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Archive for June, 2008

     I totally know what kind of guy Gilbert is…got it all figured out.  There’s two types of people in this world.  Those who, when they go to take a dump in a public restroom, let loose know matter how many people are in there and those who cough, flush, and try as quietly as they can to squeeze out last night’s dinner (the best cartoonist in the world, Joe Matt, has a wonderful instructional comic on this very topic).  I’m sure Gilbert probably looks you dead in the eye before he enters the stall to let you know what a gamer he is; to start with the ball in his court.  I bet you he even lets one rip while staring at you. Once in the stall it’s like he’s recording fart samples at a dollar a rip.  Sloppy Joes, broccoli farts, lion tamers, sleeper holds, the “frappers” that seem to bang off every inch of your arse hole before entering the atmosphere.  Nu, uh, no SBD’s for this guy.  Bet he even drops his pants all the way down to his ankles.  What am I trying to get at here?  Like restroom ethics, the guy has no idea how to behave when the pressure’s on.  His commentating is unrelenting, boorish, and full of shit (this blog and Gilbert should go bowling). For instance, is there anyone this guy doesn’t think should be more aggressive?  His whole existence is based on the premise that everyone should be more aggressive (fitting, seeing as how the guy wears Scooby-doo pajamas while wearing a dinner jacket 10 sizes too small) with their tennis game.  He probably encourages his kids to “grow a pair” and drive drunk.  And what crime did that guy commit to be so shifty eyed? My notes are not filled with tennis coverage, but epic passages on how unholy this man is.  I guess the only thing to do is set him free (until he returns to my vision via my dvr tomorrow). 

     So tennis.  When I said Monfils would win it all, I meant he’d withdraw due to a shoulder injury.  He called his parents and they told him he shouldn’t play if he isn’t 100% (if they were American they would’ve said something annoying like 110%).  Then he called me and I told him he is wonderful and amazing.  His parents brought him some filet o’ fish sandwiches and his favorite Sherlock Holmes story to read by the fire ’til it’s time for the hard court.  Frankly I’m still high from his performance on the spice, and I don’t think my roommates could take another King Cobra related outburst at 9 o’clock in the morning on a weekday.  They’re probably writing Monfils’ parents a “thank you” letter as  I type.

     What’s this?  Vaidisova, on my telly?  Apparently her opponent, Stosur suffered from Limes disease which is a rare disorder that causes you to hit your balls two courts over.  Anyway, whatever, she’s diseased.  Vaidisova smashed her racket into he lawn then raised her skirt, revealing her Ewok underoos and sweet little bonita applebum, sending my chub into epileptic fits that would have had Dostoyevsky  blushing.  To top things off she got skunked in the second set, only to come back and win the match.  Let me add to that whole 2 pillar thing I was talking about a couple days ago that the holy trinity of crazy women includes smoking, jazz and (now) winning a match after getting skunked.  She’s so crazy she’s driving me crazy!  How does that work?!  After she cracked her racket she served with it! If she isn’t careful she may be committed.

     By the way, the holy trinity of crazy eyes, you ask?  Gilbert’s shifty-ass eyes (no Gilbert, ESPN doesn’t change camera angles every half second) Ted Robinsons googley potato head eyes, and Dechy’s wrap-around monobrow (they’re called tweezers, get crackin’!).  Seriously, is that a headband made out of eyebrow hair?  If I was her sleazy manager I’d have her shave a Nike ‘swoosh’ in the middle of her manbrow.  Big bucks.  Addendum: After Dechy lost her hat her unibrow didn’t look all that bad; I kinda lost it in the light…but I will let my comments stand if only for the reason of taking up space.  Consider this move equivelent to you writing your English exams in blue books that aren’t college ruled with a giant scrawl.

      Did you know Ivanovic is almost an anagram for chokeovic?  Did you know “choke” spelled backwards is Dechy?  That’s some 911 conspiracy shit if I ever heard.  In the inappropriate facial hair match of the day Ivanostache was up 5-2, and faster than you could say hair lip Dechy’s illusion of a unibrow won the first set tie break.  But, how many match points does it take to beat the world’s (*cough*) number 1?  Apparently more than 2.  Someone at work ruined the match for me (at the water cooler no less!).  After informing them I watch 10 hours of tennis with the aid of a harsh mixture of Kool-Aid and crystal meth, I kicked ’em in the jaw.  Still, after knowing what I knew I couldn’t believe there was anyway Dechy could find a way to lose.  But after losing 2 match points she folded faster than Balky Bartokomus in that elevator scene in True Romance.  Just like a night with my girlfriend, the third set was tight, slow and filled with giggles.  ‘Staches beat the brows in  a 5-setter of 3-setters (it was really long) 6-7, 7-6, 10-8.

     There was a fucking commercial for a private jet company.  I was actually in the market for a private jet.  I was in my underwear (the good ones), on my lazy boy, polishing off my third tombstone and thumbing through the yellow pages under ‘P’ for private jets and couldn’t find a thing.  Thanks Netjet’s marketing team! Is there even a TV watching demographic for purchasers of private jets?  Aren’t those people out destroying the world or something?

     Why does Cliff Drysdale keep calling Cahill “killer”?  Did he kill someone?  Might wanna keep that on the hush, hush.

     Gilbert predicted Screech would win in straights over Safin 6-3, 7-6, 6-1.  Oooops!  Can this guy do anything right (the correct answer is no).    The Serbian _________(insert crazy name of Serbian currency here, if they do indeed have one) fell way below the dollar today as it’s main export-annoying tennis players (excluding Jankohead of course)-fell to the schizophrenic Safin whose hunger for upsets outlasted his love for extremely long bread lines.  If I was to write a play about Safin’s performance against Screech, I’d have the main character struggle with two inner conflicts.  One personified by a ballet dancer, the other by a Mack truck driver on uppers.  One graceful, the other crazed, with 10,000 pounds of force behind it.  Screech would be played by, ohhhh, a scared little mouse.  By the end (I haven’t much time) the main character realizes he can be crazy gay, and just plain crazy. His gracefulness and recklessness come together to win…ohhhh, the hearts of many. Imagine a climax and some plot twists and whatnot.  The resolution?  6-4, 7-6, 6-2.  One point worth mentioning:  Safin sent a wild serve that flew off the court and bounced off Gilbert’s Scooby-doo pajamas, which ricocheted of Cliffy’s fake accent, slammed against Fowler’s Aqua Net storage unit, and finally came to a halt, knocking over Bud Collins’ last shred of sanity.  

