Archive for September, 2008

     Did you see Nadal today?  Dude is looking pretty bad.  Giant red lamb chops?  Discolored and missing teeth?  Translucent blobiceps?  Just plain ugly, right?  I dunno, maybe RAFA! is tired.  If that’s what lack of sleep and constant tennis playing gets you, I think I’m gonna hit the hay earlier tonight after I throw my tennis balls out the window.  Nadal didn’t play his best either.  Looked like he had shit out everything he knew about tennis in his pre-match dump.  Let’s face it, after the outcome we were all kinda missing RAFA!, no?  It’s like we were in high school all over again and we didn’t invite that one kid we all crack on, even if he is nice and is always hanging around.  Then half-way through the party, someone’s like, “man, this party kinda sucks…where’s Rafael Nadal?”  Then some joker that no one invited starts trying to act like him but fails miserably. Then Roger Federer walks into your party and and smashes that joker in the face with a broken bottle of Becks.  Anyway, Burger was kinda sad tonight, kinda missed old RAFA!  But whatevs, at least Federer showed up to our party! Let’s Go (one last time)!!!!!!!!

      (One second into the match)

     Mary Carillo:  Murray likes returning against Federer.

     Federer’s Racket:  BOOSH!

     Murray’s Teeth: Oh, blimey!

     (2nd serve)

     Federer’s Racket: BOOSH!

     (On the third serve Carillo was still jinxing Murray)

     Mary Carillo:  The last time they played, Murray broke Federer 7 times in 2 sets.  (With emphasis) Seven times.  

     Murray then flubbed Federer’s 2nd serve into the net and you just knew he was wishing Mary would close her (hair) pie (eating) hole.

     On the 5th serve of the game, McEnroe squeezed in the word “mono” and Federer immediately smashed a backhand winner past Murray’s tooth decay.  That was without a doubt the best 2 handjobless minutes of my life.  

     If you could measure the amount of insight gleaned from one of Fernadez’ pre-match shiterviews what would be your units of measurement?  Dollops of diarrhea?  Teaspoons of mucus from the lungs of rats held in tobacco research labs?  I bet if I farted directly on your ear drum (like squished the hole of my butt onto the hole of your ear) you’d come away with a better understanding of what Federer’s feeling than listening to Furrnandez.  

     Murray didn’t look bad early on, even with those idiotic drip (a typo I’m gonna go with) shots.  I know white people don’t have a good sense of rhythm or timing, but this guy takes the (white) cake.  I guess if you’re from Scotland your whiteness is like, on overdrive or something.  

     Thirty one minutes into the 14th hour Federer broke pube face to go up 3-2 which is funny ’cause that same time today while I was at work my chub threw up a little and i had no idea why.  I think I’ll write a thank you letter to the inventor of the DVR for clearing up this mystery for me.  

     In the 7th game Federer unleashed an approach, forehand cross-court winner to the corner which pretty much had me mumbling weird stuff like, “shiver me timbers” and “great googley moogley.”  After a couple more shots and a couple more idioms Swiss Miss was up 5-2, and my chub was up to about 5 in. 2 mm.

     Goddamn, Federer looked like the pre-sipping-on-Sprites-from-his-high-school-girlfriend Federer we all knew and loved and missed and etc…  He was playing so good, it almost looked like he missed the old Spanish Candy Cane.

     Who has more liver spots?  Reeeeegis Philbin, or Tony Tony Tony Bennett?  I bet I know whose birthed more hermaphrodites!

     There was some major league turmoil over a shot that went long by about the length of my One eyed Eyetalian Stallion which sent a shiver up Carillo’s backside as if the fate of the world hinged on that shot*.

          “The rightness of a decision is not determined by the number of it’s supporters.”

                                                                                       -Mary Carillo on shot spot reviews and it’s popularity

          “The rightness of a decision is not determined by then number of it’s supporters.”

                                                                                       -Tennisburger on ugly lesbos

     Mary Carillo’s argument (for shot spot? against sho spot? I don’t even know as she doesn’t know) is more convoluted than Mattek’s bath water (one last hazah! for you Salty).  She hates it, yet wants the reviews to be “electronically” determined/reviewed?  She’s for it, yet hates that players can’t/don’t use it?  McEnroe and Dickberg brought up the point that the line judge MISSED THE CALL.  WHAT THE SHIT COULD SHO SPOT HAVE DONE ONCE MURRAY DIDN’T CHALLENGE A BALL THAT LANDED A FOOT OUTSIDE THE BASELINE?  Sorry, my caps button was broke there for a sec.  Oh wait, she wants an electronic grid that automatically signals when balls are out. This isn’t fucking Tron biaaatch!  “Well, maybe, if we could have the players wear tap shoes on lit up chicken wire rigged to a generator the game would be better for it.”  After all this talk she says she agrees with Dickberg’s point that the human element of the judging and the game is great.  What?  Look, Mary, when I’m really confused, or drunk or super high on drugs I usually stop talking, something you may want to try out.

     Murray held, Federer held and I held my (hot) crack pipe (’til I burned my finger tips).  It’s 3 all, perhaps 4 all this point, not sure due to the anger pouring out of my eye sockets.

     Lots of errors ruin the 2nd set and I can only blame shot spot…or praise shot spot for not as many errors as there could’ve been.

