, but when your tattoo is a pair of wings, it’s bordering on those sister shots in Playboy.  Whatever. So I watched the first point of the Venus match and had saw enough.  She went fucking bananas on that Bondarenko.  There’s a taco place by my house called El Taco Loco and I’m thinking maybe they could sponsor Venus when she plays on grass.  Maybe wear a little taco hat or sumpin’.  Maybe a hot sauce tramp stamp.  Ooooh, they could put their logo on all of that ridiculous bandage action she’s got on her left leg.  So sans hot sauce tramp stamp Venus shut Bondarenko down, and I started to wonder why I came out of hibernation to begin with. Next!

Llllllleyton “5 setter” Hewitttttt somehow took out Del “where’s the rest of my name” Potro in 3 sets.  I’m so stunned by this one I don’t have any yucks.  Well actually, Del Potro does look like that evil dude in Karate Kid, so you can work that into some type of joke if you’d like.  In case you’re in a time machine and stuck at 6.25.09-10:05am, Hewittttttt took Del Potro to the kiwi shack 6-3, 7-5, 7-5.  I’m officially calling Hewitttt my dark horse…in white.  Mothersucker tore the felt off that ball.  Even Gonzalez let out a little “oooh la la” after seeing his forehand strokes.

Why is Pam Shriver in my grill interviewing old geezer windsor castle sluts and demanding small mexican babies to draw her a picture in their coloring book?  I’d ask this frumpy twat to walk away into the sunset, but I’m not sure England has sunsets, and if they do I’d have to look at her large mom-ass as she walked in the opposite direction from me.  Maybe instead of Henman hill, or Murray mulch (or whatever they’re calling it), they should call it Hamburger Hill, in memoriam of Pam Shriver’s giant grey ass.

Dang it! And now I gotta go.  I’ll be in and out for the rest of the Wimbledon with a bag of half-assed effort. Leave the door unlocked!

Roddick Loses Beer Bong, Match in the Parisian Dusk

The world grows bigger as the light leaves it. There are no boundaries and no landmarks.  The trees and the rocks and the anthills begin to disappear, one by one, whisked away under the magical cloak of Monfils’ DROPPA.

-Beryl Markham, West With The Night (1942)

I may not be the smartest man in the world. I may not even be smart. But what I do know is that Monfils is your God and you must all bow down to his finesse, his style, and most importantly, his hair.  I survived the day not knowing the outcome despite many attempts by the assholes I choose to surround myself with.  Voicemails thinly veiled with the serious tone of someone who needs to impart some important, yet not un-taboo information that was patiently sitting on my DVR.  Texts that began innocently enough, only to morph into some sort of wannabe clairvoyant mystic looking back into past tennis matches from the days of yore (specifically this day of yore).  Conversations, with wry smiles, and partially cracked smiles, waiting to bombard my eardrums with the latest news that took place half a world away on a tiny tennis court as dusk settled in.  Ah yes, I survived all of you buttholes and your attempts at torment.  I knew when to hangup up my phone, when to cover up the screen of that same phone and when to walk away from somebody’s bumping gums, or quite simply punch them in the mouth.  If you survivied the rigors a tennis fan with a job must put up with from time-to-time, here’s to you! Allez!

6-4, 6-2, 6-3.  That’s how the night ended for Monfils and Roddick.  Although I’m sure Dirty Dick had no idea of the score as he continually had his head down (like most of his dates), pouting about, of all the things, the sun and its incessant insistence on going down, ironically.  Monfils was apparently wearing some type of special contacts which illuminates everything for you as he had no problem picking up the ball.  Or maybe drinking a 12 pack of Natty Ice every night with your frat brahs ain’t to nice on the eyeballs.  I suppose we’ll never know the real answer to this question.  Actually we’ll know right now.  Monfils=good, and Roddick=890 yawns.  One wanted to finish what he started, the other wanted to maybe get back to it another day.  Monfils treated the match as I would treat a bottle of whiskey, or  fun, or my newfangled girlfriend.  Roddick treated the match the way I treat the rest of my boring life, or my giant student loans.  If you don’t understand that joke you’re welcome to come over and look at my beautiful new girlfriend or my stacks of delinquent letters from Direct Loans as both are quite impressive (and stacked).

The match.  Not much to say except Monfils set Roddick on fire, pissed on him, revived him long enough to drag his body over hot shards of Capn’ Crunch, then threw his ass into that obnoxious private plane of his with a Barbie nightlight.  I heard (and illegally taped) a phone conversation Roddick had with one of his old fraternity brothers and have transcribed it for you down below:

Roddick: So I was, like, out there ya’ know, and Monfils was all droppa this and droppa that.

Undetermined Douche: Bro.

Roddick: Yeah way bro.

Undetermined Douche: Well why didn’t you just, like, lay some droppas down of your own. The guy does stand, like, 15 feet behind the baseline.

Roddick: But, brah, droppas aren’t for the faint of heart. And besides, it takes talent, skill.  A feel for the game. Style. Finesse.  You’ve seen me out there.  I’m just a big dumb oaf with a hat that sweats too much.

Undetermined Douche: True.

(sound of beer being chugged through beer bong)

Undetermined Douche: Well why didn’t you hit more angled shots?

Roddick: Have you seen me play?!

There’s more but it just gets sadder (kinda like this post).  There was also talk from Cahill (pronounced in some really irritating way as he’s Australian, like Caw-heeeel) that, and I quote, as you’ll see from the following quote marks, (see I wasn’t lying) “when the sun goes down it dulls the bounce [of the ball, I'm presuming].”  Anyone want a shot at this one?  Cliff Drysdale (the ying to my yang) asked if this was significant, which is funny because A) Drysdale played tennis for many years and B) I’m guessing is not retarded.  Cahill went on in a very annoying voice (’cause he’s Australian) that there is a very significant difference.  There was even emphasis on “very” as bullshitters will often do to persuade the poor sap who has been entangled in their web of lies and bullshit.  How in the shit can the sun, which in my humble opinion is very very very far away (no bullshit here) affect the bounce of a ball, on clay no less? Just talking about this bullshit is making me tired. And hungry. And a little horny.

Men’s semis you ask?  Davydenko v. Gonzo.  Del Potro v. Monfils.  Murray v. Gonz could go either way. I bet  my sister’s jug of pennies on it.  Women’s semis you ask? Azarenka v. Sharapova. Stosur v. Serena.

Yes, RAFA! went down in case you’re really impressive with your “dodging your friends attempts to spoil your matches for you.”  I haven’t the time or the energy to spew about it here as my performance art piece at the old age community retirement home should suffice.  They have turkey gravy on mush for the 4pm Wednesday show. Bring a cane and it’s all you can drink white cranberry juice.  Seriously though Soderling had 61 winners? Monfils had 45 against Raggedy Anne and Andy and that was sick in its own right.  I would venture to say this post has less type-0’s than these guys had winners.  So I mean, c’mon, I know RAFA! hates Soderling due to the buttpicking incident, but you have to admit when you’ve outplayed. Besides, who isn’t stoked that Miami Vice is out early?

I’ll be around tomorrow, will you?  No really, will you, I need to know if I can jerk in the living room.