     Baghdatis, the devil worshipper won 6-4, 6-4, 6-4.  Federer won, which is like the opposite of a surprise party.  It’s like someone telling you over and over again that they’re going to throw you a party.  In other surprises, Serena won.  Bobby Reynolds showed England that Americans can get excited over spilled milk. Hewitt won in straights which I find very confusing.  Mattek won again, prompting me to rifle through the front seat of my newly acquired private jet and get my barf bag.  Bartoli won which my chub proclaimed as a win win.  

     More tennis tomorrow (*fingers crossed*).  Tally-ho! What What!?

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     Welcome to my log cabin says Chris and Brad (who seems to have had head fattening surgery).  Kick your feet up on our redwood coffee table.  Have some fresh venison.  Lay back on that bear skin rug.  LISTEN TO US RAMBLE FOR 4 HOURS AND 32 MINUTES ON WHETHER OR NOT FEDERER HAS WHAT IT TAKES TO WIN THE SLAM HE, BY NOW, OWNS 80% OF.  Could I become anymore stupid from listening to these two?  Uhhhh, Brad, take your Fed ramble out of the oven, it’s burning.  Uhhh, Chris, you have a little Fed on your lip.  Nope, no, still there.  Do these two give each other handjobs in between camera changes and whisper RAFA! into each other’s hairy, old man ears?  I sincerely hope so (for the part of me that is totally gross). Once these two bumbling circus clowns of tennis commentating got around to talking about tennis the first thing out of Brilbert’s lips is, “I’d like Sam to come in more.”  For once I’d like to hear a commentator say, “Ya’ know, I know he plays 16 feet behind the baseline, but I’d like to see him move back just a foot or two.” What other gems will this guy bring us over the next two weeks?  I bet he thinks Isner is tall, or that Roddick “has a chance.”  Bring me Gimmelslime!  Hell, I’ll take Renae Stubbbbbs at this point. Fuck, I’d take the guy on the bottle of Stubbs barbeque sauce (I bet that motherfucker has some funny shit to say about tennis).  Just no more of that old, douchey, wanna-be casino owning Gilbert. And he’s wearing jeans with that jacket!  Might as well try and get away with your Scooby-doo pajamas.

     So some tennis was played and I was actually quite surprised how good some of it was.  Ferrero toppled Querry whose performance may have suffered due to the fact that he was busy buying furniture for his new home, according to Chris “the talker” Fowler.  Apparently those trips to Pier 1 Imports can really damage your tennis game.  Ferrero wickered Uncle Sam 2-6, 6-4, 6-4, 6-4 to the surprise of not many.

     Skate dad apparently had to (and I’m totally serious if Chris Fowler is) write a fucking essay to get into Wimbledon.  I got my hand on an excerpt from the essay (written in rap form oddly enough), and the first thing that struck me was that he actually puts his pauses down on paper.  Kick it:

     If you let me in/

     To Wimble-din/

     I’ll cut your grass and………..wash your whites/

     I might even….go…..ride on my dirt bike/

     And after I’m done with the tennis and stuff/

     You know what I’m gonna do next-uff…

     Why does he always end with that line?  Weird.  Anyway, Johansson put Skate dad back to work at Pacific Sun Wear, 6-8, 6-7, 6-3, 6-4, 6-3.  They only showed 3 minutes of the match but studies have shown that anymore exposure to Spadea with the human eye results in “fatneck”, herpes simplex-1, and a craving for underage girls.  

     Vaidisova crushed (and hopefully broke a lawn chair or two, I wouldn’t know ’cause the guy in charge of programming is a huge homo) Ondraskovapalooza 6-2, 6-2.  

     Cornet’s mosquito bites got pixelated by a “no photo available” in straights 6-7, 6-7.  If her picture were indeed available to the public I’d make old school “WANTED” posters with burnt edges and everything.  It was a Russian, so I’m sure she poisoned her boob-growing juice tincture.

     Hewitt invited Hasse to a journey to the center of the earth, followed by a screening of The Never Ending Story as they went to a 5-setter (Hewitt-setter, anyone?).  Haase was prepared bringing a bagged lunch (and the Netherlands answer to the Dumb and Dumber haircut), but he eventually choked on his carrot sticks and ants on a log in the 5th.  Hewitt kidnapped Haase before returning him to hairdon’t land, 6-7, 6-3, 6-3, 6-7, 6-2, 4-6, 5-2, 1-9, 3-0, pie-square root of my nut sack, love, 138.  Seriously, does Hewitt get paid by the hour? Look, I know it’s grass, but it’s tennis, not a fucking frolic through the hills.  We all have shit to do! Namely write our shitty blogs and make believe we’re humping someone with giant bazooms.

     Baghdatis won, then cried.

     Uh, more commentating!  Did you see the fucking ambush they put on with the four boxes?  Luke Jensen sticking his thumb up Bud Collin’s arse, Cliff Dreysdale and the other McEnroe, Mary Carillo and Dickberg and more people in another box.  All 9 of them chattered away, like school girls at recess who had just seen lisa-marie get finger banged by William, the star kickball player.  Oh, and what was the keyword?  Federer.  The key to this word game is, you have to ask over and over and over, “Will Federer win? Will Federer win?  I don’t know for fucks sake, go ask your mother!  I think Bud is on the verge of a very public suicide.  He talks with the same anguish and exasperation we all feel upon hearing his run-on sentences.  The thought bubble above his head says “Borrrrrrrring.”  Meanwhile, in the background of box “log cabin” I can see through their tiny window to something that looks like one person playing tennis.  

     I thought Federer looked back to his old self again ’til he lost his first point of the match, serving 40-0, up 2 games to love. What a disappointment that guy’s turning out to be. Oh, and can that guys mother (Nike) please stop dressing him?  He looks like he works at a pancake house in the swiss alps.  Cream cardigan? Sounds like a nasty sex move I put on my girlfriend while she’s sleeping.  Actually it is a nasty sex move I put on my girlfriend while she’s sleeping.  Seemed like Federer had some place to be.  Dentist appointment?  Piano Lesson?  He crushed Hrbaty (the first of many who will realize Federer is fucking pissed off and ready let off some cardigan-wearing steam) in just under 8 minutes and 22 seconds (it’s true, look it up!).  Hrbaty had his moment with an amazing (extremely lucky) backwards, underhand, no look lob up the line that landed fair, just past Federer’s racket.  Cute.  Hrbaty lost in straights, 6-3, 6-2, 6-2.  Somewhere, an idiot lost an extremely large amount of money on what he thought would’ve been the upset of the century.