     Murray was caught at the net with his kilt down, serving 5-6.  Federer snuck a 40 past the bouncer, up the line to win an all expenses paid fist clenching and “yeah!” screaming vacation.  I felt I was entitled too, so I called Federer by his first name and told him “fuck yeah!” through my sHitDTV (it really is shitty though).  Sadly he just walked back to the tennis waiting area, but I understood, guy was super busy.  Two sets to love.

     At one point McEnroe referred to one of Federer’s slice-drop-shot-half-court-volley things by asking the question, “is it Thanksgiving?” and answering himself with, “cut that turkey!”  Maybe McEnroe is capable of good.

     Federer broke Murray’s dentures to go up 2-0 in the 3rd set and you just knew Murray wouldn’t be able to chew his way out of that hole.  He started chewing a little bit, but even with Fed serving, down 15-30, I started clipping my toe nails.  By the time I was done clipping my right foot it was 3-0.  In mid-clip of my pinky toe Federer had held 4-0 (I’m not joking).  I sneezed and it was suddenly 5-0 (I’m joking, but only about the speed of which it happened).  After 5-0 Murray had won a bagpipe shattering 3 points in the set.  Then he holds and breaks? Whatdya have, competitors dyslexia?  And besides, some of us have porn to watch (like, a lot of porn to watch).  

     Murray finally respected my porn watching duties and gave into fate (after a hilarious rally that had him returning 3 Federer overhead smashes).  6-2, 7-5, 6-2.  Pretty, hmph, if you ask me.  But I was glad Federer got another chance to roll around on the cement like a crazy person, even if RAFA! wasn’t on the other side of the net.  What’s in store after this? Yeah, I dunno.  Listen to sad music, smoke stuff, study, play tenn…, oh! you/I meant this here bleatus.  Well, if I can afford 2 dollars a month for a web host I might just have my own site (I’ve been working tirelessly-that means without tired, right?-on it for a few months), so maybe by Shanghai, or earlier…or waaaaay later we’ll wipe that pesky wordpress out of my/their(?) URL. Thanks for reading and coming by and posting your comments (there’s really only one crazy guy who transmits) and for not calling the cops.  I hope to be back sooner rather than later, but I’m returning my DVR to the devils at Comcast so who knows. Really, who knows! Let’s Go ’til we Know!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!————————>!!!!//////////!!!!!!!…….!

     *it obviously didn’t


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     First off let’s give it up to NIKE (that’s NIKE), for ditching that unrecognizable “swoosh” symbol for, simply, the name of their company in caps on Serena’s bag.  I say, fuck logos all together.  From now on I think all advertising should just roll with the name of the company…in caps, and make their products bigger so they can write their company name bigger.  Maybe that’s  why we’re getting fatter!  So they can write their name bigger on our clothes.  Fuck!  Is your mind blown yet?  Is your blow pop blown?  Let’s hope so.  Torn yellow dresses, precariously cut red dresses? Am I at the Ponderosa.  Nah, this is the big apple, this is how they do it!  So let’s go!!! Ketchup versus Mustard!!!

     Isha Williams.  What can I say about her that hasn’t already been mentioned at fat camps around the world.  What a specimen.  Seriously, if there was ever a hybrid of offspring, Serena is it. Her dad was in the bathroom right before conception (parent sex), like, “okay, one drop of skinny sperm, one drop of whale sperm…and voila!!!!!).  Sorry had to throw that in somewhere.  

     So yeah, not much happened in the first except a major fucking smack down on all fronts by Serena.  I understand Jankohead is charming and smiles and has fun like a giggly 6-year-old out there, but can we focus on the black half of the court for a minute, you grand wizzards of ass cakery?  Cameras and talks we’re barely on her…and she was up the whole damn match.  I’m starting to see why she’s so touchy after a loss (and a win!). And how does Serena’s defensive game come off looking so offensive?  I’ll tell you why (i.e. I’ll be a weird, answer-my-own-question-guy), she pulls off those points that no one else can.  No one is talking though, ’cause she plays each point out methodically, and it’s not ’til the last shot that she crams it down your fucking throat (which you may or may not like depending upon which way you swing).  

     Did you read Serena’s lips after she dropped a point at 1-1 in the first?  She seriously whispered to herself, “I’ll finish you.”  I think it was after she lost a point off a net cord.  That’s some scary shit.  Can you imagine flipping her off in traffic.  Eighty miles later you’d see her in your rear view swerving across the double yellow and shit.  Meanwhile Jankohead is watching sitcoms up on the big screen.  C’mon mustard, some people are counting on you, namely your mom and dudes in red wigs!

     The match really went back and forth all night.  One minute Mustard looked like RAFA! out there, getting whooped on, and fighting and scratching for each point on serve.  Then she’d go from 0-40 to deuce in four simple steps.  Extremely hard to see where the match was going, oh except for the struggling and the splits, and the laughing.  Ya’ know how sometimes you’ll be eating a hamburger and you’re like, “ketchup is soooooo much better than mustard.”  Then you get that random combo bite of pickle and mustard and you’re like, “this bite is on like a 6 foot bong.”  That’s pretty much how I felt watching this one.  Janko had her chances (they were coming in by the truckload), but overall, Serena and that big ol’ pooh factory dominated.  There was also a lot of talk about how these two like the big stage.  Well, Janko better start playing like she’s a main condiment.  You’re not mayo, or horseradish!  You’re not relish!  You’re mustard biatch!  Stop doing the splits, smiling, looking at yourself, checking out some old man hack who thinks he’s funny, and asking you’re mom where the knish’s are!  There aren’t any bigger stages than this, pay attention.