Kendrick Overcomes Multiple Attacks by Trainer (and My Voodoo), Brands Survives Scraped Knee, Ivanovic Forgoes Psychic for Electrical Tape and 80 Yip Sandwiches

I woke up this morning, ate 11 blueberry pancakes, texted my girlfriend and told her I ate 2, removed the giant stone from my stomach by way of pooping, called mom (she didn’t answer), and then I turned on the television and who do I see but Brad Gilbert and Chris Prowler (you just know dude has done his fair share of stalking…head down, hair bobbing) yakkin’ it up like two chums from way back when.  That made me poop again, and then I settled into my pink, inflatable lazy boy, hunkered down with a can of (my roommate’s) vienna sausages, and a blue slurpee, ready for todays hot, steamy, french action.

Let’s give it up for the graphic that shows where Ivanovic’s ball toss goes.  Did anyone understand how that made any fucking sense?  Can I see that compared to someone else’s toss? I mean, there’s wind, her 2nd toss is gonna go back further…oh, she’s a human-fucking-being, uh, what else?  I dunno, I know she’s been chowing down on the yips but I just don’t believe that graphic.  It looks like more times than not she’s having trouble with her timing rather than placement.  But what do I know, I considered the possibility of eating myself to death today (Leaving Las Vegas II). She’s also picked up an electrical tape sponsor which is cute in that “I don’t have any other answers” type of way.  There is also so much doubt via the “analysts” surrounding her game.  She. Won. In. Straight. Sets.  Technically you can’t do much better aside from breaking your opponent on every serve.  6-3 in the 2nd?  What do these people want?

Anyone hear the “fault” call in the fourth set of the Fembot v. Seamoan match?  If I said I nearly shit myself at the sound of his scream I’d be lying because I did shit myself at the sound of his scream. I’m watching it in stereo to make myself feel like a rich asshole, and when he screamed something rich came out of my asshole. Then he did it again, and I kinda pooped again.  I shouldn’t be needing a changeover during their change over.  The only reason I should be shitting myself is from laughing too hard at Fembots eyelashes.  Beareded lady, indeed.  Luckily Seamoan put a stop to that walking lash.  Anyone notice how those two both hit off their backfoot?  It’s some type of extreme open stance. But I likes, I likes (only because I have an imperfect form and a general disdain for certain techniques of the game due to my unflapable stubborness which may or may not be redundant).

How often did Brad Gilbert say “dink” during Murray’s match?  Me thinks someone thinks about Andy’s dink a bit too much.  And what’s with these 10,000 videos on Murray’s computer? A) Are these dink videos? And B) Where did he get his hard drive? and C) How far back is this footage going? 10,000? Is he looking at Arthur Ashe footage?  Yes, yes, Murray beat the 30 year-old Chela by looking at footage of Chela.  Um, no.  I could beat Chela and I’m 94.  Murray wins in straights (I think, match was pretty borrrrrreeeeen).

Mathilde Johansson choked on the biggest goddamn baguette in French history, in front of her peeps no less.  Sixteen double doubles.  Eight came at match point.  Yes, she blew 8 match points.  And then she cried.  On day one, no doubt!  Even Brag Dilbert mentioned that there’s no crying in tennis on the first day, which, incidently lowered Brag from a code red to code orange for about 15 seconds.  The fear that there may have been a breech in security in my heart’s No Brad Zone quickly bumped him up to code purple (my heartland security code looks like a gay pride flag by the way).  Yeah, Mathilde, Karlovic, who had 55 aces against his loss to Leyton “5 setter” Hewitt was embarassed for your ass.  And he was up 2 sets in the third with a tie-break in the third. Did I mention 55 freakin’ aces!? But yeah,  8 match points.  If she doesn’t hang herself that’s pretty much 9 match points blown. Of course tennis is a silly-ass game that no one should kill themselves over, BUT, if it wasn’t…

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After Googling, “why is my poo green” I found out that Manesmo lost.  No surprise there really.  The only surprise came when I saw she’s ranked 16th.  Surprise, then shock, then thrist, then laughter, then I inadvertently brushed my hand against my wang chung and it was on like Donkey Dong.  Anyway, if anyone should’ve been crying it shoulda been Manny Manesmo or the test tube that gave conceived her him.

Azarenka’s not gettin’ much play except in my tennis fantasies, but thas okay.  I think she could seriously wreck some shit, like that tiny European exchange student you met in high school who somehow pressured you into inviting him to your house party only to find him later that night blow torching your dads fishing trophy out in the garage while making out with your girlfriend.  Yeah, Azarenka, her and those tight. Ass. Shoes. Are going places.  I mean they’re fresh and they utilized child labor free trade? Sign this white boy up! (Note: I haven’t seen which shoes she’s wearing in the French, I’m going off of old tennis shoe fetish footage in my mind)

Bacsinszky gets the Winszky for France

You know you watch too much goddamn tennis when you know that Kanepi of Estonia losing to Shvedova of Kazakhstan is an outright upset.  I don’t even have TTC anymore! How do I know this! What’s your excuse!

Safin: straights, Verdasco: straights, Stepanek: straights, Ferrer: straights, Almagro: straights, Golubev: straights, Cilic: straights.

I’m not sorry that Querry lost as his whole on-court demeanor and play depresses me quicker than a widowed double amputee stipper with the flu, but I do feel sorry for his continous bad luck with the draw, namely the first round.  But I like Gulbis, so I’m pretty much torn, but not really, ’cause like I said, I don’t like the guy, so uh, Ahhaaahaaa!  Gulbis had a cross court forehand winner that prompted Patrick (or someone) to yell the always loved “Hello!” He then followed that up with a forehand winner up the line that pretty much matched in flavor and texture.

My guy Lu of Taipei retired after losing the first set which took about 30 minutes.  Lu, I like your crazy backwards hat attitude, and you look like a guy I used to skate with, but please get outta my face.  I didn’t even see the match so I don’t know what happened but it better have been pretty goddamn extraordinary for me to take you back, like a piano dropped from the rafters (rafters they don’t have), or some type of Monica Seles stabbing type shit.

Tomorrow I hear there are more matches to be played. Good ones even.  Allez!!!!

Monfils Readies Hair, Tennisburger Readies Eyes for Googleage and Jaw for Major Droppage

According to my calculator watch it’s about that time we bust out our Dubbonet, our Gitanes, and pretend we all have some class for the next two weeks.  Of course, as I try to work anal nitrates and Dutch row boats into a tennis blog I may have to take off my indoor sunglasses and put out my Gitanes, but otherwise I think we should try and carry ourselves with a certain amount of imagined  decorum.  So no more biting your fingernails and dropping them behind the couch, no more sticking your finger in your ear (or your bum), no more listeining to your girlfriend (ladies, no more listeing to your boyfriend, lesbos, no more listeing to your girlfriend, gays, no more listeing to your boyfriend, mormans, no more listening to your wives).  Basically do and don’t do all the things your mom told you to do and not do, she was after all trying to raise the perfect garcon ou fille (of course your dad got involved and they wound up raising a red neck cracker who couldn’t pass community college even if Stephen Hawking was your personal tutor, but that’s neither here nor there).  Anyway, what was I talking about?

