Archive for February, 2009

     First off, I’m sorry for not posting sooner.  I went through quite a few emotions after Federer’s loss; anger, then sleepiness, then whatever emotion is tied to jagin’ off, then hunger, then gas, then a few others.  All of which are not very conducive to writing.  So with that, I have a pile of useless notes.  I’ve found that if I don’t write while watching or post shortly after, it all seems too distant and unattainable, like girls or money or any of that other stuff rappers rap about, like giant rims or an apartment in the slums.  To add to all my problems, I ate some vegetarian chili at a super bowl (Super Bowl?) part-a, and now I’m beyond gas, and just have some serious cramps (as a civilization, why do we continue to eat beans!?).  So with that I will commence with, what will probably be the worst rundown of the biggest let down of your life, unless you wear bikini underwear and are from Mallorca, Spain.  I’m looking in your direction, Dave!

     I’m going to break up the chronology of this otherwise chronologically perfect blog and just give you a rundown of some of the quotes that came from Dick Enberg’s stinky pie hole (which coincidently looks like the mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy) :

     1.  “…full blooded stroking…”   (no explanation needed)

     2.  “you can challenge as long as the kangaroo keeps bouncing.”  (my roommate, who doesn’t normally watch tennis, asked me, “oh, what does that mean”, as if it was some sort of inside joke betwixt tennis fanatics.  I had to inform him that it was just a really bad line, that had absolutely no meaning.  My roommate then looked at me as if I was responsible for Tennis having the lamest surroundings…from it’s commentary, to it’s pathetic channel, to it’s fans. Thanks, Dick.)

     3.  “you can’t run to downtown melbourne to get into position for the forehand.” (this gem was in response to Federer’s attempts to run around his backhand on RAFA!’s serve.  I’m not really sure what this one means.  I mean, maybe it’s like, no matter how far you run you can’t get into position for the forehand shot, because the serve is just too good/fast.  But as one of my English professors told me, “why don’t you just say that?”  I mean I guess he could run to downtown Melbourne, but then what?)

     4.   “like a cleanup hitter hitting a shot up the alley for a double triple or triple.”  (obviously the repeat of the word triple was like a stutter or something, but enough with incorporating other sports and its sayings into tennis!  Brag is continually talking about the hard yard.  The only hard yard I know about pees twice a day and occasionally throws up into my dirty socks or any spare piece of cloth lying around.  One (of the many reasons) tennis is so lame is because they (the commentators) try and incorporate or include other sports into the discussion.  Do you ever hear baseball announcers talking about tennis?  If you do, stop lying this instant. Anyway, I tired to rewind my DVR (dvr?) to see if what I heard was what I heard, but even the machine, an inanimate object, had trouble going back over that quote, and took a dump. True story…I had to delete the recording to continue watching my tennis stories.)

     5.  In the sixth game of the first set, at deuce Dickberg ignores my pleas and drops the d(elicious) bomb to describe the point as such.  Well from now on I’m going to describe my salad as powerful.  My filet of sole will now be known as well conditioned.  My artichoke hearts will be focused and determined.  At the dinner table when I visit my parents in Boise, I will describe my mother’s mashed potatoes as unstoppable!  Seriously, can we have some kind of consortium that relegates adjectives to it’s proper nouns?  Oh wait, there already is such a consortium! It’s called common-fucking-sense!  Now if you’ll excuse me I must get on with my robust post.

     6.  “RAFA!’s championship boot…” (this was said as the camera man finally didn’t show RAFA! picking dingleberries from his arse, and opted to show RAFA!’s shoes.  I don’t know what a championship boot is, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t win them in  a championship match. They’re also not boots, ya’ old geezer, their shoes, or tenny’s if you will.)

     7.  “Put that in your album…” (this was directed to only Monfils knows who, but it was said after an amazing lob smash in which RAFA! made mincemeat (poor mincemeat) of a Federer lob in the 4th.  Is RAFA! suppose to put it in his album, or was DE sarcastically impersonating a RAFA! who would tell that to Federer? It sounded like he was telling it to the viewing audience though, like, put that in your pipe and smoke it!  Again, I was adrift in a sea of Dick’s colloquialisms with no paddle (that was fresh, if you didn’t catch it).