     Who the fuck was sitting to Venus’ left?  Hot as hell might be a few degrees off.  

     As Mustard was serving in the 2nd set I kept taking bets on what would happen first: a Mustard hold, or an old white guy to win the presidency based on offshore drilling in 2008.  Luckily Mustard held quite a few times, but I’m still worried about weird old white guy whose face is falling off.  

     And what is up with Dickberg and his obsession with trying to predict stuff as it’s happening!  I’ve been over this before, but for those new to my site/reality, it’s not really a prediction if you call it while watching it.  It’s also not a prediction if you present both sides as being possible.  Also, it’s not a a prediction if you state a fact that is well within the realm of being possible.  So at 5-4 with Mustard serving at 30-0 he barfed, “She’s 6 points away from winning the set.”  Sure, technically, he’s right.  But do you know how far away that was in theory?!  If you punched those calculations into Stephen Hawking’s computer his wheelchair would’ve self-destructed.  And now that I’m able to hate on him in hind sight I guess I’ll add that that moment was so far off it never came.  

     Quick question.  If Mustard hit one into the stands would she have challenged?  Girl challenges balls that land in the parking lot.  Need a breather much?  It’s not if it hits a white line, but thee white line.

     Ketchup out squirts Mustard, 6-4, 7-5.  I wish I had taken better notes as some of her shots we’re so subtle yet so jaw dropping I wondered just where my mind had been blown to.  Anyway, it doesn’t matter ’cause she’ll be over tonight, so we can rap about it over some smoked duck and gogurt.  From what I hear she’s #1.  I already have my “Number 1” banner out.    Hope she likes (I live outside by the way)!

     And then God created man.  Well, two men.  He created  a funny looking Scott, and a funny looking Spaniard.  They both think they’ve got huge muscles (one wears, get this, sleeveless shirts, the other flexes his blobicep in public…not exactly “in God’s image”).  So yeah, the dudes took two days.  Something tells me, with all the matches Candy Cane’s been playing as of late, Murray could’ve beat him with his teeth tied behind his back.  I can’t really comment on this match too much as, for me, it ended eons ago (literally after day one).  Murray bit into the Candy Cane, 6-2, 7-6, 4-6 (this happened after RAFA! got an entires day rest, imagine the straightness that would’ve occurred if they ended the match on Saturday), 6-4.  

     If I see one more photo of people yelling or with their mouths open in anger I might just do the same.  Seriously, have you checked out the U.S. Open’s home yelling page?  What would those web designers do without rain delays or people yelling with their mouths wide open?  Jagoff I bet.

     Oh, did you hear?  Federer won!  

     Thanks to the idiotic scheduling of the men’s final (2 o’ clock on the west coast?????????????——>?????????more????????????????*) I may not be able to post on the final ’til tuesday.  But I guarantee** it’ll be worth the wait.  Thanks for coming back! I know I’m a flake (and a hooch hound).

     Let’s Go!!!!


     **guarantees don’t get you much around here

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     This will be extremely short as I’m pissed I chose the wrong match to watch tonight (I only have time to watch, in it’s entirety, one match tonight).  Yes, by 5 o’clock my time I knew Federer had  given Ferris detention for playing hooky, and I thought the Hamburgler would be somewhat inspired to disgrace Samuel in front of his down right scary parents.  Hmmm, so much for thinking.  After watching the first two sets the feeling I had was tantamount to me entering Church’s Chicken, smacking my lips, and thinking nasty thoughts about chicken and waffles, only to wind up walking out with a pile of half-eaten chicken bones with a side of dog shit for dipping.  Not far from my house the leader of the San Francisco (cat’s out of the bag on my locale I guess, unless you’re geography knowledge is waaaaaay worse than I originally thought) chapter of the Hells Angels was shot in a struggle with, what the keystone cops out here believe to be someone from  a rival gang, the Mongols.  I bring this up because that matchup was the exact opposite of the Hamburgler versus Samuel Powers.  In the biker brawl, it was like, the two baddest dudes on the planet, going for it all under a streetlight with everything on the line.  The Hamburgler and Samuel combined couldn’t match the coolness of one those bikers pubes, let alone the charisma, and charm that comes along with being in a biker gang.  Seriously, those guys must hang out drinking whiskey and looking at nudey mags, waiting for someone to talk shit. On the tennis tip, no intrigue, no one to like.  “Excuse me waiter, I ordered the gunned down biker, not the pussy channel’s documentary on sweaty unlikeable tennis stars.”  Damn it!  How good was the Federer match?  Super good?  Super way badical to the max?  Forget it, don’t even tell me, I’ll just bore you with this one instead.  So ummm, I guess, let’s go…?

