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Archive for January, 2009

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Let’s Go(to sleep)!!!

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

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GODDAMNIT!: Day 7

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

img_05373   I was tempted to give the World’s Greatest Tennis Player Mug Award to Monfils for playing with two broken wrists (and not telling us about it), but I can’t overlook the gift Verdasco bestowed upon the tennis world.  I don’t know how I like a Spaniard with a faux hawk, but I do. I mean, you can almost smell the Chocolate Axe Body Gel Shampoo Wash Soap on the guy.  I don’t know how the hell he did it all while staring at a piece of hamburger hanging from the corner of Murray’s upper lip; I mean that most have been more distracting than line judges dressed in orange.  Seriously Australian Open Tournament directors, can you maybe next time, have your line judges on fire, or maybe have them swallow some radioactive liquid of the neon green variety?  Or fuck it, just get some guys with Tourettes.  But back to the mug winner at hand.  There were so many inside-out forehand winners in this match I had flashbacks of my mom screaming “In or out!” as I ran in and out of the house after eating a box of Gobstoppers and 12 handfuls of Jujubees.  Oh, um Brag? How are your predictions doing? I seem to remember you picking the Scottish Werewolf to go all the way, no?  Funny enough, Teflon Don was nowhere to be seen after Murray choked on whatever it is Scottish people eat.  He was there to comment on Murray screaming at his box.  Ladies, do you ever scream at your box to get fired up? Brag seems to think Murray does.  Verdasco, who somehow seemed to wriggle his way into my heart, not unlike a heartworm (warning, that link grossed even me out) helped heave my chub into the heavens, winning somthing-6, 6-something, something-6, 6-something, 6-something.  Oh, and I forgot to ask, was Robocop the chair umpire for that match? Did anyone hear that guy’s voce (box)?  

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Dear ESPN2, 

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

     Love,

            Tennisburger

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

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badonkadonular

badonkadonular

 

I’ll give you one guess who this is (hint: it’s not Murray)

Props to Anthony for sending this to me…and, well, you too. 

You know how when you’ve got a grilled cheese cut into two triangles and you’re not sure where to bite first, the corner or the middle?

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     When I settle into my bean bag on the back porch of my double-wide with my laptop and my Budlight -Clamato mixture my thoughts are usually very scattered, not unlike someone on that sweet, sweet crack pipe, or a 6 year-old on a bag of Skittles.  The recession looms ever nearer, as repo men take my last loaf of pumpernickel from the ice box.  The Oakland A’s threaten to vanish into obscurity after each failed year to run a team on $45, not to mention an impending move into the suburbs.  Girls everywhere ignore me.  Will my overhead slam ever not make me look like someone who’s being shocked to death?  These are just some of the troubling thoughts I have as I brainstorm new ideas for posts while on my razor scooter.  But today I am very focused and am only troubled by one question: What the fuck is a yip?   I’ll try and answer this question as the days, weeks and possibly months go by and I promise you, as Bud Collins’ googley eyeballs as my witness, I’ll will get to the bottom of this terrifying trend in women’s tennis.

     A year back Santoro was mad at Rodddddddick for serving into his wittle body and for the last point of the match stood with his hands on his hips while Roddddick dropped the last serve in to win.  Well basically, aside from some twirls and ballet jumps, Santoro did the same thing against Roddddddick, going down on that nasty STuD, 6-3, 6-4, 6-2.  Apparently that was his 66th trip to a major.  Coincidently I’ve taken 66 major dumps in the past two days.  Seriously, how can there be any pride in the act of showing up?  Try that with your boss the next time you stroll in 15 minutes late with Spaghetti-o’s hanging from your lip and your shirt half-tucked in all while reeking of Purple Hooters and Midori sours.  The two wore hats.  I don’t know if I’m just getting old or what, but now hats are starting to bug me.  