     At one point the other McEnroe was referring to some fans in the stands wearing giant tennis balls as hats, saying, “there’s a look for ya’, balls on the head.”  Yeah, it’s called a trojan helmet and the penis gently rests on the bridge of the nose.  Roddick does it all the time to his “bros” at parties.  It’s also called a frat hat.

     Mattek!  Photo available, unfortunately.  She won, while the rest of us lost.

     Harklegash met expectations, losing, Serena flashdanced her way out of the first, Bartoli made me a happy burger, Stalone out, a ton of Americans (which technically, in this day and age could refer to only two Americans) are out, Ancic popped that collar, and Karlovic hung his extremely long neck down in defeat, and Meusburger seriously better change her name (or the last six letters) as she put on a very un-burger like performance winning only 3 games.  

     I promise tomorrow’s post won’t suck so bad, I just really need to rub one off.  Tally-ho!!!!!! (thanks Simon, you win by the way).

     P.s. To whoever searched “Licking a tasty, juicy ass, man crack” the principle would like to see you in his office…and share a good laugh with you.

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     For anyone who really knows me (which would be nobody ’cause I’m more dark and mysterious than that goth girl in high school you threw your Jujubees at), you know that I am torn when it comes to play on the grass.  The points are short, the crowd is full of English zombies, and there’s a perceived-no, illusion-of elegance that pervades this tournament that makes the white trash in me (which would be all of me) want to rise up against the subtle backdrop of tyranny and drive my dinner fork into someone’s monocled eyeball. I don’t know what makes me so torn, I can’t think of a single thing that I like about the grass.  Okay, maybe it’s quieter, so I can catch up napping, there.  And it falls under the category of tennis, which causes my chub to rise slightly as if caught in a warm summer breeze at a nudist colony.  So there you have it, a little confession.  I do feel bad about it, unlike other sins, namely masturbating 64 times per diem, so I’ll do my best to overcompensate and write really shitty uninspired coverage of weed play and shitty weed coverage which is what this site is slowly morphing into.  Just know, when you see exclamation points in the next two weeks here, I might be faking it.  It’ll be the same award-winning acting your girlfriend does when you mount your smelly, hairy, 300 lbs. body on the delicate flower that is your girlfriend and pump away as she proclaims to the high heavens she is indeed enjoying the tortuous thrashing that is being bestowed upon on her waif-like frame.  Now that’s a sin.  Let’s Go!!! (it’s the American version of Allez!!!).

     My fist beef with the beefeaters tourney is their claim proclamation declaration (oooooh, burn! In your face English.  Yeah, it was called the declaration of independence.  Maybe you heard about it? I know I did!) that men are gentlemen, and women are ladies.  A bit presumptuous don’t you think? Exhibit ‘A’, your honor….  This was actually the first pic that came up on Google images, I mean imagine the treasures that are buried beneath page 1!.  Motion for the court to recognize that Wimbledon is out of order.  RAFA!, by now has foregone his traditional butt picking and milk loogies to using the PedEgg on his choad in between points. And what about all the town criers? Just like Robert Smith cried, boys don’t cry, and for the sake of this comparison flying, neither do gentlemen.  Exhibit ‘B’ your honor… (1st pic too!).  Seriously your honor, who does she think she is?  King Slut?  That’s one sarcophagus I wouldn’t want to unearth. A-O!  I pose the question to the court, lady or beast?  When you leave this courtroom and go back to whatever that room is called that you make your decisions in just remember that the fate of the world rests on your decision.  Ladies do not run around with their twats dangling from their short skirts, nor do they hail from Rochester Minnesota.  I bet she won the “coldest twat in Rochester” award.  Who’s the poor schmuck who gets to apply the mercury in that competition?

     Okay, on with it you say.  The draws, yes they are quite juicy as far as first courses go. We’ll cover the men first, and I’ll even be nice enough to include Murray despite his incessant crying.  

     Monfils.  What can I say?  He’ll win it all.

     I’m intrigued by Gasquet v. Fish.  Namely I want Gasquet to put to rest all the naysayers (whatever those are) who claim he’s heartless and give Mardy “who fucked up that birth certificate” Fish a cleaning he’ll never forget.

     Olivier Rochus: Who am I playing in the first round?

     Rochus’ Coach: Dudi

     Olivier Rochus:(a bit confused) I’m playing Dooty?

     Rochus’ Coach: Yes, Dudi.

     Olivier Rochus: Like, he’s kaka?  

     Rochus’ Coach: Welllll, yeah, but that’s his name too.

     Llllllllodra plays Ancic, and I really like Ancic, mostly because he pops his collar during photo shoots but looks a little self-conscious about the whole move.  “Iz dis making me loook good, yah?”

     I’m quite happy skate dad will be out by the first round, playing Johansson, and you can quote me on that.  Actually, you can quote everything I say on here.  Just imagine giant quotation marks that start with my first ever post and close with whenever my last post will be.  Probably very soon if I continue to write lame shit like this.

     I don’t know where the term “screwed the pooch” came from or what it means, but can we just change it to “screwed the Querry”?  How many wallets with cash has this guy found and kept to receive so much bad karma?  Did Hitler reincarnate as Querry?  The guy couldn’t catch a break at an all you can catch-a-break buffet.  Okay, I’ll stop.  But first Federer, and now Ferrero?  Jesus, the karma gods are even working in alphabetical order against this guy! I guess he deserves it.  I’m sure there’s a fridge full of decapitated heads back at his apartment or something.

     Speaking of gods, the Greek god of Humility and Self-Given Nicknames looked down on Odesnik handing him Nieminen in the first.  Oooops! There’s still a chance to take back that “American version of Nadal” name tag you made for yourself in arts and crafts class.  Maybe you could cross it out and change it to “American version of Blake” assuming Blake is not American.

