Have you ever eaten 10 waffles (in a row)?  I just have and let me tell you that Ambien may have a new competitor when it comes to sleep aids, not to be confused with  sleep AIDS which you can catch in your sleep.  There’s only one cure for getting completely fucking sideways on a Saturday night, too, so the 10 waffle method has that going for it as well.  Can’t wait to see what 3 hambrrgrrs does for 10 waffles and my sex life.  Let me assure you that once Monday comes I will be back to my weekly regimen of Flinstone gummy vitamins, broccoli florets and bulgur wheat milkshakes (they leave the thickest, tastiest mustaches).  Where am I going with all of this you might be asking yourself, or your pet parrot? Both excess and whatever the opposite of excess is will serve you well in life (any attempts at moderation will only leave you with track marks up and down your arms and people constantly letting you know there is a tiny bit of, what looks like baby batter in the corner of your mouth from the insane amount of pole smoking you’ve been doing in order to facilitate those back alley heroin overdoes you’ve come to crave so much), BUT excess and whatever the opposite of excess is, is not good for your Swiss forehands in Indian Wells.  That last sentence just felt like some sort of crazed Coltrane free jazz solo I must say.

So Federror (surely not the first to hit upon this “witty” play on words) sheepishly emerged from the shadows to have another awkward interview with Pam Shriver (I find her name funny enough) and admitted that he had no idea he’d be playing for the number 2 spot if he faced Screech in the Semi’s.  It was cute but you could smell that little Swiss lie like a fart in an elevator and it showed on the court as he hit the ball long and into the net more times than I care to look up on the Indian Wells stat chart. Translation: dude was nervous.

Diamonds and Pearls

In my humble opinion (or I.M.H.O. for you all you dorks out there) Federererer is pushing to hard ’cause he knows his dominance is and has been over for a couple years.  It must also be nerve racking to lose 4 times in a row to the douchiest tennis player of all time (I’m sure if Screech wasn’t a tennis player he’d be a Serbian rapper, dropping knowledge about harsh Balkan winters and the day he lost his Yak).  I’m sure all three Screeches have gotten into Fed’s head at one time or another, what with Samuel Powers loud shirts and Dustin Diamonds infamous tub video.  Sometimes the hardest part isn’t losing, but who you’re losing too.

Take for instance the women’s final which is sadly taking place right now.  If Wozniacki (currently up 6-1 and probably kicking herself for allowing Bah-toe-lee to win a single game) loses to Bah-toe-lee, it won’t be so much that she lost, it would be the fact that she should have won in less time that it takes for me to burn my hot dog casserole dinner.  I actually like Bah-toe-lee and her Danny Devito circa Penguin era likeness, but I have no idea how she got her foot in the quarters, let alone her giant ass in  the finals.  She just held then broke and the crowd went bananas, so maybe she will pull it out, but it would take nothing less than a Tonya Harding moment*.

For now I think I’ll retire to my bed (three bean bags lined up in a row) and await lunch time and the epic beatdown Rafa hopefully hands to Samuel “Diamond Dust” Powers.

*up 3-1 in the second I may be forced to eat my words but I will fall back on the fact that the state of the women’s game is more erratic than a trapped tit mouse in a tomato can.

I seriously just tried to figure out how to use this thing/pressword for what seemed like an eternity before realizing that I was just high, but then realizing again that an eternity has passed since I’ve put fingertips to my overpriced Apple product without the sole intent of jangling my white chocolate ding dong and pink snowballs.  I must say that what’s brought me back from the abyss is not just a yearning to write long, run-on, redundant sentences, but the amazing Indian Wells action.  And with that I must add that Karlovic v. Nadal has just got underway and it appears that Elizabeth Shue is directly behind the Croat’s bent over bung which is indeed exciting if you’re me (impossible) or work for TMZ (likely).  In all seriousness some major things have happened in the tennis world as of late that has brought me back, at least enough to write about it for one post, maybe 4, who knows?  Children and Nazi’s like lists so for all the Nazi’s out there…:

1. I was able to see Raonic in San Jose and he definitely lived up to his John Mayer like tennis abilities and Federerererish good looks.  I may have that backwards but I either way I am pretty fuckin’ crushed out on this kid.  One minute every cucumber in town is gushing over how cool he is on the court and the next minute you hear he took a belt to his coach’s backside in South Africa mid-match. As you might guess I love people who are inconsistent.