     The Hamburgler started off with 87 lets, but no “go’s” (like that?).  He double faulted right out of the gate. Nervous much?  You should’ve spent a little less time in the mirror unstraightening your hat, and a little more time in the mirror unfreaking yourself out.  Actually fate is fate, no matter how much you practice in the mirror.  Even your mirror knows you suck.  

     Breaks flowed like champagne at some sort of art opening where people discussed the negative capability* of breaks, and I knew about 8 minutes into my DVR I had made a terrible mistake.  The same feeling my parents must have felt as the doctor held me upside down, dripping with embryonic fluid, declaring, “it lives!”  

     Seriously, are Dijana and Srdjan (you just know those words are pseudonyms for the devil in some sort of Eastern European bible) made up of hate atoms?  Those two look like they were spawned by eagles.  I bet instead of sex they have a real go at it, punching each other and grabbing each other all intense like, then they get off in separate rooms by vigorously masturbating to a Ligeti piece.  Actually, just a quick tip:  I’ve been watching some matches with the sound down and listening to Stravinsky, namely Rite of Spring.  The effect is fucking amazing.  Oh, and I’m higher than a giraffe’s toupée.  It adds to an intensity that’s missing from shitty matches but I’d guess, listening to moody classical music while taking a dump would make you feel like you’re abolishing apratheid or something.  I dunno, throw caution to the wind, get high, play some Stravinsky and watch the finals on Sunday with the blinds drawn. Tell your kids it’s daddy’s time to “chill the fuck out” from all the stress they’ve been hurling your way. Tell your wife it’s either this, or you buy a hooker.  One of those nice ones.  If you’re a woman/girl and you’re reading this, come to my house, we’ll get high off the scent of each other’s naked bodies while taking in a little tennis.  

     Roddick got upset for not breaking Samuel at 1-1 in the second (tit might have been the 3rd, match was boring with a capital Boob), losing the game at 15.  Uhhh, maybe try and hold, for beginners.  When teaching your kids to swim you don’t drop ’em from a helicopter 60 feet in the air, in the middle of the Pacific without water wings.  You put ’em in the tub and hope they don’t crap, or drown themselves.  Hold, then break.  Not, get broken, don’t break, get mad.  Seriously, the way you’re playing, a hold is like worth two in the bush or something.

     Did Roddick lose his Durex at the net?  Did Fish Styx and the Hamburgler have a net-bet we don’t know about?  It wasn’t so much the frequency as it was the timing.  While Samuel was sitting on forehands Dirt Dog was lumbering up to the net like he was about to miss the last bus out of a gay pride parade.  Actually, I guess he would’ve wanted to secretly stay, huh?  Either way Styx won the bet 66-38.  Somewhere Dirt Dog is in a Walmart in Queens demanding 8 bags of ankle socks.  

     Why does it say in my notes that Office Space is the most overrated movie on the planet?

     In the 3rd, Screech made an amazing, sliding, groin stretch shot that landed at Roddick’s athlete’s foot, and McEn______ started talking which always gives Tennisburger the anti-chub treatment.  He said something to the affect that technology was to thank for that shot.  Uhhh, the technology in Screech’s knees?  What is that guy talking about? Ever? Do you think he goes home at night, turns on one of those mini tape recorders, and starts talking about ideas for his stage play?  He’s like, “Scene 1, the ghost enters stage right.  In the background we see technology wrestling with a baby dinosaur.  The lights grow dim, there is a scene change and suddenly we’re in a whirlpool with a giant sandwich and a pair of headphones.”  That guy is proof that none of us should have to spend one second in a mental institution, including yours truly.  

     Roddick got a break or two to take the 3rd set.  He jacked off the invisible giant standing in front of him and Tennisburger actually said out loud, “woe as me.”

     Hold, repeat.  Hold, repeat.  That’s pretty much all that happened in the 4th set.  My chub was not any bouncier despite following the directions.  Somewhere in the middle of the tie-break my DVR said enough is enough and I was just left with Liszt in the background, and a haggard what’s her face being interviewed on what’s his face’s late night talk show.  I sobbed and went to bed.  Samuel Powers made his dad so proud his head exploded, 6-2, 6-3, 3-6, 7-6.  For some reason I imagine his dad milks him.  

     We’ll (hopefully not) do this again tomorrow.  All my friends have left me, (or I’ve left them, you can never really pin point those things in time), so I should be home to see the rest of the women and the men.  Can I get a what, what?  See you tomorrow!  Please hoist up a cold one to yours truly Friday night and get black out drunk (unless you’re drinking Coors Light, in which case, nevermind).  I’ll be in bed intently listing for the glasses to clink.

Let’s Go!!!!!

*yeah, yeah, Manhattan

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     In honor of DTBM, Tennisburger will go live, (well, sorta) and give you a play-by-kinda-play of Mar-dee (*gag*) Fish v. RAFA! If you don’t know, DTBM was the best goddamn site on tennis to exist, but went on to bigger and better things whatever those things are (he won’t return my phone calls, faxes, pages, smoke signals, emails, text messages, etc…).  For those of you who really don’t know, DTBM would cover matches in real time and somehow add snarky, hilarious, and just downright mean commentary while covering the matches with sniper-like precision.  I’m sure I’ll fail, as this was is forte, not 40, those are all mine.  So yeah, Let’s Go!!!!

     So Fish Sticks already held serve.  He did that while I was writing that shitty opening paragraph.