     Does anyone know why the top of Jankovic’s breasts don’t sweat?  Is that an ethnic thing?  I’m pretty sure I saw an episode of Mythbusters where they tried to figure out if the top of Serbian women’s breasts did indeed sweat.  Either way she beat another veteran of the show up game, Ai (pronounced Ai!) Sugiyama, 6-4, 6-4.  

img_0537 Each day post I will award a World’s Greatest Tennis Player Mug to the player’s mug who is the word’s greatest tennis…player…of the day.  I rightfully own this cup due to, well, being the world’s greatest (my nickname on the court is $39.99, as that’s usually the price one would have to pay for one of those tennis dvds to see shots such as mine), but I feel I need to give back, ya’ know? To the community that fostered my greatness.  So, in the grand spirit of giving (back), I award the first ever, (*lots of echo*) World’s Greatest Tennis Player Mug to, Marcos Baghdatis.  Oh, the World’s Greatest Tennis Player Mug Winner also gets to see his or her name in bold on the site of yours truly.  I didn’t even get to see the match, but Baghdatis wins this coveted prize for the sheer fact that he took out Ankle Socks, in straights even!  I was SO (see: caps) sick of watching Brag Gilbert’s giant jaws move up and down and exclaim that Fish is going to go far into this tournament.  Which incidently, let me remind the Don, that you cannot prognosticate in real time.  For example, if my doorbell rings (which it never does) I cannot then at that same moment proclaim, I think someone is at the door!   That’s called being a retard, not a prognosticator.  Anyway, so yah, Marcos went to the library and kicked in the MicroFish viewer, 6-2, 6-4, 6-4.  That Fish is more overrated than the American dollar.  Back to the astro-van hotshot! Baghdatis faces Screech, AND I CAN’T WAIT!!!!!!!

     Delic faced Screech earlier in the day (evening? I can never tell what time it is in dingo land) and I couldn’t have been more…right about that match (you thought I was gonna say wrong, didn’t you?).  Sure it had it’s moments, but I hate hearing how a match that went four measly sets was awe-inspiring.  Me jaginoff 9 1/2 times in one day, now that’s awe-inspiring.  But of course all  you heathens I wanna hear me talk about is (that was pretty fresh by the way for those of you who are on your glaucoma meds) that pathetic chair throwing incident.  Bosnians, Croats, Serbs.  No, these are not the names of the different types of dildos your mother hides in her giant underwear drawer.  These are people, with a lot of beef.  See a long time ago something happened.  Then that thing that happened got worse.  Then these people started wearing their countries flags as capes. Then I got mad.  Then they got drunk. Then they started throwing fucking patio furniture at each other in broad daylight IN  A PLAZA IN SUNNY DOWNTOWN MELBOURNE!  How utterly frightening.  Dudes, they’re called hands, they’re at the end of your arms, attached by your wrists.  Please curl up your hands into fists, and proceed to throw your fists into the guy from the other country’s face.  Repeat.  Cherry something or other (one of the Aussie commentators, who is not hot nor a cherry, I guarantee you), along with the other McEnroe, and Daren Cahill all talked about how scary the incident was.  No. It was not.  It was actually pretty damn funny seeing people throw chairs at each other’s chairs, and then see said chairs break in mid-air.  Scary? No. Kinda funny? Yes.  But back to the match.  Delic who is somehow a Bosnian guy born and raised in Illinois was not saved by the bell (gimme a break! I gotta go to work soon!) as Screech pounced 6-2, 4-6, 6-3, 7-6.  

     Dick Enberg is no longer allowed to refer to matches as “Delicious”.  I’m sorry, it’s just gross.

     The upset of the day (no, not retard v. chocolate covered banana), which actually made me quite happy (the opposite of upset, almost) was Alisa “Do you want fries with that” Kleybanova over Ivanostache.  I just can’t stand that little heartbreaker.  A little fucking brat is what she is (as my mom would say of any girl who showed the slightest interest in me).  And more overrated than a chair throwing incident in a plaza.  Number 5? More like number 2 if you catch my drift.  Kleybanova has got to be sponsored by some sort of Russian Arby’s (did you see that costume?).  All I know is I was craving saturated fat and monoglycerides all night long.  Alisa “for here or to go” Kleybanova struggled in the second set and literally let Ivanacry come back, but thankfully finished her off 7-5, 6-7, 6-2.  