     Yeah, Blake out in the first.  Who’s he playing?  Doesn’t matter.  

     Donald Young is back! Please, fuck shit up.  Fuck it up!  The front of his cap is slowly turning to where the bill is straight. I think when this happens it’ll be like all the planets aligning and something strange and beautiful will happen with his tennis skills.  Kinda like in Voltron when all the dudes came together to make that weird Lionbot, or Robotiger. 

       SHITLER!!!!!

     How sweet is it that Gulbis gets to topple Isner?  Granted it’ll all be done in tie-breaks, but he’ll “get ‘er done” as our most radical president says on a daily basis regarding our sworn enemies.  Is that like, “I swear, you’re my enemy”?

     Federer got the tomato can of all tomato cans in Hrbaty.  Frankly, I’m surprised there’s even a photo available.

     Oh, nevermind, RAFA! got the no photo available guy.

 

     Ladies first eh, Queen Laqueefah?  I thinks not.  And yes, now the women with a few exceptions (I’m looking at your giant frame, Manesmo, and yes, you Kooze!).  

  Meusburger!!! Hopefully she reps burgers better than her outing at the French Open when she got swept, and I believe skunked in the 2nd.  

     I can only hope Vaidisova doesn’t implode, yet my chub hopes she does have a few nervous breakdowns and smashed racket incidents.  Tennisburger loves crazy women.  I bet she listens to jazz and smokes cigarettes (the two main pillars of crazy women).  I would love to come home to Vaidisova and find her throwing my belongings out the window onto the front yard, ranting about how she suspects (wrongly of course) that I’m cheating on her.  She’d fight my attempts at consolation, maybe rake me across the face drawing blood, then feel remorseful seeing the blood drip from my open cheek, and we’d commence a rugged go at animal-like lovemaking that would even make Mattek blush.

     Mattek.  Yes, her and her class rolled up to the lawn in a bright pink cadillac with her beau, Andrew Dice Clay.  I thought the English were civilized?  Sounds like a rad when-worlds-collide 80’s movie.

     Cornet got a no photo available woman which literally made my chub a bit more chubbier.

     Davenport, who’s 482 according to my abacus and some rude calculations is back in the game.  Let me give her a “good for her” and a pat on the head.  To all of you who think she’ll go far, this is me laughing in your face right now.  If I’m wrong, which is usually the case, you can call me (at 555-555-5555) and laugh at the operator who will be telling you that you’ve dialed a fake number.  

     If both Peer and Bartoli don’t make it out of the first round I just may stop watching women’s tennis altogether.  

     Popov is hiding down at the bottom, seeded 3rd and you can just smell the pot of revenge cooking.  She’s down in her basement all Phantom of the Opera style with half a face, just scheming.  If I was the chair umpire for her matches I’d be ready with some ear plugs and a face guard in case she argues with me and I inadvertently get scratched.  

     Yay, Ivanovic, you’re number one, congratulations.  That party will not last long.  In fact, the janitors are already cleaning up the confetti and broken plastic champagne glasses as we speak.  Your days at the top are numbered.  Grab your mustache comb and hit the road.  And don’t act surprised!

     Well I’m starting to cramp and my knees ache and Italy is playing Spain, and I have a giant crap in my bowels and my phone is ringing (actually it never rings, will someone please call me!?), so I gotta go.  If any of you know the English equivalent of Allez! please please please let me know.  See you Monday night (I have a new girlfriend and she’s taking up way too much of my time with non-sex related activities, namely buying her things and driving her to other guys’ houses) so my posts won’t come ’til midnight, aka late as yoosh.

 

 

 

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     “Overcast day.  Big screen behind Karlovic.  RAFA! in green. Those are clouds up there.  Karlovic is quite tall.”  Yes, this can mean only one thing (actually two things), tennis is back with some fresh new voices.  I actually do like Andrew Castle (his name is so English!), and John Lllllllloyd (there was some English on that shot), namely because they keep their mouths tightly sealed, like virgins at a deepthroat convention.  But yeah, they do like to point out what mine eyes are looking at.  On Karlovic’s 2nd service game the wind blew so hard his giraffe hat almost fell off and his circus clothes we’re almost torn from his sky scraper-like bodice and the commentator didn’t say anything about the wind.  I was screaming at the TV, “Just say it’s windy.  Point out the obvious, pleeeeease!”  He never did, and I sobbed.  Sometimes, you just wanna get hit.  

     So yah, I busted out my lawn chair (please try to ignore the caption under this photo, they’re a group of idiots, end of story) to see the Tennis Channel pay for some English feed halfway through the Stella tourney and I must admit (I really don’t have to do anything, I’m a grown-ass man ya’ know) I felt a little better after the Fed meltdown on the Spice Channel.  First up was Karlovic versus RAFA!  These two essentially practiced their serves and exchanged miss hits for a couple hours, to the delight of old, English people (not people who drink Olde English, mind you).  Q: Is everyone in England old?  A: Yes.  Even the line judges are giant-titty’d behemoths from the 1500’s (seriously, are they offering their opinion on where the ball lands or another bowl of porridge?).

     PEDEGG!!!!! Quickly, can I get a PedEgg break for fucks sake?  It’s a cheese grater for the dry, nasty skin on your nasty wife’s, stinky man-feet (with a cup to catch all that grated skin powder! Skinesan, if you will).  Can we have a battle of the bands ads, please?  PedEgg v. Wrist Assist.  Teeter Hangups v. That Serve Pad Thing.  Pancake Puff v. Perfect Egg.  Sham-Wow! v. Closet Doubler.  Two ads enter, one ad leaves! Two ads enter, one ad leaves!  Man, I love this country.  

     When tennis was actually being played RAFA! (he’s the one in green according to Columbo aka the Castle/Llllllloyd crew) rode that monkey to the chop shop (see, in one of the Indiana movies, ahhh, nevermind) and when tennis wasn’t being played (Karlovic’s prefered card of choice), the two essentially held serve and put my chub to sleep faster than 2 girls, 1 cup (gotta get my hits somehow).  Speaking of serves (and skat munching), were there two guys constantly carrying  plate glass windows behind RAFA! when Karl was serving?  I seriously thought I heard Karl’s serves breaking windows.  His serves were hit so hard RAFA!’s locks were blowing in the subsequent wind making him look a little like a death metal muskrat.  I said a little.  