     Quick side note, didn’t anyone in RAFA!’s corner tell him he looks like a goddamn candy cane?  Do they have candy canes in Spain. Cane de candy? 

     Lots of sighing going on from fat Americans as Fish Sticks sends a return shot back to one of those cute little ball boys.   At 40-30 RAFA! pretends like he can make mistakes and shoots one into someone who is probably fat.  DEUCE!

     Fish pretends like he’s good and makes a forehand approach shot. Ad-Long John Mardy.  Mardy replicates the approach shot then slams RAFA!’s wee return into another fat person, no doubt.  Uhhhh, 2-0 Fish Sticks?  What the shit?

     Side note:  How the fuck did DTBM do this for so long?  Maybe I should put my grappa down.  Ha! Think we’ll just miss some action.  

     The chair umpire wants some balls on the other side because apparently they’re running out of balls.  Hello, New York, the terrorists are winning.  Please have more than 6 balls on hand.

     Fish holds. 3-0.  Run for your lives!

     Phew! A commercial.  I will not be doing this too much longer.

     *Grabs grappa bong*.   

     After two wide outs RAFA! is down 0-30.  He looks kinda pissed.  RAFA! holds but still looks pissed.  I think it has something to do with that peppermint getup.  3-1 Mar-d.

     McEnroe is talking about Rocky Marciano, and Dr. Googley eyes is talking about pizza.  Are these two ass cakes retarded, or what?  0-30 Fish serving, he lays in one of those not so patented aces.  A wicked rally ensues, wish you here, really!  Mardy mistakes the bottom of the net with the top, blows air up above him and looks sad.  Break Point!  Another ace?  Still break point! 30-40.  Another ace?  No more break points, it’s called deuce now.  There needs to be a name for a serve that a guy can’t get back.  __________(submit your vote for name of thing here) happened.  Ad-in.  Then he holds.  I’m kinda bummed ’cause Mardy got the point, but stoked ’cause now I can go get some more grappa.  4-1 Fish Shtix.

     I can only guess RAFA! held at love as I just took a dump and already Fish is serving at 30-30.  My friend Dave keeps texting me about how much he loves Fish and wants to give him a hand job so I’m a bit distracted.  Deuce!  Fish pulls the same crap he did to Monfils coming up to net and all that jazz.  Nice Volley, Nice Ace (9).  5-2.  Yay for the option of suicide!

     Fish sends RAFA!’s first serve right past RAFA!’s perplexed, minty face.  RAFA! comes back with two shots on the right corner baseline.  30-15.  Ace! 40-15.  Someone tell RAFA! this set is over already.  Some giant east coast douche bag just yelled right into the mic, “big serve, baby, c’mon!”  Uhhh, this isn’t a fucking bull riding contest you piece of shit.  RAFA! sends a forehand passing shot up the line. Mardy shakes his head.  Tennisburger nods his.  It’s a win win…lose.  5-3 Feesh.

     Mardy back at the net again.  Is there a special on ankle socks up at net or some shit?  Fish actually hangs back and sends  a pretty decent (if I could remove my hatred for the man from my commentating it would definitely be called “amazing”) forehand winner past RAFAmint!  Set, Fish.  Time for Tennisburger to get his grappa on.  

     RAFA! has already forgotten he’s down a set, going down 0-15 in the second.  Remember RAFA!, you’re suppose to win, not lose.  It’s all coming back to him now.  15-15.  RAFA! wins a couple more, one at net, then gets waaaaay toooooo exxxxxcited about holding serve.  

     The Fish are definitely biting tonight (sorry! I’m getting kinda drunk already).  30 all, some shit happened, trust me (or there’d be no score).  RAFA! picks the underwear out of his asshole, which doesn’t help much against Fish’s ensuing forehand.  Fish’s next forehand hits net cord, and God is Spanish after all, dropping to the infidels side, deuce!  RAFA! hits a sweet lob for ad, then a fucking nasty-ass shot that hits the line.  I’m in love (but drunk, so I’m sure I’ll regret it in the morning)!  2-0 RAFA!

     RAFA! now looks like a really sweaty candy cane.  Like when it was Christmas, and your dad forgot all about the Jesus’ birthday, and you were ballin’, looking for the presents, then your dad pulled out a nasty candy cane from his back pocket he got from the secretary he was bangin’ while your mom was in the hospital, but you were only 3, so you were like, this’ll do.  RAFA! holds at 15 while I reminisce.  That makes it 3-0 for all of you who aren’t paying attention.

     Time flies when you’re drunk off grappa. Sorry, 15 all with Fish serving.  Fish comes to net twice.  The first time with avail, the second with no avail to speak of.  30-30.  More net bologna.  40-30.  More net bologna, but this time it’s good bologna, as it drops into, not over the net.  Net/approach.  He’s starting to make me sick.  Ad-fish.  He stays back and lays a pretty nasty backhand shot cross court, and peppermint Patty can’t do anything but pick his butt.  3-1 RAFA!

     Fish has more luck (I emphasize the word luck) with his return shots.  Ooops! Fish goes up stream, but wide, landing on shore.  40-15.  Fish comes to net and scares the candy cane forcing him to go wide.  McenCrow says something really dumb.  Dr. Googley Eyes agrees.  40-30.  Fish is drawn to net.  RAFA! holds.  The world rejoices.  4-1 Peppermint stick over Fish stick.