     Cornet over Hantuchova!  I was unable to see that match too, but I’d love to hear about it over a cup of earl grey at your house sometime?  Let’s dish!  Did she have those rainbow shots workin’ for her?  Was she as cute as a button?  I have got to get me some of that.  I am seriously Hornay for Cornet.  My new bumper sticker, thank you very much.

     Anyone see the coach of Dokic’s fist pump at the end of her match?  That thing was off my pump-0-meter.  Dude was on some type of pump trip.  I hope there weren’t any bugs in the immediate area as they were surely pummeled to death by that onslaught.  Which brings me to the fist pump itself.  There are actually quite a number of different fist pumps being sported nowadays.  First there is the up-and-downer.  This is your typical garden variety pump action.  You can actually see little kids do it to big rig drivers on the highway.  This one is displayed on the tennis courts usually when one is very close to securing a match.  The “pump” in fist pump really shines in the up-and-downer.  Next is the back-and-forther.  This is usually a sign of reassurance and seen when one is mounting a comeback, or holds a steady lead and needs to quell their celebration.  The third pump on our list is the rare “swinger” where you bring the fist back from behind you, and swing it in a swooshing “up” motion, keeping it below your shoulders and bringing in the fists towards the abdomen.     There is an abrupt stop at the end of this motion, and perhaps a tightening of the fist; one might also mumble to oneself c’mon while still holding the fist in place, below the chin. Ivanostache is the main carrier of this pump.  Then there’s the more subdued, hunch-back-of-notre-fist-pump, which includes, as the name suggests, the pumping party to lean over and bring either one or both fists close to the body.  A scream is usually accompanied with this variety.  Lastly there’s the “I’ve got your point right here pump” or simply the “in your face pump”.  This fisting creature usually involves your arm in a half-cocked position, elbow raised, forearm straight up and in front of you and with your fist tightly clenched you simply hold it there and stare your opponent down while walking backwards towards the baseline.  The “in your face pump” could also be pointed at the crowd in general or the coach in particular.   If there are any I have left out, please let me know.

     Bah-toe-lee!

     Let’s Go (to work)!!!!

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     My apologies for not covering the women’s draw.  I found out Sharapova wasn’t in it, so I pretty much scrapped the whole women’s draw. I actually mailed in the whole day and drowned my sorrows in a Pine-Sol, Midori tincture.  And seeing how my analysis of the men’s draw was downright queef inducing, I pretty much did you a favor (unless you’re like me and you like queefs in your face). And as if that wasn’t bad enough I woke up in a Pine-Sol slumber to find that, Vaidisova, the stalk to my stalker got trampled in straights.  If I said women let me down in the past few days I might actually be telling the truth for once.  But anyway, let’s get to the heat, the exaggerations, the nods, and the heat (it was hot out, and couldn’t have been commented on enough).

     After ESPN deux relived Wimbeldon ’08 until I could take no more RAFA! biting the trophy montages followed by Fed’s sad n’ sorry look, they covered more bullshit, with bullshit.  It was bullshit covered bullshit.  I was was getting drunk, talking to my roommates boyfriend (it’s a girl roommate, don’t worry!), eating pizza and I’m convinced I didn’t miss a thing.  See, there’s a weird misnomer that because tennis is so boring, those who cover it believe that we would rather hear them talk about tennis rather than actually watch the sport.  Don’t get me wrong, I like to talk. At times I even like to listen (Gary Bussey’s poetry slams are my favorite), but when it comes to tennis, I’m pretty sure I don’t want 15 minutes of tennis, followed by a 30 minute interview with Lance “I Don’t Play Tennis” Armstrong.  Oh wait, maybe we should have some more shots of the fucking ocean for fucks sake!  Who runs the tennis coverage over there at ESPN, Mark Philippoussis and Anna Kournikova?  So I don’t know, I got drunk, I made some inappropriate comments during Scrabble, fell down, then woke up to Manritilova’s veins in my face!

