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.


(|) > Tennis

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.

Thunder Tennis


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

I didn’t say I was gonna kill you!

I’ve been lying in bed with my finger up my nose and breathing heavy with my other hand dangling a Pall Mall slim over the edge of my single bed fighting the urge to post. Ashes piling up among cat shit and old dirty Fruity Pebble bowls.   I knew it’d be like this. Pathetic.  All I’ve been thinking about all day is Monfils’ loss to RAFA! Sometimes I don’t want to put down 1200 words. Sometimes I just want my mommy and a chocolate Yoo-hoo like the rest of you metrosexuals.  If Monfils could just grow-the-fuck-up and realize you have to win 3 sets against the big guys I wouldn’t have to put up with all this pain (it starts in my rear and ends in my ear).  After losing his fucking mind and taking the 1st I knew something was wrong.  You know what was wrong? He pissed off the wrong motherfucker.  Don’t believe me? Look at the scores of the last 3 sets.  I sometimes think just showing up is good enough at my job too, but then the music goes on and the next thing I know I have to dance on that pole.  Point is, even strippers have to work to be the best, like Jessie Spano in Showgirls. I love the guy, don’t get me wrong, but I think I’ll be waiting a few years for that nut to mature enough to win a meaningful match.

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?