2. Last night I witnessed the hair of Ryan Harrison. It was amazing.

3. I was also able to see Monfils in San Ho as the ho’s probably don’t like to call it.  There is a pretty rad story that goes along with that match as he played a young douche from Stanford and brought “his boyzzz” with him.  Monfils had some fun mocking them during the match as I was ready to defend my nappy headed hero to the death.  But alas, the story will have to waith.  I accidentally hit the ‘h’, but decided it matched my dramatic comeback.

4. Murray lost to Donald “Fucking” Young.  Fuckin’ A.  I wasn’t able to see the match due to my new job of working more hours in the day than there are in a day, but I did get a big ol’ granddad chuckle when I saw the tennis line/box score/tally in my New England Journal of Tennis Yucks.  What I would have liked to have seen more was the nuclear meltdown Young undoubtedly had losing 6-0, 6-4 to Robredbro. Love those inconsistent bros.  Can someone please confirm for me that Young did indeed (my new favorite word, your new least favorite word) smash 18 rackets (or racquets if you’re a smug bug) as I dreamed he did last night.

5. The ‘Pove.

5 1/2. There’s a frenchman in the quarters.

6. I’ve missed the one way communication with all three of you who read my site.

And with that I’m back. And with that I must go show my next door neighbor what a real drunk looks like. And with that we’re all back to square one…what a relief.

Happy St. Paddy’s day, amateurs!

Dinara Safroida

First off, can we please get a standard on what a man is and what a woman is?  I know this is the new millenium, and we’re suppose to be tolerant of others, but howabout we just get some basic guidelines down for each gender?  Seems like lots of sports are suffering from a case of  bad Wayans bros. production (there was a fucking sequel!). From there we can start to recognize things like steroid abuse, or whose eating elephant tranquilizers for breakfast.  C’mon, you don’t get recurring back problems, female balls and no neckitus at 24 from playing tennis, you get it from slamming your ass with Barry B juice. Either way I’d like this freak of nature to, at the very least, be defined, I need to label my polaroids. Apparently Safroida demolished some limey 6-1, 6-2. Let’s see what happens when she plays someone not from Ipswich.

Brad Gilbert believes Roddick will take Gonzo in straight sets.  The only thing I want to know is, does he rub that tiny American flag with Roddick sweat before or after he wraps it around his giant gorilla balls?  And what’s up with that velvet suit and purple ‘kerchief? Fucking Don Juan of primates over here.  Roddick underwhelmed everyone who isn’t American and/or hooked up to life support by beating tennis giant, Feliciano Lopez, the Federer of “where’s that guy been?”  Seriously, what are you going to wow us with next, a keg stand? Lil’ underachiever exceeded expectations, 6-7, 6-4, 6-4, 7-6.  Straights indeed. I predict Gonzo 6-0, 6-0, 6-0. And while we’re (*ugh*) on Roddick, can we keep him out of the booth?  Dude is so slimy. True colors show on the court where he acts like a grade A, free range, organic, extra large, brown douche. Not when he’s kissing grown-ass babies who bow down to him like I did to my left over pizza tonight after my boo told me she wasn’t making me dinner.

Why is Clijsters down 0-3 against Petrova righaboutnow? (Addendum: make that 5-0).  (Addendum: 6-0. Has Clijsters won  a goddamn point!?). Wow, okay no more addendums. Looks like Petrova might bestow the double bagel on Clijsters. This is really no way to throw a match. Gotta make it look real. Check out some Davy footage. Unbelievable, 6-0, 6-1. It took me longer (sadly) to write this post.