     The Tennis Channel scooped up the same winners from (are you)skid(ding me?) row for their limited coverage of Ozzfest.  Gimmelslime looks like he’s trying out for Nicholas Cages’ roll in Leaving Las Vegas II.  The shadows of the bags under his eyes have type II diabetes.  His shakes were giving me the shakes.  And what’s up with that do?  It’s so Bozo the clown style-e.  I kept waiting for him to juggle his 3 child support checks.    

     Whatever, we’ll have plenty of time to make fun of these beefcakes.  Let’s get to some tennis!

     Roddick started out the day and just as Gimmelslime mentally and verbally undressed Roddick before the match, it was proven that he is indeed, slimmer.  I don’t know if you can lose 15 pounds of STD’s, but if anyone can…He demolished Rehnquist who was rightfully put in his place by the Don of ESPN2, Brad Gilbert, who sported a 24k gold suit (how many Wrist Assists could he have actually sold?).  Rehnquist was downright awful, even for Sweden’s standards.  If you missed it, just picture your grandpa (living or dead, it doesn’t matter), playing tennis on the Nintendo Wii.  Roddick surprised no one while simultaneously perking up Gimmelslimes tiny bell tower, 6-0, 6-2, 6-2.  He faces the non-Nazi German qualifier Malisse, who dismantled Llodra faster than Germany dismantled France in WWI, II, (I went to a public high school and was VERY high most of the time, so that may not have made sense). And that’s not really saying much ’cause you’d kinda hope a tennis match would be shorter than a war, let alone one of the world variety.

     Dude, anyone see how old and rad Patrick Swayze is? The Beast, indeed.  

     Querry lost in straights which begs the question, is the era of the Querry documentary (an insightful re-run on The Tennis Channel that answers the question, does Querry know how to fill out a check) finally over, or proven obsolete?

     Can someone say Lu? Can someone say the amazing Kreskin?  The Taiwanese terror faces the guy with the worst nickname in tennis, Nalbs.  He’s fat now, by the way.  And not Phat either, mom.  

     I don’t know who Delic is but he beat an American, so I kinda like him.  Oh, he is an American?  Torn, indeed.  But he looks like a grade A douche, so douche case closed.  He faces Mathieu. Yawn city.

     Hrbaty beat Isner with only one tie break.  Hrbaty deserves some sort of nobel peace prize in the Isner tie-break category.

     Dudi!  Dudi beat Shitler!  The battle of the scat (or scattle if you will) was a hot, sloppy, mixture, that in the end, proved that Dudi is better than shit. So many bathroom breaks.  Dudi was crowned the winner 1-6, 6-2, 6-4, 6-4. Dudi faces Shitescu in the 2nd round.

     Pam Shriver and Brad Gilbert (I think, the meringues on that channel are hard to decipher) argued over the young American McHale’s precious calf muscle. The two bickered for what seemed like (and was) 3 hours over whether or not she was faking, or if it was fair to have injury timeouts and whether it’s better to be an overbearing ape like man, or an overbearing apelike woman.  Of course this piece of shit match was covered in lieu of thee best 1st round match.  I’m of course talking about Hewitt v. Gonzo.  Welcome to being an American!  Where all that matters revolves around America, and anything that has to do with America.  McHale got her just/fake desserts and lost to the Aussie, Moore, while Gonzo proved that Hewitt is nothing more than an Australian version of every American on the tournament, namely Blake.  Gonzalez gored Hewitt, 5-7, 6-2, 6-2, 3-6, 6-3.

     Anyone hear of a little (huge) French, charismatic, black kid from France?  ‘Bout yay tall?  Looks like his hair is being electrocuted? Straight sets?  Likes to beat up on the world’s “number 1” player in Doha?  Loves dee Mac-do?  Reads Tennisburger daily?  Well, yeah, if you see him let him know he faces Koubek in the 2nd round.  

     odesnikOdesnik, who proclaimed himself, the American version RAFA! lost to Ancic in the first.  In other news I have more in common with the planet Jupiter than this Friday night fizzle has with the RAFA!  Oh, maybe he said, I’m the American version of Nepal.  That would’ve made way more sense.