     Karlovic won the first set in an Isner-break via his 16th ace.  The outcome of this first set couldn’t have shocked the dumbest of tennis fans.  Speaking of dumb, can we please, once and for all, do away with the scoring tabs/display of the Artwat Open? What the fuck is this:

Nadal     0   1   40

Karlovic 1   1   30

     From the looks of things either RAFA!’s vision is in a bad way, Karlovic’s blood pressure is at dire levels, or someone owes somebody 10 bucks.  Seriously, stand behind the white line, cover one eye, and read me Nadal’s score.  Fucking English.  Don’t make me put you on that Ozzy list.  

     The second set went to RAFA! in an Isner-break, forcing my eyes to leak blood.  The two players went on to hold serve for 56 years.  Their serves were popping out of their graves and approaching each other very slowly with arms raised. You just couldn’t kill ’em.  Creepy stuff.  RAFA! at one point got excited over holding serve at 4-4.  Helllllloooooo, RAFA!, Karlovic couldn’t break a pretzel stick over his knee if it was soaked in water overnight.  Why in the fuck do my notes end there?(if I was a 16 year-old girl I’d add at least 2 more question marks). I guess that’s all that happened.  One can only assume RAFA! took off his sweat rag and threw it into a terrified old, English crowd, winning 6-7, 7-6, 7-6.  

     Brian Webber informed us (me, really) every 17 seconds that Murray pulled out of the match he was going to lose to Dirty Dick due to a sore thumb.  In other news, Andy Murray and his thumb are giant fucking vaginas (not fucking vaginas, but fucking, vaginas).  

     Right away I’m whisked to the Samuel Powers v. C’mon Guy.  Powers breaks Hewitt right away and I was kinda confused.  I was like dude from Memento, searching my tattoos for clues as to what a break is.  Right under the left deltoid! When person receiving serve wins the game.  Ah-ha!  Screech played so well I really have nothing say, and coupled with the fact that the two announcers (Good ol’ Mark Petchy and Greg Rusedski, they added the “ski” at the end of his name ’cause he’s a notorious party-er) kept their dumb holes on lock down I started to wonder what this game was really all about.  I got kinda deep you know.  

     Then! Petchedski (I’m just going to mix the names of the commentators ’cause I never know which boogeyman is whispering sweet nothings on the nape of my tangled kitchen) said of Screech that his game was “oooozing class.”  I’d agree, but would have exchanged the word “oozing” with “shooting”, or “spraying.”  Rusedtchy then said, “it’s been a simple gay plan…that’s allowed him to fuckus on one spot on the court.”  I mean, I’m willing to go with it.  It is the King’s English after all.  Here, let me try it…

             Hewitt was serving at douche, down 1-3, when he fucked his serve up the cream pie and Screech returned the scrotum long giving Hewitt add-van-taj.  Hewitt then pussy licked his first serve long.  His second pube was good and the two exchanged handjobshands shit pussy titty balls nuts in your mouth motherfucker cum, and Hewitt holds  Wow! English is fun!  It’s like Tourette’s, but without spilling your sandwich into your lap over and over again. 

     Towards the end of the second, Screech hit more white lines than a certain friend (who will remain nameless, S_E_H_N!) in a certain part of a Nevada desert some short time ago.  May I be the first to say that Hewitt is a washed up dingo walking, sun worshiping, snake bite having, has been?  Cool, thanks.  Ozzy C’mons!: 0. Samuel Powers obnoxious points: +1.  Powers out science faired Lllllleyton, 6-2, 6-2.  

     Why is Jamie Murray so creepy?  

     Gasquet and Nalbandian, both sponsored  by Clorox, answered that pressing question, “Where’r all the white women at?” Pssst, they’re over there dying in the stands from tooth decay.  I will not address Gasquet and his heart, that all seems to be well covered already.  Let’s get to the real questions!  Did Gasquet miss hit every ball?  Every shot he made sounded more like a one of those under water, bathtub farts, whereas Nalbs shots sounded like freshly squeezed broccoli farts 2 inches from your ear drum.  After being down a break and losing  the first, Gasquet cruised in the second, breaking wind and Argentine hearts.  I must say (this I must) Gasquet’s serve was on point this match, but his footwork needs some serious…footwork.  The guy moves like a drunk ostrich on an arthritic camel with two broken humps.  Get that guy some arch supports or something.  Maybe Brad Gilbert could make some sort of foot assist.

     In the third they took a page from the GiRAFA! match and held each other tightly like two pussies in a horror movie.  Eventually the movie ended, the lights came up and they realized what fools they had been, awkwardly detangling themselves from the inevitable end (and their sweaty palms).  You could hear Isner’s butt hairs as he inched closer towards the edge of his seat, awaiting the (also) inevitable tie-break.  Isner’s butt hairs were (also also) inevitably stoked as it did go to a tie-break.  In the end Gasquet and his pacemaker (I couldn’t help it! I’m human, ya’ know!) were sent packing via the Argentine undertaker, 6-4, 3-6, 7-6.  

     Tomorrah, Nadal v. Roddick (lovers of sweaty locks and douches, get your chubs on) and Powers v. Nalbs (lovers of TV nerd look-a-likes, and werewolf men, unite).  

 

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     Cornia Mee-row. Is she looking saucy or what? I can’t make heads or tails of what kind of vibe she’s trying to throw out there.  Gothic Tennis Interviewer?  Slutty soccer mom (a bit redundant given all the soccer moms I’ve seduced)?  Boring, middle-aged, shy person with too much makeup?  Yup, that’s the one. Call off the search.  So expecting to see some tennis today, my DVR somehow taped Mee-row and some putz talking about “doubles action.”  Isn’t that an oxymoron, like a sane Bud Collins (new drink name by the way, for all you aspiring bartenders).  Then when I thought “doubles action” wasn’t a big enough gaff in the world of oxymorons they show us, funny enough, the last two points of the wheelchair tennis (semis?) action.  If you ever wondered who Federer’s equal is in women’s wheelchair tennis you’re wonderment is over.  Esther Ver Geer of the Netherlands hasn’t lost a match in 3 years.  That’s the equivalent of 10 seconds in leg tennis.  Me and my legs would like just one crack at that woman’s title.  I’d be jawing at her like, “who’s house is this!?”.  I’ve lost track of whose on the Tennis Channel’s payroll, but one of those people who talk over the tennis (not really commentators in my book anymore, I seriously shush them from my couch like those annoying fans who “shhhhhhh!” during a match) said of Esther Ver Geer, and I kinda quote: “At the age of 8 she had undergone a surgery that did not work out on her spinal cord.”  Yeah, sorry that didn’t work out for ya’.  Uhhhh, I’ll take understatements of the century for a hundred Alex.  Didn’t work out.  Jesus Christ.  