     In the next game, with Fish facing break point he got LUCKY (see how often that word pops up when referring to Fish Stix?) with a bad call from the chair.  Fish got to a shot that was in, but called out, play was stopped, RAFA! challenged, ball was in, I yawned, and the point was played over again.  Fish won the next point, and the next.  Ad Fish, DF.  FUCK I CAN”T KEEP UP!  Deuce.  Fish hits it wide (first time he’s UNlucky)…you guessed it, Ad-out.  Fish saves break with a swerve up the line, then (another?) ace.  Ad-Stix.  RAFA! reflects the next serve over Fish’s lame, net chargin’ ass, and voila, it’s deuce.  More net play.  Or should I say into the net play, heh heh.  Ad-out.  Fish tries hitting the ball into the net from the baseline.  Ooops, same result!  5-1 RAFA!

     RAFA! holds and I wonder how much more of this I can handle.  I’ve got to assume DTBM was on angel dust.  1 set all.  Let’s hope for a skunk from here on out, no?

     Fish holds with some headbanderific shots.  I assume even God has to take multiple dumps.

     RAFA! gets whooped on for the first point.  Fish spends a lot of time North of the baseline if you nahatamean.  He’s either in the middle of the court (which demands 25 pushups from my tennis coach every time I’m found out there), or at net.  Mar-dee smashes an overhead. 15-30.  Who the fuck is this guy?  After a cross court battle rattle RAFA! sends a shot up the line that Fish can’t deal with.  He cries, I drink.  RAFA! gives Fish a serve even the wall couldn’t handle.  40-30.  Rinse, repeat.  RAFAmint holds. 1 all.

     Oooh, Mardy hands the towel to the ball boy behind the back.  What a stud!  RAFA! replies with a butt pick to end all butt picks.  How does that guy resist smelling his fingers?!  There’s a surprise party at net, but the only one invited is Mardy and his shitty volley. 15 all.  After winning the next point Mardy rubs his balls.  That’s all.  RAFA! loses another point on a petty forehand misdemeanor.  They don’t come much easier than that RAFA!.  Ooops, yes they do.  RAFA! lamb shanks Fish’s 15 mph serve. Mardy holds.  1-2 Chocolate Chip Mint.

     Fish comes up to net, his racket winces at RAFA!’s bicep, sending it wide. 15-0.  Fish is caught in the middle of the court.  Gimme 25, punk!  RAFA! air mails one to Mallorca, home sweet home.  30-15.  Fish air mails one to Cocoon land (see there’s tons of old people in Florida and there was this movie called Cocoon where all these old twats walked around talking about how their knees hurt and whatnot, and it’s his home town), and another.  GAME! 2 all.

     Fish Nets gets it going, showing leg and everything.  40-0 Styx.  Make that Game.  The crowd half heartedly screams, “yeah.”  

     Speaking of reminiscing (80 paragraphs ago), Dr. Googley eyes inquires about McEnroe’s match 3000 years ago against Chang.   (*High pitched voice*) Borrrrrrrrring. Nadal holds.  People invited to the surprise party: Zero.

     Fish comes to net, RAFA! goes wide, I go puke.  15-0.  Fish’s 2nd serve looks fucking nasty, his air hook backhand looks nastier, RAFA!’s return up the line looks the nastiest, like that one chick you lowered your standards for so your johnson could puke inside a jimmy.  Fish comes to net.  Ooops, better give that up.  15-30, Fish.  Seriously, if Fish makes it to the Semis, we should all drink for everytime he comes to net against Muller.  RAFA! gets the break, does that air jack off thing and they both sit down. 4-3 RAFA!cane.

     Fat people with giant lemonades and khakis try to sit down.  Holy shit, Mardy looks like a Keebler Elf.  Have you guys been keeping this from me?!  At 15-15 RAFA! draws Fish into his favorite place, the net, but he’s late. 30-15.  Fish. Net. RAFA! up the line.  Guess who wins.  Are we into triple digits with this net lovin’ fool yet?  40-30.  Fish is drawn wide and winds up hitting the stripper pole that holds up the net. Like my dad said after inspecting the freshly cut lawn I just labored over, “Ain’t. Gonna. Cut. It.”  RAFA! holds. 5-3.

     K-Fish (he’s sponsored by K-Swiss, gimme a break, this is tiring shit, I see why DTBM moved on) has seriously come to net on each point in the 9th game of the 3rd set.  I grow weary of this.  Hm. Fish stays back to allow RAFA! to impersonate Federer’s long shot.  Fish holds.  Fish’s lady’s shoulder straps don’t.  Neither does the collagen in her lips as it’s leaking down her chin (seriously, what a classy broad, what shade of orange are you? but no really, your hair looks like a dirty bar mop).  5-4 RAFA!

     Dr. Googley eyes caps on us for not being from NY and not being up on some BS Yankees “storied past”, oh and RAFA! gets nasty.  15-0.  On RAFA!’s 2nd serve he can’t seem to move his feet and is caught hitting some type of yoga shot crossed legged. This is not time to meditate dude. 15-15.  He drops the DROPPA! finally.  30-15.  Something is irritating the inside of the spaniards butt hole which he promptly takes care of.  One overhead smash for a lucky obese fan in the 10th row and it’s set point.  Boo-yah.  Set.  6-4.