So yeah, Monfils fell to that sickly looking Great Dane and I don’t really know what to say. Kinda makes me my face turn yellowish green. If you’ve followed me in the past you know I usually just shut it down when Monfils loses, so let’s just move on before I do just that.  Just needs to keep his goddamn head in the game.  Isner isn’t going to survive Murray is like saying John and Greg Rice were generating much cash flow. Pretty much a no-brainer. And what’s up with Steven Smith traveling around the world with Isner? Going to clubs in London and shit. Steven Smith’s street cred just plummeted. Can’t imagine how those off-season convos are gonna be when his crew gets wind of this.

Jankovic is proving to have Sharavanovic syndrome, going down in straights (2 and 3 even!) to Bondarenko, although that’s like a tiny aftershock after seeing Clijsters go down like that.

Jie Zheng whooped on my girl Bah-toe-lee after dropping the first set which holds zero wow factor the aforementioned paragraph.

I know I just spoke of tennis in general having awkward interviews but can someone please tell me why Screech is so whimsical these days? I know he has to make up for acting like a huge ass, but enough already with the yuck yuck.  Whoah, somebody in tennis has a personality, and look at how crrrraaaazzzzeeeeee he is (and how crazy I spelled crazy).  You’re gonna wind up the fucking Rupert Pupkin of tennis.  Just chill the fuck out, get a free pizza from that cocaine front your parents call a crepe shop that earns 1.4 million dinars per every goat year and reeeeelax.  No need to lose your dignity to a couple of hacks with tiny mics.  You already look goofy enough without sauntering around all over the goddamn place like a Serbian Clown.

I’m ’bout to hit the hay, but RAFA! just came out looking like a big ol’ titty. If he’s teaming up with some sort of Spanish breast cancer movement, god bless him. I know this post is like when you feel a giant dump coming on but only a tiny brown pebble falls out of your bum, but I’m getting back into this after fracturing both my blog legs (blegs?), so gimme some time to get use to these bleg braces.

Allez!

unlimited text plan

unlimited chat plan

I’m not sure what’s more depressing: the continual chest pain I’m feeling, the continual rain that’s dropping, the continual hair loss of Prince William, the awkward interview I saw with Venus “I won’t kill you” Williams (her laughing coach has taught her well and let me add that pretty much all tennis interviews are horribly awkward), Taylor Dent’s 1 year stint in a full (XXL) body cast, The Pove’s absence from round freakin’ 2, Heninnnnn Horseface’s return to thee stage, Young’s hide being tanned by an Ozzy, the fact that Marcos “Jello Body Shot” Baghdatis only broke one wrapped racket, or what? So far this new year blows, and the unintended blackened fried chicken I ate for breakfast didn’t help matters.

Things that are stopping me from sticking my head in the oven are: soon Isner’s mug will be facing some serious turbulence via a Monfilbro, Blake didn’t get outta the first (fucking close though, aye?), I still have a little Old Crow left, I have cable again (with the angina inducing Tennis Channel, so I’m still undecided on how many chubs I give this new development), there appears to be at least one person who still reads this thing, my stove is electric.

I’ll be back tonight, and around for the forseeable future as a certain someone doesn’t seem to be returning my texts and IM’s. Glad to be back.

I see some people have more tennis ants in their tennis pants than other people’s pants regarding the upcoming season.

My notes on the match has everything from Tony Bennet and skeet shooting, to Michael Phelps morphing into the biggest fucking retarded, sleazeball ever, to Pam Shriver making me vomit as she tried to hit on him, to “Chelsea Clinton in the house,” but it’s all in vain at this point, 2 days later with no Monfils by our side. Who could possibly give a shit about a 17 year-old at a time like this?