     Did the Tennis Channel get the merde end of the French Open stick, or what?  Here’s an excerpt of the press meeting they had before showtime (there were tiny little sandwiches and free coffee):

     ESPN (or whatever multinational corporation that owns ESPN, probably Viacom):  Are you quitting on me? Well, are you? Then quit, you slimy fucking walrus-looking piece of shit! Get the fuck off of my obstacle! Get the fuck down off of my obstacle! NOW! MOVE IT! I’m going to rip your balls off, so you cannot contaminate the rest of the world! I will motivate you, Private Pyle Tennis Channel, IF IT SHORT-DICKS EVERY CANNIBAL ON THE CONGO!  

     Tennis Channel: Sir, yes sir!

     ESPN: You will lick the crippled doubles sack of tennis while we cover the women’s semis, and you’ll like it!

     Tennis Channel: Sir, yes sir!

     Bud Collins’ pants! One of the funnier moments came when Shriver was talking about an “agile mind” in regards to Safina’s match against Dementia and in the background is Bud Collins wearing a red and white polka dot hat, staring listlessly into the clouds like he lost his little red balloon.  When that guy covered the McEnroe matches back in the day he was as sharp as a tack in your ass in 6th grade algebra, but now he’s like grandpa in the Simpsons.  

     Another rad shot was of Manritilova piloting Lesbian Airways (they have 10 non-stop flights to Uzbekagash per day) with Rennae Stubbbbbs as co-pilot and Ted Robinson as your googley-eyed stewardess, serving Orangina.  If you missed it, all I can say is Dickberg and crew had a shot of Man and her crew in their box with Man wearing aviators and a giant headset…I dunno, had to be there.  I laughed all the way to the bank, ’cause I had to deposit my vacation check.  

     It only took me 609 words to get to some actual tennis, must be a new record (that doesn’t exist).  I thought I owed Safina Safin an apology by screwing up her results versus Dementia so I watched her match.  Biggest mistake (*high pitched*) everrrr.  What a fucking bore.  Is Kuznetsova russian for roll over? Next time I see a Russian dog in my neighborhood I’ll try it.  “Sit. Good boy. Now Kuznetsova.  Goooood boy.”  I think the Kooze was bit by the Davystadenko flu bug.  What a beautiful smile she has though, huh?  But seriously, is court Chatrier the Kooze’s house?  She was like Safina Safin’s host.  “Here let me get that for you.  Ooops, be careful with that forehand winner up the line.  Don’t drop that can of corn I just offered up to you.  Watch your step.  Easy on that second serve…” and so on and so forth.  Safina Safin won (despite what my cobraconscious is trying to tell me) in straights (and you know the Kooze hates straights) 6-3, 6-2.  

     Chris Fowler later interviewed Safina Safin (according to Dickberg he was “tracking her down”.  My god what a sleuth he is.  Way to go Columbo, despite representing the station that broadcasted the match and despite having thee biggest press credential offered you some how overcame the odds and was able to get the interview…in your face French high school journalism students writing for the sports page!).  Was she about to head off for a cover shoot of Teen Bop?  She was wearing so much pink I thought Bud was going to come from out of nowhere and try to touch her with his penis.  She understood the questions just fine which was a big disappointment ’cause his interview skills are right up there with that one time Corky from Life Goes On (most ironic sit-com name (*hp*) everrrr) reluctantly accepted the task of interviewing the football hero after the big game (don’t try and look that up that episode, I just made that up).  I was hoping she’d runoff on a tangent, once and for all, proving that it doesn’t matter what a sports interviewer asks, thus rendering all of them obsolete.  But she didn’t, she answered every question.  

     It took “doubles action”, wheelchair “tennis”, and the previous boring match before I could finally watch some real tennis.  Twenty shot rallies, check.  Inappropriate fist pumping, check.  Sharp angles, check.  Chub, check.  I’ll spare you my Breakback Mountains, Break of Dawns, Girls Gone Wild: Spring Breaks, Lucky Breaks, Beat Street Breakdowns, Prison Breaks, and Breakfast Club and just say there were a lot of breaks in the Forehead v. Tiny Mustache Serb-fest.  Six of 12 for Head, and 13 of 18 for Catfish Hunter.  Yes the pendulum kept swinging, and we were constantly reminded of it by the buttholes in the box as the pendulum of pendulum hyperboles were swinging wildly out of their mouths every time something different happened.  “Hey, look there, Jankohead took off her armband, I feel the times they are a changin’ for Ivanho.  Oh look, Ivanostache just had a double fault, I think this is Cling On’s match to take.”  Shadddup already!   You can’t take credit for predicting something as it happens, you’re what’s known as an annoying person.

     Ivanovic looked soft, getting broke right away, but the pendulum was swinging and soon she was in the land of milk and honey, and sets, having taken the first.  Head then was down a break in the 2nd and the pendulum swung again and Head was all, “yeah, pendulums swing in my direction too, biatch,  betta’ recognize!”  Then balls and rackets (or racquets for you pretentious fucks out there) were swinging wildly and by the 3rd we had a full blown nail biter on our hands.  Someone was down and someone was up and in the end it was Ivaonostache who was allowed to shriek and get her double pump fisting thang on.  The stache’s defeat the foreheads, 6-4, 3-6, 6-4.

      Did anyone (I should emphasize the one as I feel there’s only one of you out there), see Head make fun of Ivanovic and her excessive fist pumping?  After the chair ump came down to confirm Ivano’s serve was out you could see her at the bottom of the screen mimic the stached one.  I don’t blame here.  Ivano’s box fucking applauded a point she lost (e for effort is so 2nd grade downs syndrom-e), and Ivan smiled so goddamn much I thought she had found that acid I lost in her mouth.  She’s gettin’ on my nerves a little bit here, if you nahatamean.  Think I’m gonna have to go with Safina Safin, Tennisbuger don’t roll with adorable brats.