Oh yeah, the French Open.  So it’s here, in your face as it were.  I added red food coloring to my coke and just did a nasty rail of some wet claycaine.  All I’ve got is a nasty headache and I can’t tell if my nose is bleeeeeding or drippppping the claycaine I just snorted.  Pretty much the story of my life.  I told my roommate to delete the 400 hours of Two and a Half Men he has recorded on the DVR to make room for my happiness.  Actually, I just deleted it myself then whacked a little.  I have “whack a little” checked off, “clear DVR” checked off, “fully realize claycaine idea” checked off, “make cinnamon toast” checked off, but I’m afraid “pay out the ass for The Tennis Channel” will remain unchecked until they offer it for free, in which case I can cross out the “pay out the ass for” and replace it with “get”.  So this means I’ll be glued to (and sniffing glue, ironically) whatever Cliff Drysdale and company barf up over on ESPNdeux.  Ahhh, Cliffy, your boring quips and stories about your glove will be the death of me (along with some type of liver disease I’m sure).  To make matters worse I have a new girlfriend.  To make matters even worser she’s bitchin’.  This is the type of girl macho faux homos punch stuff over late at night when they’re drunk on Sluricanes.  So if I’m not 100% on my game, just picture me 100% on my other game.  Boo-yah indeed.  Now that I’ve properly lined up my excuses, shall we?

French tennis fans welcome DJoke and track-suit-clad family to Roland Garros

Bobby Reynolds.  The Sly Stalone of Tennis faces Gael MonFEE in the first round and. It. Aint. Gonna. Be. Pretty.  Aside from dude being ugly I can’t imagine this gorilla is gonna lumber around the tennis court for very long before MoFILS lays to waste this corky look alike.   Bobby Reynolds. Please.  The only way this Assperger’s case gets into the 2nd round is with a paid admission.  Looking at the bracket I see no reason for there not to be a Monfils v. RAFA! final.  Do you?  If you see a reason I’ll presume you’re on acid, then awkardly ask you for some.  That trick knee might get him in some trouble, but for the love of himself, it’s Monfils!  I don’t know how else to wrap this up and serve it to you. It’s what obnoxious geniuses call a no-brainer.

Screech is no longer being thrown into the RAFA! quadrant so let’s say Monfils is poisoned with some kind of Serbian nerd gas whilst quietly humping in his hotel room awaiting the next days match.  There is now a possiblitly we could see a Screech v. Federer Semifinal.  That wouldn’t be half bad, says my awakening chub.  Of course we’d also have to presume that Samuel Powers doesn’t retire before requesting 80 groin rub downs.  That’s a big stretch of my imagination’s groin.  One that might actually tear.  I say Djoke gives up halfway through his match with Ferrero, or Ferrer or Federer or whoever that that is.

RAFA!  comes into this French Open having never won a match on clay.  I bet that’s just eating him up, but I still don’t see how he’s gonna get past the 30 year-old Brazillian tennis star Marcos Daniel.  Guy has 16 career matches under his belt. That’s almost two matches for every year he’s been pro.  He won 2 whole matches this year.  I’m just sayin’, I think this guy is on fire. I don’t know how you say “Brazillian fireball” in Portugese, but I’m sure that’s the guy’s nickname over there in Braziland. Fuckin’ LeBron James of Brazillian tennis, no doubt. RAFA! might have to wait til the next clay tourne to get that first clay win under his capris.

The only way Murray would have a tough time with his draw is if the chair umpire deducted a point for every cavity he had in that giant tooth house of his.  Dudes dental records must be like some type of rap sheet.  Sorry, these Murray teeth jokes are getting a bit tired.

I don’t even like Querry, but you’ve got to feel bad for that ogre.  I mean Gulbis in the first round?  Kids fallen off the map a little, but I’m sure he’s just trying to deal with all this new found poon he’s acquired vis a vis the tennis circuit.  Lord knows I am.

If anyone can tell me how Robert Kendrick got into the goddamn French Open I’ll award you the silver star of head scratchers.  I keep wondering about this guy and it’s pretty much on par with me going back to the fridge every 15 minutes as if it won’t be just pumpernickle bread and a lone gogurt.  I don’t know or care if that made any sense. I’m on this weird court ordered community service thing where I have to use gogurt in a sentence twice a day. Same goes for Wayne Odesnik and his eyelashes. If anyone can explain to me how this fembot got into the tournament, let alone the men’s draw I’ll personally come to your house each morning wearing only a velvet Crown Royal pouch around my twig and berries and handfeed you your Cheerios one-by-one. Now that we got that out of the way.

Baghdatis faces Monaco in the first.  The guy is just a big Cyprian tear.  If I had a drop of water for every drop of crying juice that guy has expelled from his tear fountain I could take care of the world’s water shortage by myself.  I used to be excited about the guy, but I’m just embarassed. Like the fact that I used to smoke Newports.

Special agent Dale Cooper faces Kohlschreiber in the 1st round

Kevin Kim of the U.S. will have to be my adorable long shot as Donald Young aint with it this year.  Although he faces Solderling so he should fall right in line with all past predictions.  One prediction that I’m usually pretty spot on about is the fate of Blake.  He actually doesn’t have it that bad, which don’t mean shit here in reality, but I’m gonna say 4th round.  Mark ‘em Donnie!

I obviously don’t have time to go over all these buttholes, and you really shouldn’t be hear for insight or intrigue.  You should be here donating money and possibly for a chuckle or two, nothing more.  Lord (and Kristina) knows I love the women, so let’s pop in on the women’s side for a minute and stick it in a bit.

Hate on Haters

Sharapova. Is. Back.  I know all you haters out there are hating away which is fine, it only adds to the mystique and the naughtiness of it.  Ever since finding my first porn magazine in the creek and my mother subsuqently finding it and scolding me I’ve been a sucker for the forbidden.  Okay, so maybe she’s not forbidden, but I get a lot of shit thrown my way for liking the Pove. She’s won two out three matches this year, so you might want to record this on your Beta Max as I don’t think the  squeals will be around for too long.  Her part of the draw aint so bad except for the occasional Williams.

Venus faces Mattek in the first.  That’s sure to be televised, so you just know Mattek’s gonna come out with labias a flappin’.  Do you think before each match she texts her probabtion officer, “tit, lip or ass?”  If so, you just know her probabtion officer is a a lip man.

Cornet has been relatively busy this year and I hope to see her face Jelena in the 3rd round as it’s the only way I’ll get to see those rainbow shots (there’s some sort of US broadcasting mandate where they can only show the Williams’, Jelena, Safina and the occasional Dementieva match).  I don’t like her chances against Jelena anymore than I like my chances of not fucking it up with the new gf, but here’s to hoping (*swills giant bottle of MD 20/20 while clutching photo of the new girl*).

Bartoli has been shakin’ her booty on the court quite a bit this year too. Could Cornet and Bah-to-lee actually face each other in the fourth round? Meh, doubt it.  But that match would pretty much bury the hatchet between my hand and my wienerschnitzel.

I’d pick Safina to go all the way but our favorite here at Tennisburger, Meusburger stands in her way.  Odds are this might be the year she wins a match.

I dunno, all this talk about women is making me a little horny so I’m gonna have to end this kind of abruptly.  I’ll be back tomorrow night, Monfils willing.

Allez!

p.s. are you good? everything alright? i kinda missed you guys a little. okay, okay, see you soon.

Scottish Werewolf Breaks Up Entire Matching Serbian Family

Murray? More like Mur-yay! I wouldn’t care if Brad Gilbert himself rose from the bowels of his golden suit hell to deliver us from Screech’s Texas Instruments-like clutches, just as long as someone rids my peepers of the sight that is the human porcupine.  Hell, I didn’t even care that I fell asleep half-way through the first set while still holding my lit strawberries n’ cream blunt (gotta get prepped for the Wimbly, dontchyaknow).    I woke up at the end of the first set choking on my nacho cheese sunflower seeds just in time to put out the tiny crotch fire I had unknowingly set and as I looked up at my Telly Savalas I faintly remember thinking to my self, oh yeah 6-2, sounds about right.  See, when you (let’s pretend you’re Djokovic…I know I know, but it’ll only be for a second) commit roughly two errors per point (I know!), there’s a more than likely chance you’re gonna go down faster than one of those water skiing squirrels, an obese parachuter over a hamburger factory (chances are dude won’t even pull the ripcord).  So the first set was no suprise, even to this strawberry blunted mind. 