 

 

 

 

 

istomin1Doesn’t this guy look like he was sent from Uzbekistan (speaking of Jupiter) to eradicate Australia’s population of sleazy skate dads?  Guess what, he was!  This Uzbekistan dream made me explode in my pants to the sweet sound of 6-2, 7-5, 6-4 over Spadea.  There is a God, and he resides in Uzbekistan and wears red fleece sweaters.

 

 

 

 

 

navarro “I would like uh peenut buter and gel-e sandwich pleeeease.”  Venus, who looks like a chocolate covered banana in her yellow dress will face corky over here to your left.  Man or woman? You decide! Then keep it a secret ’cause no one wants to talk about it anymore! Seriously, is this what the hee-bee-jee-bees feels like?

 

 

 

 

     It’s pretty much tradition now that Meusburger gets pounced on by the world’s number 1 in the first round of every grand slam.  I feel sorry for the ‘burg, being my lil’ sis and all.  Jankovic got her burger served Serb style, which is pretty much, whichever way she wanted it, winning in straights, 6-1, 6-3.  A little addendum:  I had a great joke about how this was really a Hrbaty match, but I couldn’t really get it down.  It was like, you know, Jankovic is all body and Meusburger is some body so it was a Hrbaty match.  Definitely not a Hrface match.  I dunno, lemme know if you get that one.  I thought it was golden, but I was pretty much baked out of coconut*.

     Bah-toe-lee, mon petite cutie cruised. 

     I can’t find a good pic of Radswanka that illustrates the toothless vibe she puts off, but thas okay, ’cause she got gassed in the 1st round by Bondarenko, 6-7, 6-4, 6-1.  You know how when you were little you’d get to rifle through that treasure chest for a cheap little plastic toy after the dentist drilled 18 holes in your head?  Well she didn’t even get that.  It was like, back to the land of helicopters with ejector seats, and submarines with screen doors for your Polish ass!

     Year after year Manesmo manages to sneak into the women’s draw.  This time sHE actually made it into the 2nd round with those big-ass brass balls.

     Tennisburger:  More Jie Zheng anyone?

     2nd Round: Yeah, bring me some of that!

     Czink: Um, could I just have another plate of Cirstea?

     Serena’s dress looks like a squid barfed all over it. Or pooped.  I don’t know where that ink comes from.  Mouth or anus? Either way I’m sure you know how she’s doing.  

     As I type this other matches are going on with no real surprises.  If anything exciting happens I’ll be sure to phone.  Or celebrate, get drunk, then drunk dial you.

     Let’s Go!!!!

*I’ll admit, this is really douchey but I coined a phrase for all the Meusburgers out there you see at the bar. They’re called scabs.  They come in to replace all the hot chicks that are apparently on strike.  Feel free to use it to your hearts content.  But when you see it being used on some dumb college humor website, it’s time to move on.  You can even say you made it up.

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     That Betty Ford is one tough bitch, lemme tell ya’!  Welcome back, or better yet, welcome me back.  I went out for a pack of smokes back in ’08, but I’m here to claim what’s rightfully mine, and what’s rightfully yours to enjoy, or scratch your head at and wonder, does this guy know how to write, let alone write about tennis?  A lot’s been happening, and not happening, so I just want to jump right into the mens draw, and pretend like I never really left you, ‘k Billy (*proceeds to give you a painful noogie, informing you I kinda missed you, but more importantly, that I reign supreme over the television and the squishy spot on the couch*).  As always we start out with the men here, as women get dibs on everything in this society, namely, black eyes, doing the dishes, getting boned, paying for winter vacations (to the Mickey D’s drive-thru), corns, those nasty scabs on the back of their heels from those dumb shoes that make ’em walk like  baby ducks, and uh, doors…we open doors for ’em.  So let’s get it on goddamn it! Cock-style, if you will, as my masseur at the local bathhouse calls it.  ___________(insert uber-masculine, Australian version of let’s go! here).  