     Lastly, (I swear!) is there an Urban Outfitters in Serbia that caters to old, eastern Euro’s who think they’re ready to come out of retirement and hit the clubs again?  Screech’s dad is a fucking douche bag.  I’m not talking about a tiny bag either.  Hes like industrial strength garbage douche.  That was about when Head started to sink; seeing Mr. Powers cheering for her in her smelly box (he was standing in front of her mom with his smelly Serb ass in her face!!!!) The guy has about as much class as a Mattek family reunion in Flagstaff, Arizona.  Sorry, I just hate that guy (*strains voice*) sooooooooooooo much.

     I’m sure tomorrow I’ll be in hev-van with my boyfriend, my love-ly boyfriend.  Allez!!!! 

     P.S. See how much better these posts are when I spend 58 hours writing them.  Sorry so late, but it’s either this or Cobra induced shouts at my computer that somehow transform into the written word. Toot-Toot (that’s my horn there I’m honking).

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     The streets of Tennisburger are on fire! Cars are overturned! Girl’s are showing their bazooms.  Old ladies are dancing in the streets!  Downstairs, landlords are annoyed.  Roommates flee to their respective jobs! Tennisburger drunk off Monfils’ foxiness (and King Cobra).  Monfils stares down Federer and it’s safe to say the letter has been written, the send button has been pushed, and yes the message has been sent.  Wait, Ferrer just won a game in the 4th.  Ha! Let him have it.  This is a day to be magnanimous.  This is a day to whack off for crying out loud.  What is this liquid pouring out of mine eyes? Is Tennisburger, crying?  Is this what it feels like?  These are tears of joy mind you, none of those pussy tears of shame.  Nu-uh, not for me.  

     I have about 3 pages of notes that hate on those two idiotic announcers, but I am just way to happy to spend my time admonishing those two, yeah, you guessed it, ass cakes.  Okay well maybe a little.  Could Chris, or whatever his name is have piled on Monfils anymore than he did?  “Deathbed” and “droopy finish” (which sounds totally fucking gross) were uttered by this moron throughout the 2nd set and during the beginning of the 3rd.  Ummm, my detective skills have me believing someone other than the Ferret was outfoxed by Monfils and his “lethargy” in the 2nd.  “Concede all the points you’d like Monsieur Monfils, we’ll have your limo waiting around back when you’re ready.”  Ferrer’s DROPPA!’s were more like PLOPPA!’s A-O! But some were downright nasty (nasty for someone who plays so far back from the baseline he’s virtually in the stands) and there the best offense was actually no defense and no offense at all but to stand there and keep your hands on your hips and get some of that precious oxygen that will soon be privatized.   

     Look at me, I’m all over the place, let me try and get some kind of chronological flow going on here (skate dad, pay attention).  In the beginning I expected ESPN and it’s technologically gifted, unpaid interns to figure out no one was watching the match and switch to a replay of the Federer match; that or the riveting world of women’s softball.  But everyone was out to lunch, including the commentators (as yoosh) which suited me (and you) just fine.  

     Monfils will be in a tight spot, then the next thing you know he’s on the other side of the room exclaiming, “Looking for me? I’m right here ol’ boy!”  Smoke and mirrors indeed.  The Ferret (not a very good nickname, I’ll admit) had some, as Eye-on “Good Will Hunting” Eagle may have put it, “wicked smaaaaaat” forehands that had more angles than a high school geometry book (oh, we recycle here at Tennisburger).  Okay, how about, more angles than an architect playing a bank shot in pool? Yeah, pretty lame.  I can’t write in real time (like another someone I know) which is why this post will lick balls. Anyway! Some of ’em worked, but most of ’em just infuriated/baffled Ferrer as Monfils made handy work of most what came his way, which made me happy if you’re keeping score.  Monfils took the 1st set by smashing the top of the net (on purpose), sending the ball over Ferrer who was waiting at net (like a tool) and could only watch the ball drop in.  Well he could cry too, and he did.  Monfils, the gentlemen he is, carried his apologies with him all the way to the “resting area(?)” (what is that place called anyway, the waiting room?).  It was barely audible but you could hear Monfils say, “I am sorry, but, how do you say? You are but zee mere mortal.”    

     By the 3rd set I was tired of all this tired talk concerning Monfils.  Uhhh, clean up on isle Chatrier, there seems to be-what looks like-a very old Spanish man crying to his coach and dropping DROPPA!’s into the net to try and end the point ’cause he’s so tired. 

     Half-way through the 4th it was over and I was whacking off with reckless abandon.  The King Cobra was popped and there was nothing left to do smile, and whack off again.  

     Ferrer had 30 unforced errors which isn’t a lot but they all came in the 5th set (crazy huh?).  

     That is all. I really do have to get back to my King Cobra (she waits for no man).  Federer lost…the first set which is kind of like tradition for him then won (I think he owns the rights to that word), the Kooze koozed on, and Dementia Cybiled her way into the semis (addendum, oops!, the other person won whoever that was, sorry, I was soooo happy I couldn’t think straight…it was kind of a crazy day).  ALLEZ indeed!

 

 

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     So aside from taking control of tennis, Serbia now controls France’s (not Francis) air, water, food and porn supply.  I’m not sure what the Serbian equivalent of “Allez!” is but you can insert it here_________!  

     Let me cover the men in green first as I didn’t watch ’em.  The color green still makes me horny, and I’m kinda protesting any coverage of Federer and RAFA! ’til I get some satisfaction, namely some satisfaction by way of tall, black, tennis players with crazy hair who play 50′ behind the baseline.  To add to that, RAFA! hasn’t lost a point the whole tourney (it’s true, look it up!).  RAFA!, surprise(!) won in straight sets 6-1, 6-1, 6-1.  Was he taking a nap when Almagro won each of those games? Signing autographs?  I dunno, you’ve got to be a sadist to watch that shit.  Some of these RAFA! matches should be rated R; no children under 17 allowed or those sensitive to aggressive, dominant, bull-like behavior.  Same goes for those Ivanovic matches.  Maybe Serbia’s new interim government will take care of shit like that.