So while I download this Strawberry Shortcake pick and rock out to The Beat by the Cos, why don’t you prepare yourself mentally and physically for the worst rundown of the mens final in Me-ahh-me (if it wasn’t for the Cos that’d be the father son and holy ghost of gayness).

So ummm, how much money do you think Screech pulls in per year?  I mean, what’s with the whole family wearing the same thing?  Were they gonna book right after the match and all head over to Disney World?  Ironically there are only two places entire families can wear the same thing, church (I always hated wearing my mom’s Sunday dresses to church) and Disney world.  Okay?  I know we’re in a recession in all, but I can’t imagine those hardest hit by it would be pancake and pizza shacks on the top of a mountain in Kapaonik, let alone millionaire tennis players. Buy some more shirts (and stop putting sunglasses on your pre-teens! My stomach’s eyes can only take so much).

So Muryay broke right outta the gate like some sort of crazed Scottish horse and I was beginning to feel a fire in my loins other than the strawberry short-blunt induced fire I mentioned earlier.  It was very carnal and  brave heartish of me, but after Murray held I sacraficed a passing goat on my Muryay alter, leaving my roommates a bit disheartened as I rarely wash my own plates, let alone clean up my sacraficial goat droppings.

It’s love-2 at this point and I’m giggling and waiting for my salsa con queso to heat up in my uber-futuristic microwave sos I can make my fried egg an even smellier bomb once it hits my colon.  Then it was 3-love and a tremendous calm set in.  I wanted to phone David Lynch to tell him that Transcendental Meditation isn’t needed when you have tennis to watch, but then I realized I don’t have Lynch’s phone number or a phone, so I proceeded to chillax as my ex-so-cal-gf used to say.  Then it was 4-love and I thought, yes! time for bean pie  and a quick nap before my baseball game!

But then something weird happened, Screech held.  My drooling, euphoric state became more of a slobber and curious nose-picking state.  But then Muryay hit a Sebastian Bachand crosscourt winner at 30-15 and I went back to my preferred grinning and drooling, catatonic state.  I quickly revised my will instructing my family to not pull the plug if I am ever in such a similar condition as it’s pretty much tits (a term the ‘burg will proudly be bringing back to the people).

Marry Jo Oh No Carillo,  can I have my tennis served without a side of whispers?  I’m getting old and my mind’s playing tricks on me so I don’t need my tennis commentators to play anymore tricks. I think I’ve hit mute, I’m high, my doorbell starts ringing, there’s a dog barking and I don’t even own a dog and my phone’s ringing but I don’t even have any friends or owe anybody any money. It’s just all too much for a Sunday.  So she whispers, “he’ll get there” as Screech drops the DROPPA! and it’s like predicting that there will be skid marks in the toilet after my roommate drops a type 4 to the teenage mutant ninja turtles.  Is “he’ll get there” the new “too good” of whispers?  Let us pray to the whisper gods that it’s not.  No, seriously, let’s pray, I’ll wait.

So he got there, because, as we’ve heard a 6,000 times, he consumes 6,000 calories/day, trains with some lesbian soccer team in the UK, swims the English channel before his tea and crumpets, and squats 400 pounds of kilts.  Yeah, he’s lighter, more fit, his chicklets are a bit whiter, he found his Mach3 and he doesn’t cry as much.  But is he a better player? The answer is, of course.  He’s the guy to beat.  Okay, so he played a bunch of whosits and whatshisfaces to get to the finals, but did you see how badly he beat them? Well did, ya?! Huh, punk!?  He beat Verdasco 6-1, 6-2.  Yeah yeah, Verdasco is built for the long haul, but dude is not a straight set 1 and 2 sort of loser.  Carillo was right when she (the only she I’m sure of in terms of her sheness on the tour) said Muryay falls asleep at times.  But look at his shots! He can afford to take a Strawberry Short-blunt to his dome, drag out a lay-z-boy onto the court and sleep the first set away, he’s still gonna be able to overpower and out run and out think… the laziest of Serbs.  Oh yeah, I forgot about that factor; the lazy Serb factor, but you know what, let’s keep forgetting about that lazy piece.  That’s what Muryay did in the second to get over like a fat Scottish rat.

So in between sets Screech cried to his trainer that it was too hot out and that his wittle feet were too heavy and that the big mean sun was shining too much.  Nothing could be done about the sun or his feet so he went out there and got some lucky shots while Muryay took a well deserved break in his recliner with the new and improved Scotch gaurd (boo-yah indeed) feature.

Djoke held and one would’ve thought, listening to Carillo that the tables had turned. Thing is, the tables did turn, but it was Muryay who turned ‘em.  I like a dude who can hang back and get lazy for obvious reasons.  It’s why like the Monfis so much.  Fuck this over-hyped way of RAFAizing every point. Dude’s knees are gonna be mashed potatos before supper time. Yeah, yeah, Monfils gets physical out there, but he also concedes points.  If the heat index is too much, kick back., or better yet, chillax (huh Chelsea?).  Don’t cry to the 12 goddamn trainers that come to your non-rescue.  Take a smoke break. Hell, join a union, then you can sit on your ass every 15 minutes.  If you got the chops to cover your breaks you’ll be kissing more trophies than I kiss barbie dolls.  Whoah whoah, let’s reign this pony in.

So Screech was up, what?, 6-1?, 7-1 in the second and blew it?  Muryay came back in the set after losing the set! That’s how hangry this guy is!  I was once so hangry I missed the Arby’s shuttle, ran it down, punched a hole in the gas tank, drank the gas, drove the shuttle on fumes to Arby’s, hopped the counter, bum rushed the kitchen, grabbed a chunk of Arby’s horse meat, lit a match and firebreathed my horse sandwich to perfection.  So you can see Muryay and I have a lot in common.

So what happend? I dunno, I have a baseball game to get to.  Murray came back to make me happy 7-5.  I also thought I heard Muryay apologize for beating him when they came to the net to make out, but that kinda stuff only happens in dreamburgers (ultimate shamefest!). Does this make Muryay number 3?

Oh, but I have to ask before I go, did anyone see that cute black girl do the jackoff dance right before the match! If you taped the match and have that and can upload that tiny snippet of jackoff dance they showed I’d be forver in your debt (like saved my life sty-lee).

Let’s Go!

Live Indian Wells Shitcast

    If anyone can get me a pair of them Azarenka sneaks  in a mens 11.5 I’ll suck your wang.  Those. Shoes. Are. Nasty! I know I’m not suh’pose to be talking about wang suckin’ this early in the season, but dang if those shoes aren’t the bees knees.  I’d take a pic of my tennis sneaks, but they’re sitting in a locker that smells like bum piss  at the GG Tennis Club and it’s 2am so I can’t really get to ‘em.  Trust me, Stephen Hawking himself would type out some snarky remark on my kicks, and that dude can’t even kick! Sorry to be gone for so long, but the rambles just haven’t been in me.  Also, my FSN/CSN is also being inundated with hockey and b-ball games so I’m missing out on some prime-ass-rib, like the Verdasco v. Federer match. I am however seeing some Azarenka.  I miss Kleybanova’s violent backhand, but the Ahhz (Oz) is my propper filler (dang! those shoes!).  I promise to be glued to the rest of Wells de Indian thru the weekend, so sit tight. In the mean, enjoy my Cutty Sark induced mumbles on Azarenka v. Zvonareva.  Oh, and trust me, I know all about Monfils losing to (*barf*) Isner, and the Pove’s semi-return.  I’m posted, just not posting. Let’s go (on a DUI)!