So Oudin lost the first set big time in little China, going down to Petrova (which I’m pretty sure means lumberjack in Russian) 6-1.  Apparently she’s won (all?) 5 grand slam matches after losing the 1st set, so as Dickberg pointed out (he was very proud of himself after this comment), Oudin had her right where she wanted her (good one Dick!).  Actually right here I’d like to take a quick break and address some of the weirder things Dick Enberg’s old brain spat out during the match:

1.  She’s the type of girl you’d like to have live next door to you. I don’t know what this means, but coming from a grown-ass man upwards of the 60 year age mark that can only mean he’d like to spit in her corn hole and dry it up with my corn cob.  I mean, yeah, sure, I’d rather a 17 year-old tennis phenom live next to me rather than an 80 year-old Chinese man who does calisthenics at 5 in the morning only to follow that up with a clearing of his lungs and throat of green oysters for the next 45 minutes, but I’ve never thought about it that specifically, let alone verbalize it.

2.  I dont’ have this exactly right, but something to the affect of If she were to see a fight she’d be the first to get right in there and put her chin out. Why is Dick Enberg having thoughts of living next to a 17 year-old girl and subsequently thoughts of said girl getting in a fight?  I know I deplored Dick Enberg to stop using the word delicious to describe matches, but if this is the alternative, can we please go back to having delicious matches?  It’s awkward for me to hear this stuff while I’m on the couch, half-naked while eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon.  It just makes me feel guilty about what I’m already doing.

There were more, but inhaling computer cleaner kinda cleans the memory as good as the keyboard.  So Oudin came firing out of the gate in the 2nd.  I don’t know what that last sentence means really or where it came from, but just like when I get caught pissing in public, I prefer to turn the other way and run.  So (as I’m writing this Djoke is blowing Stepanek’s fish face out of the fucking water, *sob* no snake dance tonight for me) Oudin took the 2nd in a tie-break, then blew past the Russian choker in the 3rd, 6-3.  Then aforementioned waterworks ensued.  Someone farted, I laughed, then ate a cheese puff leaving most of it on the curly black blades of pubes that cover my bare chest.  Labor Day indeed.

Anyone see Dulko get blown the fuck out? Double goose egg? My God, I’d actually like to have seen that.  Bondarenko must know something we don’t.  Some video? A letter?  A polaroid perhaps? Why even show up?  Or at least play in your joke glasses with the fake mustache so no one knows for sure if it’s really you.  That’s what I do at my job when I show up drunk, gotta cover all your bases, dontchya know?

Wozniacki upset the fuck out of the Kooze, but managed not to upset most of the straight males who plan to watch more women’s tennis.  I say bring back the corn rows. If you really wanna be on top of your game, and this goes for any professional career, really, get your fuckin’ corn row on. Oudin v. Woz? I like Woz, but I can’t ignore my general rule of going with anything that’s 17 years-old.  But for fucksake, tell your sister to hold it with the water works, this is a happy time. I know your high school tennis trophies don’t mean shit right now, but let’s try and focus on the better sister right now.  Maybe later you’ll win the US Open at 17.

Sippin' on Gin and Juice

I’m bummed I haven’t been able to post/see anything Monfil related, but tomorrow night I’m gonna be on it.

After feeling what it’d be like to lose a set to a freak of nature Verdasco got his Axe body spray out, his Axe hair care products and his baby oil and dismissed Isner 4-6, 6-4, 6-4, 6-4.

In other news, I’m tired. Hope you all had a nice Labor Day staring at tennis for 10 hours like a goddamn zombie loser who lives in his parents guest house.