     Schnyder v. Ivanovic.  Okay, let me say one thing (actually I will say many, many things throughout the course of this post).  If the future of women’s tennis apparel is sleeveless, baby blue potato sacks with a turtleneck, will you please excuse me while I order a shotgun sandwich.  Was that not a fucking Judy Jetson ensemble?  Where’s your crazy space rings that hover around your wrists? Who did she consult, the fashion designer from Woody Allen’s Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask?  And while we’re on fashion for this brief excruciating moment, did anyone see Underdog’s fat mom with white sunfog glasses? There’s a visa commercial ending somewhere this very moment, I’m sure.  Anyway, somebody won, 6-3, 6-2.  The entire match was a giant shitfest.  You’re welcome for the rec(r)ap.  See how I did that.

     The match of the day was really Samuel Powers v. Gulbis.  You just knew it had to be ’cause every time we we’re away watching the Ivanovic match beating off, they’d comeback and show us all the great stuff we missed.  Note to the Tennis Channel think tank: If one match makes you yawn, and the other is so action packed you have to go back in time, then represent in real-time what happened to those of us that missed it via instant replay, just show the goddamn match that is very replay intensive.  They finally caught on after my 80th phone call to Terry Elks and other major investors of the Tennis Channel.  Seriously those guys will talk to you about anything (especially wheelchair tennis, huge fans).   So those charming, missed DROPPA!’s I spoke of a couple of days ago?  Well those turned into more of a me screaming at the TV and spilling hot tea on my toes kind of DROPPA!’s.  He had 60 unforced errors and I don’t doubt for a second that 59 of those were DROPPA!’s that looked more like my leftover stash of bottlerockets that all turned out to be duds.  That could’ve been more well written, but let’s just pretend I’m not lazy and my delete button got crapped on by a pigeon and I don’t want to touch it.  Underdog’s mom, that was a real gem though, huh?  And besides, you can’t drop DROPPA!’s on Screech, as most gay, scientist/sports writers say, “the guy is a specimen.”  Makes you wonder why Gulbis didn’t juke left and go right, if you nahatamean.  You pretty much knew the match was over by the 2nd when Gulbis gave up that precious break (his dad was in the stands shouting, “It’s okay son, I can buy you all the breaks you need!”…seriously, it became kinda demeaning as they went on and on about how rich the guy is, like they didn’t even believe Latvia has currency).  As I seem to say everyday of this horrible year, Screech goes on, winning, 7-5, 7-6, 7-5. 

     I’m just gonna devote an entire paragraph to the smarminess that is Gimmelslime.  Like most creeps he kept turning up everywhere today.  Actually fuck a paragraph, here’s a list:

          1) Contrary to what you believe/said, Samuel Powers is not liked by tennis fans.  In fact(!) it’s just the opposite (like when you’re wife says she loves you), he’s detested.  Hell, tennis fans hate his family.  They hate his little brother for crying out loud.

          2) Gimmelslime  actually said one decent, half-way funny thing, and it may not even be attributed to him, but my hearing loss.  He snuck in “jockitch” when referring to Screech.  Not bad, not bad.  He also had a half-way, SEMI funny thing to say regarding the lonely freak who painted his face green and cut his hair to resemble lines on a tennis ball (if you didn’t see this, even Shakespeare himself couldn’t describe to you via the written word how off-the-fucking-wall this guy looked).  Gimmelslime: (*in a very muted, reserved tone of voice*) “an interesting use of your hair follicles.”  Okay, not ha-ha funny, but I may have cracked a smile or some shit.  But then he has to go and take that ball/joke and run as far and fast as he can with all his clothes off.  Each subsequent remark (not joke, mind you) was like seeing a baby fall down a very long, spiraly staircase.  You know he’s the guy at the party whose like, “oh yeah, you guys liked that?  how about this?” and winds up injuring the crippled brother of the host of the party.  Talk about taking it too far, sorry.  

      I had to delete number 3, ’cause I was afraid I might get sued for libel.

     His partner Ian (pronounced Eye-on for some stupid fucking pretentious reason) Eagle is just as hard to handle.  After a Gulbis return he exclaimed, “that is wicked.”  Oh yeah Good Will Hunting?  Was it wicked smaaaaaat?  Who are you anyway?  Nevermind, I retract my question.

     Dave “I can’t believe I made it this far” Navarro fell to a very healthy forehead, 6-3, 6-2.  She had her own version of the rainbow shot but it had more to do with her being as tall as a muskrat.  Bud “crazy grandpa” Collins said she is his “new heroine”.  Seriously?  You actually have heroines, a favorite one even?  He even said she was “stylish”.  Uhhhh, she looked like she was ready to ride the Tour de FranceSerbia.  And if Bud Collins tells you you’re stylish, I think you may be wearing to much pink.  

     Jankovic v. Ivanovic.  Cat fight!

     Note to Camera Guys: we can’t see rain in a wide shot.  Also, lose the old batman series villain-hideout-slanted shots.  Unless RAFA! has Federer hanging upside down over a boiling, black barrel of hot tar, it’s not really necessary.

     Anyone tired of old man McEnroe yet?  McEnroe rolled out of bed, yelled at some people for under achieving, then strolled into the broadcasting box half-way through the Gulbis match to drop some Fox-like-news insight with a bunch of “I heard…” and “they said…”  A fly on the wall that McEnroe is.  Oh, and I bet you Popovs to Matteks if McEnroe wakes up early enough to cover the Monfils match he’ll be all over his ass about how far back he plays.  The guy’s got a boner for Monfils and I mean boner the way Wall Street guys say boner, like in the douchey way, like he hates him, not like in the way I have a boner right now…in my pants.  Just watch, the guy won’t shut up.

     And can someone hit “stop” on Ryan Harrison, I think I still hear him talking.  Also if you saw the interview where this kid rambled for 98 straight minutes, is Morariu going goth on us?  What’s up with the eyeliner?  You’re so dark and mysterious with your invisalign, geez.

     Okay, tomorrow Monfils plays the same time Federer faces Gonzo.  Whatdya think, should I get my hopes up? Should I get my chub up?  The good thing is I bet this super rich guy I play tennis with $20 that Monfils would get all the spoils, and, well, you see I don’t even have $20, so he’s gotta win, right?  I’ll be posting on that match super early, so set your alarm clocks to smooth jazz, and I’ll see you after the match.  Allez!!!!

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