     8.  “The roof is open and the stage [theatre?] is high.”  (again, I have absolutely no idea what he is blabbering about, now or at 3 am (my time) when he barfed it.  I know the roof was open, but how was the stage, which I take to mean center court, high?  I know I was high.  My cat, Chairman Meow, had a bit of a contact workin’.  But a stage?  Is it like, mile high or something?   Was everyone in it high?  I’m seriously just gonna assume that Dickster is totally fucking with us, and laughing after each one of these cryptic passages.  It’s all I can do to keep my sanity.

     Okay, I”m almost 800 words into this thing and I haven’t even gotten to the match.  I knew, and as my text to Marc at 2:17 am pacific standard time as my witness, that Federer was toast.  I hate when commentators jump on one little thing, the shrugging of shoulders, head down, a wild forehand and run with it and prognosticate, then the second the wind changes direction they’re changing their tune, BUT there was no denying it, when Federer lost that first set.  I didn’t give a shit that he won the second, or the fourth.  He was done.  RAFA! got into his head super early and that was it.  RAFA! owns Federer, not unlike I own debts, or a lock of Gary Busey’s hair.  It seems almost pointless to go on with a rundown of the match after admitting that I am The Amazing Karnak, but I just mixed up my sugar jar with my angel dust jar, so I’m gonna be up for a while (punching holes in the walls), so I might as well get on with it (it being something).

     At 15 all in the third, Federer smashed a forehand crosscourt shot (which RAFA! (un)surprisingly got to) and kept running up to the barricade.  It was still early in the match, and I was kinda hoping he’d just hop into the crowd, run up the steps to the top of Rod Laver Arena, scream, then run back down as if nothing had happened.  Some people wish for  riches, I wish for RAFA! to do that.  

     At 3-2, break point, RAFA! droppd a second serve over the net like a delicate feather and Federer unloaded a bologna sandwich straight up the line to go up 4-2.  This line was copied straight from my notes in Text Editor and I have no idea what I was thinking at the time, but if a sandwich deserves to be a powerful shot, it’s gotta be bologna (or maybe a patty melt, but definitely not limburger).  Fed then double faulted to put the game back on serve.  This is what I’m talking about, Federer serves just fine the whole damn tourney, then once he faces RAFA! he’s got the damn yips, or nips, or whatever they’re calling it.  It was somewhere around this time that I started to get worried and poo in my pants a little.  Like a little poo pebble.

     After being broken there were a number of successive junk shots (one of his many signature shots against RAFA!) that just happened to work against RAFA!  One was a mis-hit, just over RAFA!’s head.  I gotta say, when I make junk shots on the court like that, and they work, I usually feel worse about my game, like the guilt of winning the point is worse than or equal to losing the point.  At any point during this post I happen to blow your mind, simply push the mind blowing release lever.

    At break point  (not to be confused with Point Break staring Keanu Reeves as Johnny Utah) Federer hit a serve up the line (down the line?) that only RAFA! could return (and that most mothers could love).  Two shots later and RAFA!  is serving for the set.  Federer hits his other signature shot, the long forehander, and RAFA! happily took the 1st set in the provided brown paper bag with his name on it.     

     Apparently RAFA! has his rackets strung at 25 kilos, which is just over 55 lbs.  Won’t you please join me in ditching both metric and english weights in favor of the stone I usually string my racket between 4 and 4.1 stones.  How fucking cool does that sound? Pretty cool if you ask me, the guy who invented it.

     After RAFA! broke Fed to go up 3-2 in the second there was something on both my mind and (I’m sure)  Federer’s, namely that RAFA! is indeed the best player in the world.  All giant head bands aside, Federer is toast and has no chance to beat RAFA! again.  If RAFA! can take out Fed after a 5h15m match, there’s no hope.  Right after I typed that Federer broke back, but not of the mountain variety.  Could Tennisburger be wrong?  This was another copy and paste job from my notes.  Of course I had doubts about my belief that Fed was toast after a killer shot, but I still sensed the end was near, like, for eternity and shit.