     The Ahhz brushed bread crumbs off her chest in the middle of the 2nd game of the 1st set.  If you don’t love this girl yet, look up love in the dictionary, then kill yourself (note: unless you’re famous don’t kill yourself, it just looks silly).  Better yet, replay the shot of The Ahhz brushing bread crumbs off her chest, fall in love,  then get fat off the cinnamon rolls that love makes you every morning.

     We’re gonna have to FF to 5-3 in the first, Zvonareva serving, up a break for the set, ’cause I just sailed away with the SS Sark.  At deuce The Ahhz spreads the court, leaving Zvonareva’s Chairman Mao hat to face towards that Boise Blue.  Ad Ahhz.  Zvonareva plows the Ahhz’s return past her backhand and it’s back to 40’s for everyone. Ahhz net and it’s Zzzzz’s Ad.  There’s some talk about RAFA! and the next thing I know I’ve dropped my grilled cheese on the carpet and  Zvonareva wins the first set.

     Is anyone else seeing this Goddamn Enterprise commercial.  Apparently Mister Mom and his daughter can’t afford to pay the rent anymore, a moving truck shows up sos they can buy some lumber, Mister Mom and daughter commence building their future home (a dog house), then (hammer) hi-5 their accomplished incest shack while the mom gloats in the background making snarky comments about their new home?  I dunno, maybe times are indeed hard.  2nd Set!

     The Ahhz gives up the first game with a DF and all I can really surmise is: It. Aint. The. Shoes.  

     Her backhand though does suck shoe poo.  Most love 40’s, but The Ahhz is a bit dyslexic at 40-love.  Make that love-2.

     Net. Fault. Net. Net. Net. Net. Tear. Net. Net. Out.  Net. Deuce. Fault. Fault. Ad Zvonareva. Fault. Out. Deuce. Net Chord. Ad Ahhz. Out. Game Ahhz.  According to one of the assinators she is still very much alive and I’d have to agree as she’s walking to her chair.  Two One!

    Znovareva DF’s twice and still wins the Goddamn game.  Is there a reason to stay up? Ah, the shoes! Oh, and two nasty ass Sebastian Bachand winners by the Ahhz.  The Ahhz holds.  Three Two! Where’s my eye lid tape!

     Just as my fire alarm goes off my bullshit alarm goes off.  The female comentater (yah) just pleasured herself to a comment about Zvonareva’s defense.  Let’s point out that the Ahhz is basically rallying with the Ms. Z; hitting it directly back to her in the middle of the court.  While we’re at it, let’s praise Ms. Z’s eye’s for seeing the ball, or her legs for keeping her up.  Z over Ahhz, 4-2.

     My fist pumps the air in front of my freedom fries as the Ahhz holds at love.  4-3. Your move Ms. Mao. Time for a celebration dip into my newly acquired chipotle ketchup. I know it’s a bit late in the game for freedom fry jokes, but the Sark has me a bit uninspired.

     Time is running out for Azarenka according to the femalinator and her coach’s square watch.  Irony rears it’s ugly head as Ms. Z faces break point.  Rainbow shots abound and the Ahhz drops her anchor long. Deuce! Zvonareva and her communist hat comes to net and hits one of them there new fangled winner shots I’ve heard so much about from my brother in the big city (note, winners have been miniscule in this match). Back to deuce as there’s more slop on my TV than on my Sloppy Joe  Run-Off Catcher.  Wide. Yawn. Ad Ms. Z.  Hold. 3-5.  

     6-3, 6-3.  Zvonareva takes a dump on my shoe fetish and that’s that.  

     If my next post isn’t better I’ll officially retire or hang myself with a garden hose in the back of the Olive Garden.  I just started my own site which I’ll probably move my tennisbrrgrr to, so here’s a head start, although it’s mostly garbage at this point… do you see it when i do it?

Pee Defeats Poo, Number 1 Over Number 2

     First off, I’m sorry for not posting sooner.  I went through quite a few emotions after Federer’s loss; anger, then sleepiness, then whatever emotion is tied to jagin’ off, then hunger, then gas, then a few others.  All of which are not very conducive to writing.  So with that, I have a pile of useless notes.  I’ve found that if I don’t write while watching or post shortly after, it all seems too distant and unattainable, like girls or money or any of that other stuff rappers rap about, like giant rims or an apartment in the slums.  To add to all my problems, I ate some vegetarian chili at a super bowl (Super Bowl?) part-a, and now I’m beyond gas, and just have some serious cramps (as a civilization, why do we continue to eat beans!?).  So with that I will commence with, what will probably be the worst rundown of the biggest let down of your life, unless you wear bikini underwear and are from Mallorca, Spain.  I’m looking in your direction, Dave!

     I’m going to break up the chronology of this otherwise chronologically perfect blog and just give you a rundown of some of the quotes that came from Dick Enberg’s stinky pie hole (which coincidently looks like the mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy) :

     1.  ”…full blooded stroking…”   (no explanation needed)

     2.  ”you can challenge as long as the kangaroo keeps bouncing.”  (my roommate, who doesn’t normally watch tennis, asked me, “oh, what does that mean”, as if it was some sort of inside joke betwixt tennis fanatics.  I had to inform him that it was just a really bad line, that had absolutely no meaning.  My roommate then looked at me as if I was responsible for Tennis having the lamest surroundings…from it’s commentary, to it’s pathetic channel, to it’s fans. Thanks, Dick.)

     3.  ”you can’t run to downtown melbourne to get into position for the forehand.” (this gem was in response to Federer’s attempts to run around his backhand on RAFA!’s serve.  I’m not really sure what this one means.  I mean, maybe it’s like, no matter how far you run you can’t get into position for the forehand shot, because the serve is just too good/fast.  But as one of my English professors told me, “why don’t you just say that?”  I mean I guess he could run to downtown Melbourne, but then what?)

     4.   “like a cleanup hitter hitting a shot up the alley for a double triple or triple.”  (obviously the repeat of the word triple was like a stutter or something, but enough with incorporating other sports and its sayings into tennis!  Brag is continually talking about the hard yard.  The only hard yard I know about pees twice a day and occasionally throws up into my dirty socks or any spare piece of cloth lying around.  One (of the many reasons) tennis is so lame is because they (the commentators) try and incorporate or include other sports into the discussion.  Do you ever hear baseball announcers talking about tennis?  If you do, stop lying this instant. Anyway, I tired to rewind my DVR (dvr?) to see if what I heard was what I heard, but even the machine, an inanimate object, had trouble going back over that quote, and took a dump. True story…I had to delete the recording to continue watching my tennis stories.)

     5.  In the sixth game of the first set, at deuce Dickberg ignores my pleas and drops the d(elicious) bomb to describe the point as such.  Well from now on I’m going to describe my salad as powerful.  My filet of sole will now be known as well conditioned.  My artichoke hearts will be focused and determined.  At the dinner table when I visit my parents in Boise, I will describe my mother’s mashed potatoes as unstoppable!  Seriously, can we have some kind of consortium that relegates adjectives to it’s proper nouns?  Oh wait, there already is such a consortium! It’s called common-fucking-sense!  Now if you’ll excuse me I must get on with my robust post.