     After a DROPPA! and an ace Fish goes up 30-0.  I won’t tell you where he was for the DROPPA! or where he was headed after his first serve.  We can all assume it was towards the N-E-T.  RAFA! goes wide on the 2nd serve and it’s 40’s for everyone, except RAFA!. RAFA! literally sends the next serve into the mic of the chair umpire.  Well that’s great.  I haven’t had something to chuckle about in a long time.  Fish holds, 1 love.

     Side note: Mardy’s dad looks like a low rent David Lynch.

     While I looked for a pic of Mardy’s dad, RAFA! held at love. 1-1.  I seriously need a hypnotizer to tell me in a creepy way, “you’re not getting sleepy.”

     Fish gave away two points, RAFA! earned one and it’s 0-40.   No King Cobra for Fish.  2nd serve shot goes wide.  RAFA! breaks.  Is anyone appreciating this!?  (*Hangs his head in doubt, rubs sleepy eyes*). 2-1 Bull.

     After returning a serve wide at 30-30 Mardy resorts to punching himself.  Seriously, if you want I could do that for you.  And much harder.  RAFA! holds the net lover at bay. 3-1.  

      Mardy comes to net (*yawn*), 15-0.  There’s a shot of some girl rewinding the clock on women’s rights 10 or 20 minutes by giving her man head at 2 in the morning in Queens on national television.  30-0! Nope, something else just happened, trust me, 40-0.  RAFA! returns the serve up the line, Fish challenges, he’s right, the world is wrong, I’m tired, you’re beginning to hate me, Fish holds.  3-2, mint.

     What did that guy yell!!!!?*  On RAFA!’s second serve superdouche came to the non-rescue by yelling, what sounded like, “Florida!” during RAFA!’s serve.  He got the boot, and hopefully one to the face outside (yay for tennis induced police brutality!).  After all that, Fish got the point.  0-15.  Fish and his green anti-cancer rubber band leaks one wide.  15-15.  RAFA! comes around on a forehand to knock the dust of that pussy. 30-15.  A couple things happen while I thought of that witty remark. 40-30.  RAFA! does a catch and release. Deuce.  Another pussy dusting shot and it’s Ad-in.  Fish makes another shot from the middle of the court.  Drop and gimme 25!  4-2 RAFA!

     It’s already 30-30 as I refuse to use the pause button due to religious reasons and I just can’t keep up with this madness (bring me the head of DTBM!!!! actually we need him back alive).  RAFA! breaks Fish.  We’re almost there.  5-2 RAFA!

      Fish can’t hang with RAFA!s first serve. 15-0.  Cross court battle rattle ends with RAFA! shooting one long.  15-15.  Cross court battle rattles aplenty!  RAFA!s got the bigger sub-woofers Miami bass wars ensue. 30-15.  See sentence one…it happened again.  40-15.  We call this match point here in fat land.  Fish craps out a lucky shot and we all roll our eyes. 40-30.  Match point 2!  Mardy drops one long at 210 in the am est, and RAFA! does that weird air jack off thing again.  Mardy bows out, that makes two of us.  I will NEVER do this again.  And no, I’m not about to cover Williams v. Williams.  See y’all soon, or way later.

     Let’s Go!!!!!

     p.s. Serena’s badonkadonk prevailed 7-6, 7-6 against a booty of much less magnitude.  Safina v. Serena.  Nadal v. Murray.  Federer v. Ferris.

     *Seriously, if any of you know what that weird guy said, hit me up, I need to know!

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     Here’s how fucked up in the head I am right now.  I had to watch Repo Man to put things into perspective.  Yeah, Emilio and crew set me straight.  I was lost.  A babe in the woods.  But I’m back now and I think I’ve got all the answers.  By now you all know that (*chokes back vomit*) Mardy “who fucked up that birth certificate” Fish and his confounded ankle socks beat my beloved Monfils.  Looking at the stats there’s nothing real telling, except maybe the number “80” under percentage of 1st service points won.  I’ve called bullshit on that stat before, so no need to call double bullshit on it now.  Fish did however approach the net 987 times.  I suspect he was able to run to the net so many times due to less drag sans shin high socks.  He was in Monfils’ face all fucking day and was at the right place at the (*gag*) right time (sorry for the cliche) on every shot.  I believe it’s called luck.  Let me check my dictionary…yup, here it is, luck: (luk), n. 1. the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person’ life, as in shaping events or opportunities.  2.  the invisible power needed for a certain talentless douche bag to beat Gael Monfils in round 3 of 2008’s U.S. Open.  I will give (*shudders*) Mardy credit though…actually no I won’t.  Fuck him in the arse with a hot glue gun.  To Monfils’ credit he did give up in the last set.  It makes the final score seem less abrasive to the soul when you hear that he gave up in the end, hence the utter ridiculousness of the score in the final set.  Mardy made Tennisburger angry in straights, 7-5, 6-2, 6-2.  Shit, let’s just say Monfils gave up in the 2nd set.  I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.  I guess like others who read this post I’ll reluctantly half-heartedly root for Numero Uno.  Motherfucker looks tired though, don’t he?  At least that’s all I keep hearing.