Oudin (or Oudini which I heard Carillo call her which was actually pretty good, score one for the carpet cleaner) somehow beat Sharapova which I was at first livid about until I realized Lefty Mcloberton probably aint gonna beat Serena, so I was content, then I realized her 85mph fastball aint gonna be cuttin’ the mustard against Serena, so then I was a back to being upset (and a little confused) and finally tried to will myself to liking Oudin more than Popov.  As the 3rd set trudged on I realized Oudin (screwed up nickname in the works) I’m not that big of a fan.  She had how many match points?  And how many times did Popov double fault (Carillo had another good one saying you musn’t have more double faults than the age of your opponent)? 19? I dunno, that 3rd set was hard to stomach, kinda gave me the shits (no giggles).  But alas, I have no one else to root for, except the Woz and my mom’s boyfriend, Todd who is in a triathalon tomorrow.  I can’t stand when tennis players don’t give credit, and I’m not saying Oudin didn’t play well or “win the match,” but Popov looked like the fat cowgirl I saw at the burlesque show last night, who, incidentally, farted in my face (note: I’d pay to have Lefty Mcloberton drop a couple notes from her butt trumpet onto my grill).  I dunno, for all the “fire” and “heart” and “life” Carillo claimed she had she sure did take a few trips down to chokesville.  By the way, if you’re not sure if your gay here’s a quick way of finding out: check your phone. If you have a text from Billy Jean King (and those creepy purple glasses), chances are, you are.  And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, too bad, I’m a little too drunk and gassy (the kung pao chicken worked) to get into it.  Speaking of Choke city…

Anyone see Jesse “1982″ Witten? I know Gaia Live did, dude’s in love.  But yeah, I finally got to see his match after repeatedly yelling at my girlfriends television, explaining that the Federer match was boring and had no character.  By the way, if you’ve just recently been freed from your kidnapper after more than 18 years and didn’t know, Federer beat Hewitt in four.  But Witten, what an ape. I hereby offer to shave his arms if he’ll shave my old ladies back.  And what’s the big deal with his forehand? The motion is quick but other than that I’m not too impressed.  Anyway, the guy is probably on his way back to the Jersey shore with his $50,000 minus whatever he spent on Columbian nose candy, alimony and child support.

Isner in normal tie-break fashion took Roddick’s crabs to the gas chamber in 5 and I couldn’t be more thrilled.  More on the chat tip for a sec. While watching this match someone kept asking (at first I thought to be funny, but after the 5th time of asking the same question I thought the guy really wanted to know) if the woman in the stands was “Isner’s girlfriend or mom.”  Priceless.

Well, Blake’s about to get “upset” by Robredo, and my girlfriend is offering up that sweet sweet 69, so I’ll see you all tomorrow.  Sorry for the short sucky post.

Coolest Hat Ever

Just Me n' My Thumbs

If these two top dogs, Ice Man and Maverick if you will, don’t make it to the championship match I really see no other reason to go on living, except for maybe jaggin’ off and the poor dental plan I receive at work.  I can’t even begin to describe the strangeness that would fill the air if these two behemoths lumbered onto the field.  Witten would come out to The Ace of Spades and Dent would come out to 2 Live Crew’s Hey, We Want Some Pussy. I’m getting wet just thinking of the possibilities and I’m not even built like that.  Dads in the stands would have to awkwardly explain to little Wayne and little Debbie that these two ass hats are indeed champions. Man! That’d be something.

Well anyway, back to reality (which usually blows).  Anyone see Christina (sorry babe, the twat spells it wrong) Mchale go down in teen flames against Karate Kid?  Fawwwwk.  First came the pre-match interview.  I don’t know if Mchale was scared that she was about to play on Arthur Ashe at night, or that the woman interviewing her had no lips.  Either way, she was sweatin’ more than a virgin on prom night.  All red. Pasted on smile.  Had to feel bad for her. At one point I thought she was going to shit out her TeenBop magazine (with Taylor Dent on the cover) right there.  I don’t even know if she heard the questions.  I know I didn’t, I was too busy laughing.  So she blurts out two short answers then shuffles off.  Then comes Sharapova with a fucking silver headband and a black dinner dress (which she intends to play in) with silver sizzle all over it and a wry smile on her face, like she knows she’s gonna have to embarass this little girl, that it’s her duty and worst of all she’s gonna like it.  And that she did.