     6.  ”RAFA!’s championship boot…” (this was said as the camera man finally didn’t show RAFA! picking dingleberries from his arse, and opted to show RAFA!’s shoes.  I don’t know what a championship boot is, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t win them in  a championship match. They’re also not boots, ya’ old geezer, their shoes, or tenny’s if you will.)

     7.  ”Put that in your album…” (this was directed to only Monfils knows who, but it was said after an amazing lob smash in which RAFA! made mincemeat (poor mincemeat) of a Federer lob in the 4th.  Is RAFA! suppose to put it in his album, or was DE sarcastically impersonating a RAFA! who would tell that to Federer? It sounded like he was telling it to the viewing audience though, like, put that in your pipe and smoke it!  Again, I was adrift in a sea of Dick’s colloquialisms with no paddle (that was fresh, if you didn’t catch it).

     8.  ”The roof is open and the stage [theatre?] is high.”  (again, I have absolutely no idea what he is blabbering about, now or at 3 am (my time) when he barfed it.  I know the roof was open, but how was the stage, which I take to mean center court, high?  I know I was high.  My cat, Chairman Meow, had a bit of a contact workin’.  But a stage?  Is it like, mile high or something?   Was everyone in it high?  I’m seriously just gonna assume that Dickster is totally fucking with us, and laughing after each one of these cryptic passages.  It’s all I can do to keep my sanity.

     Okay, I”m almost 800 words into this thing and I haven’t even gotten to the match.  I knew, and as my text to Marc at 2:17 am pacific standard time as my witness, that Federer was toast.  I hate when commentators jump on one little thing, the shrugging of shoulders, head down, a wild forehand and run with it and prognosticate, then the second the wind changes direction they’re changing their tune, BUT there was no denying it, when Federer lost that first set.  I didn’t give a shit that he won the second, or the fourth.  He was done.  RAFA! got into his head super early and that was it.  RAFA! owns Federer, not unlike I own debts, or a lock of Gary Busey’s hair.  It seems almost pointless to go on with a rundown of the match after admitting that I am The Amazing Karnak, but I just mixed up my sugar jar with my angel dust jar, so I’m gonna be up for a while (punching holes in the walls), so I might as well get on with it (it being something).

     At 15 all in the third, Federer smashed a forehand crosscourt shot (which RAFA! (un)surprisingly got to) and kept running up to the barricade.  It was still early in the match, and I was kinda hoping he’d just hop into the crowd, run up the steps to the top of Rod Laver Arena, scream, then run back down as if nothing had happened.  Some people wish for  riches, I wish for RAFA! to do that.  

     At 3-2, break point, RAFA! droppd a second serve over the net like a delicate feather and Federer unloaded a bologna sandwich straight up the line to go up 4-2.  This line was copied straight from my notes in Text Editor and I have no idea what I was thinking at the time, but if a sandwich deserves to be a powerful shot, it’s gotta be bologna (or maybe a patty melt, but definitely not limburger).  Fed then double faulted to put the game back on serve.  This is what I’m talking about, Federer serves just fine the whole damn tourney, then once he faces RAFA! he’s got the damn yips, or nips, or whatever they’re calling it.  It was somewhere around this time that I started to get worried and poo in my pants a little.  Like a little poo pebble.

     After being broken there were a number of successive junk shots (one of his many signature shots against RAFA!) that just happened to work against RAFA!  One was a mis-hit, just over RAFA!’s head.  I gotta say, when I make junk shots on the court like that, and they work, I usually feel worse about my game, like the guilt of winning the point is worse than or equal to losing the point.  At any point during this post I happen to blow your mind, simply push the mind blowing release lever.

    At break point  (not to be confused with Point Break staring Keanu Reeves as Johnny Utah) Federer hit a serve up the line (down the line?) that only RAFA! could return (and that most mothers could love).  Two shots later and RAFA!  is serving for the set.  Federer hits his other signature shot, the long forehander, and RAFA! happily took the 1st set in the provided brown paper bag with his name on it.     

     Apparently RAFA! has his rackets strung at 25 kilos, which is just over 55 lbs.  Won’t you please join me in ditching both metric and english weights in favor of the stone?  I usually string my racket between 4 and 4.1 stones.  How fucking cool does that sound? Pretty cool if you ask me, the guy who invented it.

     After RAFA! broke Fed to go up 3-2 in the second there was something on both my mind and (I’m sure)  Federer’s, namely that RAFA! is indeed the best player in the world.  All giant head bands aside, Federer is toast and has no chance to beat RAFA! again.  If RAFA! can take out Fed after a 5h15m match, there’s no hope.  Right after I typed that Federer broke back, but not of the mountain variety.  Could Tennisburger be wrong?  This was another copy and paste job from my notes.  Of course I had doubts about my belief that Fed was toast after a killer shot, but I still sensed the end was near, like, for eternity and shit.

     Is twinkle toes’ inside-out-in crosscourt forehand winner our answer to world peace?  Would it, at the very least, make a very lame bumper sticker? I’ll try and describe this shot, but I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.  Fed comes around his backhand and is (al)most assuredly going to nail an inside out crosscourt forehand shot from looking at his body’s position, but then he nails the fucker (fucker being the ball) right up the line! And to think those amazing shots aren’t enough to send RAFA! crying back to his daddy’s window shop in Mallorca.  At 40-30 (the weight of my car oil, by the by) the c’mons start pouring out of Federer.  Coinicidently the midnight chili I made for my superbowl party started pouring out of my anus, my roommate poured a civilized amount of cutty sark and for just a moment I thought everything was right with the world.  Fed holds to go up 4-3.  Will RAFA! crush my hopes of inner pouring peace?

      No.  Fed breaks then hold serve to win the 2nd at 6-3. 

     In between sets RAFA! went to take  a number one or number two (we’ll never know!), then trotted back to the court mumbling to himself, what looked like the same word over and over again.   I’d like to think he was repeating the word fuck or shit over and over again.  Let’s assume he was.

     The third, fourth and fifth games of the third set was not unlike a trip to the circus with death defying leaps and crazy defense. But alas! there were no tigers or flaming hoops, nor giant paper machiet d and fence signs in the crowd.  Although there were  a lot of shots into the net, opposed to my shots into the dirty sock as explained earlier.  It started to get kinda sloppy out there in the third, but if you’re like me you like it kinda (really) sloppy.  When my girlfriend who doesn’t exist makes me sloppy joes I always ask for extra slop.

     At four all in the third Federer hit the over-the-right-shoulder-lob(ster)-smash-with-his-back-to-the-net shot.  Not too much mention of one of the cooler shots I’ve seen in my lifetime, but remember this moment in time as I will come back to it, not unlike a skilled writer or a master of letters if you will.  All lobster smashes prove to be for naught as Federer double faults in the tie break at set point to give (literally give) the set to RAFA!  

     After a quick break in the fourth Fed was up 2-0, but RAFA! played some amazing defensive winners (usually an oxymoron, but with these two beefcakes, it’s the norm) to break right back.

     At 2-3 there was a nasty rally that ended on a RAFA! lobster smash jump and we got 20 different looks at it as the royal Dick of Enberg and crew bobbed up and down on the dick of RAFA!’s athleticism, yet when Fed did the exact same thing we were privy to meh’s and thas okays.  