     I don’t remember exactly how the scene goes down, but remember how Biff from Back to the Future had that book that had all the results from all the past (ur uh, future) sporting events.  Well here, below is the equivalent of that, not so much as I went back to the future, but I am pretty amazing…so here’s my completed bracket, completely.  Sit back and watch your personal recession disappear as you plug in these names as the days go on.  Davey, where yours be at, dog?!

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     Have you seen that Le Monf got the 12 seed? That’s like number 1 AND number 2 together!  Fantastique! He’s like, best and second best!  It’s like that Popeye’s Louisiana Wrap that mixes the best of everything, namely red beans and rice, and a chicken nugget all wrapped inside a warm toasty, mexican tortilla.  Just like they eat in the dirty!  It’s like getting boned, then all of a sudden someone comes in and starts feeding you ice cream while you’re making your own cream.  I think you’re feeling me here.  There’s a potential french toast (this is actually a rad/hilarious bletus and I urge you to read it everyday until your eyes bleed, then read it in brail until your fingers bleed, then your toes, etc…) brew ha-ha about to go down in the quarters if Richard “Who doesn’t have a heart now, beyotch” Gasquet can escarget (see that) his way past newcomer Rafael Nadal (uhhh, did his parents img_0520think they had given birth to a teenage mutant ninja turtle?).  RAFA! the man with the cleanest ass crack this side of my ass crack actually, I think, in my (*cough) humble opinion has it tougher than Federror (my equivalent of tipping a forty to DTBM, not DTBM by the way).

     Alan Trengove, writing for those shark huggers over at Aussieopen.com, declared that Federer faces a rocky road.  Shit, I’ve faced rockier roads in my freezer.  A-O! Seriously, glancing over at my Oscar-nominated bracket, and winner of class of ’09’s most likely to beat all other brackets bracket I show that the Cream Dream only has to get past Safina, Wawrinka, Del Potro, and then, yes, Samuel Powers (who we’ll get to shortly).  But c’mon, not to be a giant dick toast or anything, but he really just has to get past himself.  I know, I know, that sucked, but you know what I mean.  There’s that scene in Footloose where the Baconator is playing chicken with those redneckmobiles (tractors?), and he’s so not a pussy, and is ready to show these new cousin fuckers how heinous he is by not turning the wheel.  But then his Chucklace gets wrapped around the go pedal and he has no chance but  to forge on, even though now he just wants out.  It’s like sometimes fate is there to pull us along, as has been the case with Federer for a long time.  But now he’s starting to chicken out when the going gets tough (and the tough run out of cliches) and his only hope is some kind of wonderful (like that other movie!)  Well here’s to hoping Federer gets his shoe stuck in the go pedal.  Of course he’s gonna have to face Monfils in the final, so there you go. 

     Other notables include Golubev and Fognini.  Golubev is the Kazakhstanian with the mostastanian.  I have this guy getting into the 3rd round.  If Borat is in the crowd cheering this guy on I’m pretty sure my chub will reach maximum thrust and break some kind of chub sound barrier.  I’m sure the internet ratings will go through the roof along with my chub’s flying sperm count.

     As for the (*gag*) Americans, I have Blake getting past a qualifier in the first round, against my better judgement.  I then have him getting past Darcis against my best judgement, but then my best judgement comes half-circle, and I have Gulbis bringing him down faster than the worlds biggest banana peel in the 4th round.  

     Tennis.com’s TV schedule has the Tennis Channel getting into the quarters!  I thought by then they’d be showing old episodes of Rocky and Bullwinkle in that episode where they play tennis for 10 seconds after jumping out of Boris and Natasha’s peddle-powered zeppelin. I seriously bet you a million dollars that more people watch the Tennis Channel for those rad Shamwow and Snuggie infomercials, than they do Tennis Academy or any other crap they put on.  On one episode of Tennis “Classics” they had last years match of Screech v. Federer.  I remember one time when I was around 8 years old my dad and I were in the garage and he was showing me how to change the oil, and then my dad’s friend walks in and eyes this pin-up girl from a Playboy my dad had hanging up. He looked at it and said those tits are classic.  I can only guess that same guy went on to become chief programmer for the Tennis Channel “Classics” episodes.  I’ll hold all Gimelslob hate crimes till the open has officially begun.