     Pancetta knocked out Manesmo’s giant salami with her own salami.  Jesus Christ, man, fourteen double faults?!  That’s one double fault for each time the entire crowd wondered out loud if Manesmo was indeed a card carrying member of the schlong society.  Please take your things and leave for fucks sake.  That includes your adams apple tape, your Bosom Buddies DVD’s, and that crack pipe you started toking off of about a year ago when you thought you still had the skills.  Jesus, even the president has a sense of humor about how delusional he is. Pancetta pulled the wig off that dude, 6-3, 6-0.  Due to the hermaphroditic nature of women’s tennis, I can only guess Pancetta is due to face some sort of woman-dude in the next round.

      Dear Serena,

          I saw you behind 7-11 today (I also saw your behind behind 7-11 today) and you looked super fine.  Why don’t you run with us no more?  We all kinda miss you. You looked so fine in that red dress.  Made me think of that lame dance we had in 8th grade.  ‘Member?  We danced to that song Lady in Red?  I held onto that fine booty as long as I could, like it was oxygen.  I miss those days, holding onto your booty.  Your boobies look super big too.  Do you think they’ll grow even more once we’re in high school?  (I hope so).  Look, I’m sorry about all those nasty things I said about you back in the day.  Can we just drop that shit?  Seeing you today made me remember how awe inspiring that life giving booty is.  And those giant cherry bombs drive me crazy.  Look, I fucked up okay! I want another chance.  The way you threw around that frenchy made me realize you are the shit, and you can talk all the shit you want during post match interviews.  You’re so good (and so fine), it’s like you deserve to be a brat.  So whatdya say?  You should come over tomorrow and we can listen to records and make out.  Maybe if my parents go grocery shopping I can finger bang you!


P.S. I can’t believe you beat that crazy bitch in straights 6-2, 6-2.  

P.P.S. If you want you can bring your sister over, I know you gotta hang out with her Tuesday, but we’ll have to kick her out when the banging of fingers starts.

     I’m kinda over talking about the largess of Andy Murray’s teeth.  I’d rather talk about that giant white flab of flesh between his elbow and shoulder.  Or about how his style of tennis puts me to sleep fater (and faster) than a nickel bag of aunt hazel.  I was seriously writhing around on my bed by the end of the of the first set like I was coming off that sweet, sweet china cat.  Pro Activ didn’t help much either as he went down faster than that last piece of liver your mom made you finish ’cause “there’s people right around the corner starving” and shit, 6-1, 6-3, 6-3.  Goes to show doubles is the biggest crock of shit next to Scientology.  I kept waking up with what I hope was  drool running down my cheek, struggling to watch the sport I love.  My phone rang and I told my drug dealer, no more white horse!  I need uppers for fucks sake.  He was like, “tryin’ to watch this match too, eh?”  My only salvation is that Murray has to play Del Potro.   I just realized there is no salvation.  Just writing about Murray makes me sleepy.

     Roddick is back in the news, but this time it’s not all date-rape this and date-rape that.  He some how snuck into the next round versus Gonzalez.  Let it be known I’ve been on the Gonazalez carro de la venda for a few months now.  Dude lets her rip, like I do on my couch.  Whole peas flying everywhere!   But yeah, I think we can finally kiss the herpes on the lips of tennis good night.  Your serves aren’t worth shit around here, Hamburgler! Which brings me to my next seriously serious topic…who you gonna root for?  Ferris Muller?  Nigga’ please, this ain’t no disco!  Have you seen who he’s played?!  It took him 15 sets to beat Haaaaaaaaaaaas, 74 sets to beat Almagro and the other 3 guys’ names are Kamke, Mannarino, and Ouahab.  Those aren’t tennis players, those are lines of cheap, European, wholesale electronics.  Actually Ouahab is from Algeria.  __________________________________(insert your own slightly offensive Algerian joke here). I said slightly! We’re all friends here! So yah, giant tagent, anyway, so who ya gonna root for?  The Ghostbusters?  Samuel Powers?  That won’t get your stocking filled come Christmas time.  So who do you have to vote for (as my ex-gf used to say)?

     TA-DA!  No, wait.    No, that’s not it either.  Okay, TA-DA!     Yeah! There’s the race car driver we all know and love and feel sorry for most of the time as of late.  This is the man you must root for.  He’s gonna send Andreev back to the racket smashing factory tomorrow, ride the Mirk wave, grab a bite, get some rest, give Davystadenko’s giant cranium a lobotomy, eat a steak sandwich, get his Mirk on back in the hotel, get some R&R, show Samuel how the seniors do it (actually I do believe Gonzalez has what it takes to pants Screech in the middle of the hall way), get one of those classy Queens hookers (there’s only so much of the inside of the Mirkinator one’s penis can take), sleep, have some Swiss Miss, and play, either Numero Uno or Fish (yeah, it’s definitely either one of those two) in the final.  There I’ve just given you a very easy to follow list of the upcoming week.  On Sunday we’ll all celebrate the second coming of the Cream Dream and his rise to the top, as the cream always does.  Boo-Yah! 

     Let’s Go (eat sushi and not pay)!!!!!!!!!



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