     I really don’t know how Federer came out on top of the fourth set.  Federer’s balls seriously could’ve filed for some sort of restraining order against RAFA!’s racquet (I know, I have the feeling I used that one before, too); dude was stalking, lingering in the bushes, hiding in the shadows and shit.  The 5th set was pure crap and Federer pretty much gave up at that point which really pissed me off (which in turn pissed off my sleeping roommates, my neigbors, the off-duty cops in the neighborhood and the owner of the turquoise del sol that was unluckily parked out front when my tv crashed into the top (or sol) part of that chick magnet).  

     Final score (if you seriously come here for tennis news like scores and updates, I feel sorry for you and your search engine), 7-5, 3-6, 7-6, 3-6, 6-2.  Federer cried and I still don’t know how I feel about that.  

     I’m getting rid of the Tennis Channel for obvious reasons, so anything on ESPN, or ESPN2 will have to do, aside from watching Federer cry on the internet.  But you know my posting is as streaky as my underwear, so I’ll just have to disappoint until then (then being my next post).  Are there RSS feeds on this beyotch?  Maybe we could all do that.  If anything it will make us look smarter and more productive or efficient.  

     Thanks to all who came by and checked in on me and my ramblings. And double thanks to those who actually leave comments.  I hope to be back soon.  Let’s Go!!!!

     

Blue and Yellow Make an Unwatchable Color or Blue and Yellow Make Bruises

 

     I was jumped once.  It was  a terribly frightening experience only because I didn’t know how long it would last.  It also happened before I could see them.  I was about 13.  I probably deserved it as I was quite the little pecker back then.  One of them sideswiped my face with his fist and I didn’t see much after that but some fists and a couple sneakers.  With this in mind, I look over my laptop, past my pyramid of Olde English 40 ozers, and peer into the eyes of that same little girl I was 90 aught years ago.  As soon as these girls received their corn on the cob after stepping onto the court, Serena essentially jumped Safina.  Can one person jump another?  After watching this match the only answer I have for you  is yes.  C’mon, even Ralphie got pulled off of Scut in A Christmas Story.  Even I lay off my pud after 8 continuous whacks.  I seriously felt bad for Safina, even when she was hitting those crazy backhanded cross court shots that had more angles than my asian barber’s clippers.  Actually, I felt sorry for her because of those shots.  It only made that pathetic match go on longer.  Even Serena’s mom looked like she was gonna fall asleep, or cry for the poor (rich) girl.  I really have nothing to say and nothing else to go on as this match was so bad.     Serena Rodney King’d Saf-uh-nuh, 6-0, 6-2 in under an hour. See you in 24.

The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is…Now Open! Tennisburger Covers/Covered Fed v. Rod Live so he Can/Could go to Sleep

     So much build-up for this match!  Roofs being opened.  Talk of conditioning.  How about those posters in the hallway?  All they’re missing is one of those 8 ft. x 8 ft. posters of a yellow Lamborghini, or Samantha Fox.  Is there a coin toss for who gets to call the coin toss?  Marry Carillo really seems to find the phrase, chomping at the bit, hilarious. Anyone notice Brag had the other McEnroe over last night to sip some of that conditioning juice (I bet you it taste kinda like au jous)?  I bet those guys condition before they shampoo.  Repeat, indeed.  So they broke down the match like they break down every other match…might as well play the match!

     Where is Federer’s hat! Everyone’s got a hat but him.  Maybe a beanie, or a beret?  A little top hat, perhaps?  Or a cowboy hat?  Or one of those hats with the propellers on ‘em!  That might be too twink.  Roddick uses his hat to hold at love.  There’s a joke in there somewhere but I’m already tired.  That Safina match was a true test of whatever muscles keep my eyelids from staying open.  

     Brag goes on to speculate on whether the roof being open will help Rod or Fed.  He winds up giving the edge to Fed as Federer’s hatless head will allow him to absorb more solar power.  Federer holds at 15.  I yawn, scratch my ass, then toot, proving that that slice of bean pie was indeed a magical fruit.

     Triple break point for Swiss Mister.  Two blown.  Oh my, a passing shot and Roddick is second guessing this whole, going pro thang.  But alas, it’s too late!

     Viagra tries to entice me to have a painful, 8 hour long erection with it’s 7,000th commercial of the open.  Are you even suppose to have sex after 35?

    Fed somehow holds on the third game as Roddick’s shots didn’t look bad.  Uhhh, maybe Federer is just better?  He is the guy with the headband after all.  Roddddddddick follows up Feds serve by being broken.  A nice little DROPPA! into the bottom of the net never hurt nobody, except Roddick, right now.  Unless my elementary math teacher was lying to me all those years I was in 2nd grade, that makes it 4-1 Federer.  Maybe I’ll have enough time to whack before I go to bed!

     Federer challenged a ball called out, won the challenge but the point was given to him even tough Roddick claimed he was there to make the shot, therefore making it a redo rather than giving Fed the point.  The true douche in Roddick came out, asking the chair umpire if he believed he could’ve hit the ball, to which the umpire said no.  Roddick then told him, have some sack, dude.  Funny enough that’s a compliment in Aussie slang which means, I’d like to lick hot wax off your taint.  Fed holds.  I can hear my roommates talking in their sleep, and they’re both saying BooooorrrrrrreeeEEEEn. 5-1, Federer.

     After a few scrappy moments from the sweatiest man on earth, Federer holds to take the first set 6-2.  At this  point if anyone can tell me why I am still up, I’d love to hear your answer in the form of a stripper gram.

     The only explanation I can think of for RoSTDick to continually come up to the net is because he dropped some of his Trojans over there.  Everytime he comes into net Federer basically sends him walking back to the baseline with his head down.  As I type this RoddddICK comes to net, and Federer dumps it into the net making me look like a dick.  Deuce!

     Was Brad Gilbert spawned by an ape and a fish?  Roddick holds.  The saying too little too late comes to mind.  You could probably apply that saying to the precise moment when Roddeck finds out the age of his sorority dates.  

     Hey Tiffany Cherry, (*everyone chants*) HOW HOT IS IT!?  Federer holds up, waits a minute, then puts some boom in it.  

     Roddick bites on that whole hold thing.  On serve, Roddick’s up 2-1.  

     I don’t know what kind of shot Federer hit.  Up the line, running back hand passing shot, past an approaching Roddick coming from the same side as the pass.  Federer holds at 2-2 as Roddick whines to his box (note: ladies, do not whine to your box.  Talking to your box will not make it grow any faster).  Andy “Copy Cat” Roddick holds at 2-2. 

     Brag’s ingenious fishape brain coins the phrase (letters?) K.S. for kick serve.  A true wordsmith, indeed.  First Toss Assist and now this.   Roddick shows some life with some approach shots and few passing shots and it’s 4 all with Roddick serving at 40-15.  Federer has a knack for stepping around a shot, making it look like an inside out shot, then turns it into an inside out-in shot up the line on his left hand side.   Roddick holds despite my attempt to describe Federer’s magic tricks.

     After a couple aces and a DROPPA! Fed holds at 5-5.  Is that pine tar on the bill of Roddick’s hat?  No time to answer that.  Some people break bed at love, Federer breaks serve at love.  6-5, Federer.  

     An emergency alert system pisses me off for 10 seconds, and when they come back it’s 30-0. 40-0. Game.  It happened that fast.  Two games to none.  Yawn!

     If you have a Golden Corral in your state, could you please just leave me a little note in the comments section? A simple yes or no will do.  I’m putting that place in the same column with aliens, smart funny cute girls, happiness, and a bacne-free life.  