The first two points of Sharapova’s were like a lewd gesture to the teen Mchale.  I get paid to make jokes about that kinda stuff and I was uncomfortable.  I wanted to shield Mchale’s racquet’s eyes from the giant dong that was Sharapova’s first two returns.  Mchale’s little giggle into her towel was pretty priceless though after the forehand winner, I’ll give her that.  But that’s all I’m giving her and Sharapova did the same thing.  Early on in the first set Sharapova, on the run switched hands and forced an error with a left-motherfucking-hand lob.  I don’t even switch hands when I’m pruning the pear tree if you catch the drift coming off my masturbation metaphor.  I dunno if someone as fine as Sharapova can have the nick name Lefty McLoberton but I’m gonna give it a spin.

Returns on both side of the game were good for the first four games, but Mchale couldn’t keep up and before I knew it Lefty McLoberton had won the first set 6-2 (although in the second Mchale held and the score keeper put up 6-3 and my mind took a giant dump, then they changed it to 5-3 which really fucked me up).  Lefty McLoberton whooped on Mchale in the quad in straights 6-2, 6-1.

Lefty McLoberton faces Oudin who plucked Big Bird 5-7, 6-4, 6-3.  I missed the Oudin match, but I’m sure everyone’s all Oudin’ed out at this point anyway, at least until Saturday.

I just realized I goofed with Vani King. Ooops.

You know the green movement has gone too far when Alec Baldwin is telling me to compost at 1 in the morning while I’m trying to watch the US Open.  Note to cancer and go green, I’m not interested right now. Sometimes I’d like to forget the cyst on the top of my head (seriously), and the fact that my biodegradeable banana peels will destroy the earth if I don’t dispose of them properly.  It’s 1am, all I’d like is a quick wack attack, some tennis and a few Z’s.

Can anyone tell me who Tom “Death Stare” Rinaldi is?  Guy thinks every second of his life is a goddamn staring competition.  Google much? I don’t know if chill pill’s exist, but if they do, could you find a couple and send them over to Rinaldi’s eye balls?

Anyone see Blake get uberfuckingexcited over his 3rd set win over Rochus.  Man, times are tough.  First I’m forced to compost my toe nail clippings and now this.  Blake, listen, Rochus is ranked 90th in the world.  I could fart right now and it’d make a bigger blip on ATP’s radar.  And why in the shit we’re we even forced to watch that match.  I know Isner and his tie-break fest were going on, but wasn’t there another match (I was huffin’ glue, excuse me if my memory isn’t 100%) we could’ve watched.  McEnroe himself admitted it was a goddamn Scrabble game.  Oh yeah, ’cause he’s American!  Well shit, they might as well have just broadcasted an apple pie baking, or NASCAR (by the way, anyone notice the ESPN ticker that said a NASCAR driver broke his foot playing frisbee?).  All I’m sayin’ is, this is tennis, it ain’t the Olympics.

Can I tell you right now that Dulko is going to shred Shevadova into some  Kazkhstanian brown weed?  Forget her hometown, this girl struggled to beat Jankovic who was obviously elsewhere the entire match.  And those glasses!  Jesus, I’m heading over to Vegas right after this post.  If I’m wrong, you can all have a laugh at my expense, for the first time I’m sure. If I’m right I’m gonna break the world’s record for receiving the longest lap dance.

Wozniacki and Azarenka are my two dark horses.  Would love to seem in the final.  Not exactly Dent v. Witten, but a close second.

Maria Jose Martinez Sanchez! (that name just needs an exclamation point) takes on Serena. Any guesses who I’m rooting for?

Anyone notice how easy Monfils has it? Nadal with the banged up knee?  I dunno, it’s gettin’ late so I can’t get into it right now….