     There is so much talk about Murray’s elevated game over tea and crumpets in me mums bungalow with all her friends, but I just don’t see it.  The bookies apparently see it, or saw it, I’m sure all that noise has gone to bed, but I just can’t get behind a white dark horse.  To quote Bud Collins, dude just blows.  And if you’ve never witnessed bumpin’ uglies personified, just wait till Murray (Teenwolf II), and Radek “How’d he pull that off, see:Vaidisova” Stepanek face each other’s faces in the 4th round.  I’ll be wearing a bag over my head! A-O!  

     And rounding out the last of the bottom half…I really don’t want to see Karlovic and the 789 aces up his sleeve sneak past Ancic, but I really don’t see how Ancic can pull that one off.  If you do, please write out your answer and overnightl it to:

     Mario Ancic

     Court 2

     Sharkland, Australia

     Oh no oh my almost forgot about Spadea…he’s more crazy than a bag of chlamydea (roll with me here).   He’s a rappin’ old man…in a dusty old van.  But don’t worry ’bout that, cuz in the 2nd round… Gasquet’s gonna give’em a french dirt nap.  And that aint no Cleveland Steamer, but a 2nd round facial…creamer, y’all. Jyeah.

     atpl4281atpr4851In the bottom half (my favorite half), the unmentionable mentionables are pretty, well, boring.  Llodra with two “l’s” faces Roddick with two “d’s”.  And it’s like, how boring are “l’s?” They’re straight fucking lines most of the time! And look at “d’s!” They’re straight lines with half-circles. BORRRRRRRREEEEN.  I mean look at these two guys! It’s like Tom Cruise from Cocktail versus Tom Cruise from Risky Business. You’re not really sure who’s gonna come out the winner, but you’re almost positive he’ll be covered in STD’s.  The bottom half (which is usually the juiciest half) has been so dry and non-succulent  I have Dirty Dick going all the way to the quarters (first The Tennis Channel makes the cut, and now this!) to face Samuel Powers.  Why don’t I just throw Colon Powell into the mix! Ugh!

     lu1I have my boy Lu! going all the way.  Look at this fresh face.  Kid is sick.  Got his fuckin’ hat on all backwards and shit, smirkin like a little punk know-it-all.  I like this kid.  I have a feeling this kid sits behind me in my Java class.  He’s from Taipei. Enough said.

 

 

 

 

 

     I have Baghdatis beating Fish.  That’s how shitty this shit sandwich has become.  It wasn’t even a shark sandwich to begin with (Spinal Tap, anyone?).  

     djoke1Djoke has the ride of a lifetime.  They should make him play on hot coals or some shit just to make it even.  He (maybe) faces Mathieu (who could take him to the barnyard, but I seriously have less doubts about me paying off my school loans before I reach 75/the grave) in the 3rd round, Baghdatis in the 4th, and Dirty Dee’s Nuts in the quarters!  I bet you he’s puffin’ on the stankiest Serbian skunk against Chardy in the 1st…just to see if he can do it.  You just know he gets high with his mom.

     It’s just more bullshit the further down you get.  I likes Tipsarevic, but dude is more wishy washy than a fat person in line at KFC.  Del Potro is pretty much whatevs in my book.  The whole bottom half is peppered with Berdychs, Wawrinkas, Cilics, Isners, Bollelis, etc… It’s like a who’s who of what was the question again?

     So there you have it.  A bunch of drunk ramblings from  some asshole at 1 in the morning.  I’ll get into the women’s drawls tomorrow.   

     Glad to be back. I hope these next two weeks prove to be funner than the last 4 months off I’ve had, high on angel dust while writing poetry to hookers.

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