     Is twinkle toes’ inside-out-in crosscourt forehand winner our answer to world peace?  Would it, at the very least, make a very lame bumper sticker? I’ll try and describe this shot, but I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.  Fed comes around his backhand and is (al)most assuredly going to nail an inside out crosscourt forehand shot from looking at his body’s position, but then he nails the fucker (fucker being the ball) right up the line! And to think those amazing shots aren’t enough to send RAFA! crying back to his daddy’s window shop in Mallorca.  At 40-30 (the weight of my car oil, by the by) the c’mons start pouring out of Federer.  Coinicidently the midnight chili I made for my superbowl party started pouring out of my anus, my roommate poured a civilized amount of cutty sark and for just a moment I thought everything was right with the world.  Fed holds to go up 4-3.  Will RAFA! crush my hopes of inner pouring peace?

      No.  Fed breaks then hold serve to win the 2nd at 6-3. 

     In between sets RAFA! went to take  a number one or number two (we’ll never know!), then trotted back to the court mumbling to himself, what looked like the same word over and over again.   I’d like to think he was repeating the word fuck or shit over and over again.  Let’s assume he was.

     The third, fourth and fifth games of the third set was not unlike a trip to the circus with death defying leaps and crazy defense. But alas! there were no tigers or flaming hoops, nor giant paper machiet d and fence signs in the crowd.  Although there were  a lot of shots into the net, opposed to my shots into the dirty sock as explained earlier.  It started to get kinda sloppy out there in the third, but if you’re like me you like it kinda (really) sloppy.  When my girlfriend who doesn’t exist makes me sloppy joes I always ask for extra slop.

     At four all in the third Federer hit the over-the-right-shoulder-lob(ster)-smash-with-his-back-to-the-net shot.  Not too much mention of one of the cooler shots I’ve seen in my lifetime, but remember this moment in time as I will come back to it, not unlike a skilled writer or a master of letters if you will.  All lobster smashes prove to be for naught as Federer double faults in the tie break at set point to give (literally give) the set to RAFA!  

     After a quick break in the fourth Fed was up 2-0, but RAFA! played some amazing defensive winners (usually an oxymoron, but with these two beefcakes, it’s the norm) to break right back.

     At 2-3 there was a nasty rally that ended on a RAFA! lobster smash jump and we got 20 different looks at it as the royal Dick of Enberg and crew bobbed up and down on the dick of RAFA!’s athleticism, yet when Fed did the exact same thing we were privy to meh’s and thas okays.  

     I really don’t know how Federer came out on top of the fourth set.  Federer’s balls seriously could’ve filed for some sort of restraining order against RAFA!’s racquet (I know, I have the feeling I used that one before, too); dude was stalking, lingering in the bushes, hiding in the shadows and shit.  The 5th set was pure crap and Federer pretty much gave up at that point which really pissed me off (which in turn pissed off my sleeping roommates, my neigbors, the off-duty cops in the neighborhood and the owner of the turquoise del sol that was unluckily parked out front when my tv crashed into the top (or sol) part of that chick magnet).  

     Final score (if you seriously come here for tennis news like scores and updates, I feel sorry for you and your search engine), 7-5, 3-6, 7-6, 3-6, 6-2.  Federer cried and I still don’t know how I feel about that.  

     I’m getting rid of the Tennis Channel for obvious reasons, so anything on ESPN, or ESPN2 will have to do, aside from watching Federer cry on the internet.  But you know my posting is as streaky as my underwear, so I’ll just have to disappoint until then (then being my next post).  Are there RSS feeds on this beyotch?  Maybe we could all do that.  If anything it will make us look smarter and more productive or efficient.  

     Thanks to all who came by and checked in on me and my ramblings. And double thanks to those who actually leave comments.  I hope to be back soon.  Let’s Go!!!!



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