     It’s now 2-2 in the third and I swear to Monfils, if I see one more passing shot I’m, well, actually I wouldn’t be too surprised, they’ve been happening all night.  If you took the number of passing shots, then divided them by the number of sweaty mesh hats Roddick wears, I bet that number would equal 1.  Roddick keeps coming in, and shockingly enough Brag believes he should keep coming in, which leads me to believe that Brag is either an idiot (I think he’s and idiot regardless), or a Fed sympathizer.  The only reason Roddick would keep coming in is if he’s a fan of watching tennis balls fly by him.  

      At this point, unless Weird Al Yankovic parachutes into the arena and lands on Federer, or if a Texas-sized comet slams into Federer’s grill, I’m gonna have to call this match at 3-2 in the third on serve.  This dog needs his sleep.  If Roddick pulls out of this one I leave Tennisburger to Salty, and my wipe rag to my ex.

     Let’s Go(to sleep)!!!

     P.S. I hate predictions, but let’s say 7-5 for shits and giggles in the third.

GODDAMNIT!: Day 7

     You all are some sick fucks.  I get a record number of hits today (2), the day Monfils has to bow out.  Well you won’t find me allaying any of your sick desires to see me squirm (as much as I like to squirm).  To be honest I can’t believe Monfils took the court knowing he had two broken wrists.  Of course the man is too humble to tell you that himself, which is why I exist.  Hours before the match, while doing his hair (always a volatile situation), he broke both his wrists while straightening his hair.  I dunno.  I didn’t believe it at first either.  So to play SeaMoan, let alone take zee 2nd set is unbelievable.  He didn’t even have his wrists wrapped!  As I write this I’m standing at attention while saluting the Monfils flag that hangs proudly above my work bench (that’s douche talk for bed).  That 45 shot rally in the first set was hilarious to watch, ’cause you just know they were both laughing about it on the inside.  It also infuriated Manritilova and her veins which is always awesome.  If you missed it, they had a crosscourt rally that lasted 67 minutes and it was basically a practice rally/inside joke for the ages.  The joke was totally on us, but only if you were smart enough to pick up on it.  Monfils also conceded a point and started walking down the baseline to await SeaMoan’s next serve, as the ball was still in the air, and SeaMoan had yet to hit it.  That pissed of Veinritilova as well.  If you’re not paying attention here’s a basic algebraic equation, if /when Manritiveina=pissed then Tennisburger=pleased.  To be serious (for a second) I don’t really know what is wrong with Le Monf’s wrist(s?).  But he said fuck during his press conference, so I’m willing to overlook any type of crying that may have been involved.  The match had it’s moments but overall was pretty, meh.  You could definitely tell something was wrong in the beginning of the third set. SeaMoan walks out of the Monfils pot and into the RAFA! fire, 6-4, 2-6, 6-1(ret). I would say something about the Wrist Assist, but Salty already stole my thunder.  Way to keep me on my long, ape-like toes, Salt.

   I was tempted to give the World’s Greatest Tennis Player Mug Award to Monfils for playing with two broken wrists (and not telling us about it), but I can’t overlook the gift Verdasco bestowed upon the tennis world.  I don’t know how I like a Spaniard with a faux hawk, but I do. I mean, you can almost smell the Chocolate Axe Body Gel Shampoo Wash Soap on the guy.  I don’t know how the hell he did it all while staring at a piece of hamburger hanging from the corner of Murray’s upper lip; I mean that most have been more distracting than line judges dressed in orange.  Seriously Australian Open Tournament directors, can you maybe next time, have your line judges on fire, or maybe have them swallow some radioactive liquid of the neon green variety?  Or fuck it, just get some guys with Tourettes.  But back to the mug winner at hand.  There were so many inside-out forehand winners in this match I had flashbacks of my mom screaming “In or out!” as I ran in and out of the house after eating a box of Gobstoppers and 12 handfuls of Jujubees.  Oh, um Brag? How are your predictions doing? I seem to remember you picking the Scottish Werewolf to go all the way, no?  Funny enough, Teflon Don was nowhere to be seen after Murray choked on whatever it is Scottish people eat.  He was there to comment on Murray screaming at his box.  Ladies, do you ever scream at your box to get fired up? Brag seems to think Murray does.  Verdasco, who somehow seemed to wriggle his way into my heart, not unlike a heartworm (warning, that link grossed even me out) helped heave my chub into the heavens, winning somthing-6, 6-something, something-6, 6-something, 6-something.  Oh, and I forgot to ask, was Robocop the chair umpire for that match? Did anyone hear that guy’s voce (box)?  

     Verdasco goes on to face the winner of the Blake v. Tsonga match which is about to begin as I write this.  Seeing as how I’m surprised Blake got into the 2nd round, I’m gonna have to go with Tsonga Tsonga Dontcha Wanna for this one.  Even if he does practice with his shirt off…a practice I abhor.

     Azarenka, up a set on the black shark, succumb to some type of bug of the stomach variety (that’s my new saying by the way…of the _____ variety).  She cried!  I need to compile my new crier list of ‘09 for sure.  Note to tennis players over seas, do not eat bugs!  After her press conference Pam Shriver said something to the effect of, I wish I looked that good after throwing up all day.  Pam, believe me, you don’t even look as good as her throwup.  In related news did you know A-O! is short for Australian Open?  Johnny Utah faces the Kooze up next.  

     Jie Zheng bowed down to the Kooze after falling over on her back in a shameless attempt to try and sue the Australian Open for negligence.  Oooh, my neck and my back, indeed.  I wonder if they settled out of court for a 40.

     Navarro beat Garrigues in the no duh match of the day.  Seriously, who the eff is Garrigues? Seeded 21, even.  I need to start doing my homework. That goes for school homework too.

     Alize “Rainbow” Cornet literally went down to Safina.  I love Cornet, but even if she had won that match I would’ve been ashamed of her.  There was no reason she should have won that match, and it showed.  But I will miss those little French whimpers, those rainbow shots, aaaaand, I dunno, thas it.

     I’m diggin’ RAFA!’s new fit.  It’s all miami vice meets knickers by way of knee tape.  I likes, I likes.  If you’re gonna roll with capris you’re gonna have to give up the sleeveless shirts, ya’ know?  I like that he was man enough to admit that. Have you noticed RAFA!’s face after a major winner…his c’mon face if you will?  He looks up to uncle Tony Toni Tone and there’s almost a look of fear in his face, like this power or skill or what have you that’s inside him is starting to scare him. Maybe, no, I was really high, but that was some heavy stuff, looking into his eyes and seeing that fear, and having that fear stare back at you through the TV screen, then looking away and remembering you haven’t even wacked today, or eaten a grilled cheese, then you look back and his Miami Vice outfit is all sweaty and nasty and then you don’t want a grilled cheese, or a whack and that fear is kinda gone, but you know it’ll rear it’s ugly head, and the whole cycle will begin again. And that cycle usually started right after one of those forehand crosscourt winners that had me wondering if RAFA! had just broken the spacetime continuum. But then I realized I have no idea what the spacetime continuum is.

     Dear ESPN2, 

     No more C’montages please.  We get it, the top four are dynamic, and hungry and driven and say c’mon a lot after points, but there are matches being played while your athletic rhetoric (damn I’m hot tonight!) is spinning more out of control than that time I tried to do my first donut in my 5.0 Mustang and wound up making more of a bear claw than a donut and ran over two cats and a mailbox.

     Love,

            Tennisburger

       Well, Blake and the stick up his butt have just started serving, so I need to take a hit of that angel dust (aka eyelid crutch medicine) and watch this match.  And I do believe Tsonga is up a break!