Archive for April, 2009

Murray? More like Mur-yay! I wouldn’t care if Brad Gilbert himself rose from the bowels of his golden suit hell to deliver us from Screech’s Texas Instruments-like clutches, just as long as someone rids my peepers of the sight that is the human porcupine.  Hell, I didn’t even care that I fell asleep half-way through the first set while still holding my lit strawberries n’ cream blunt (gotta get prepped for the Wimbly, dontchyaknow).    I woke up at the end of the first set choking on my nacho cheese sunflower seeds just in time to put out the tiny crotch fire I had unknowingly set and as I looked up at my Telly Savalas I faintly remember thinking to my self, oh yeah 6-2, sounds about right.  See, when you (let’s pretend you’re Djokovic…I know I know, but it’ll only be for a second) commit roughly two errors per point (I know!), there’s a more than likely chance you’re gonna go down faster than one of those water skiing squirrels, an obese parachuter over a hamburger factory (chances are dude won’t even pull the ripcord).  So the first set was no suprise, even to this strawberry blunted mind.  strawberry-shortcake-bike-1

So while I download this Strawberry Shortcake pick and rock out to The Beat by the Cos, why don’t you prepare yourself mentally and physically for the worst rundown of the mens final in Me-ahh-me (if it wasn’t for the Cos that’d be the father son and holy ghost of gayness).

So ummm, how much money do you think Screech pulls in per year?  I mean, what’s with the whole family wearing the same thing?  Were they gonna book right after the match and all head over to Disney World?  Ironically there are only two places entire families can wear the same thing, church (I always hated wearing my mom’s Sunday dresses to church) and Disney world.  Okay?  I know we’re in a recession in all, but I can’t imagine those hardest hit by it would be pancake and pizza shacks on the top of a mountain in Kapaonik, let alone millionaire tennis players. Buy some more shirts (and stop putting sunglasses on your pre-teens! My stomach’s eyes can only take so much).

So Muryay broke right outta the gate like some sort of crazed Scottish horse and I was beginning to feel a fire in my loins other than the strawberry short-blunt induced fire I mentioned earlier.  It was very carnal and  brave heartish of me, but after Murray held I sacraficed a passing goat on my Muryay alter, leaving my roommates a bit disheartened as I rarely wash my own plates, let alone clean up my sacraficial goat droppings.

It’s love-2 at this point and I’m giggling and waiting for my salsa con queso to heat up in my uber-futuristic microwave sos I can make my fried egg an even smellier bomb once it hits my colon.  Then it was 3-love and a tremendous calm set in.  I wanted to phone David Lynch to tell him that Transcendental Meditation isn’t needed when you have tennis to watch, but then I realized I don’t have Lynch’s phone number or a phone, so I proceeded to chillax as my ex-so-cal-gf used to say.  Then it was 4-love and I thought, yes! time for bean pie  and a quick nap before my baseball game!

But then something weird happened, Screech held.  My drooling, euphoric state became more of a slobber and curious nose-picking state.  But then Muryay hit a Sebastian Bachand crosscourt winner at 30-15 and I went back to my preferred grinning and drooling, catatonic state.  I quickly revised my will instructing my family to not pull the plug if I am ever in such a similar condition as it’s pretty much tits (a term the ‘burg will proudly be bringing back to the people).

Marry Jo Oh No Carillo,  can I have my tennis served without a side of whispers?  I’m getting old and my mind’s playing tricks on me so I don’t need my tennis commentators to play anymore tricks. I think I’ve hit mute, I’m high, my doorbell starts ringing, there’s a dog barking and I don’t even own a dog and my phone’s ringing but I don’t even have any friends or owe anybody any money. It’s just all too much for a Sunday.  So she whispers, “he’ll get there” as Screech drops the DROPPA! and it’s like predicting that there will be skid marks in the toilet after my roommate drops a type 4 to the teenage mutant ninja turtles.  Is “he’ll get there” the new “too good” of whispers?  Let us pray to the whisper gods that it’s not.  No, seriously, let’s pray, I’ll wait.

So he got there, because, as we’ve heard a 6,000 times, he consumes 6,000 calories/day, trains with some lesbian soccer team in the UK, swims the English channel before his tea and crumpets, and squats 400 pounds of kilts.  Yeah, he’s lighter, more fit, his chicklets are a bit whiter, he found his Mach3 and he doesn’t cry as much.  But is he a better player? The answer is, of course.  He’s the guy to beat.  Okay, so he played a bunch of whosits and whatshisfaces to get to the finals, but did you see how badly he beat them? Well did, ya?! Huh, punk!?  He beat Verdasco 6-1, 6-2.  Yeah yeah, Verdasco is built for the long haul, but dude is not a straight set 1 and 2 sort of loser.  Carillo was right when she (the only she I’m sure of in terms of her sheness on the tour) said Muryay falls asleep at times.  But look at his shots! He can afford to take a Strawberry Short-blunt to his dome, drag out a lay-z-boy onto the court and sleep the first set away, he’s still gonna be able to overpower and out run and out think… the laziest of Serbs.  Oh yeah, I forgot about that factor; the lazy Serb factor, but you know what, let’s keep forgetting about that lazy piece.  That’s what Muryay did in the second to get over like a fat Scottish rat.

So in between sets Screech cried to his trainer that it was too hot out and that his wittle feet were too heavy and that the big mean sun was shining too much.  Nothing could be done about the sun or his feet so he went out there and got some lucky shots while Muryay took a well deserved break in his recliner with the new and improved Scotch gaurd (boo-yah indeed) feature.

Djoke held and one would’ve thought, listening to Carillo that the tables had turned. Thing is, the tables did turn, but it was Muryay who turned ’em.  I like a dude who can hang back and get lazy for obvious reasons.  It’s why like the Monfis so much.  Fuck this over-hyped way of RAFAizing every point. Dude’s knees are gonna be mashed potatos before supper time. Yeah, yeah, Monfils gets physical out there, but he also concedes points.  If the heat index is too much, kick back., or better yet, chillax (huh Chelsea?).  Don’t cry to the 12 goddamn trainers that come to your non-rescue.  Take a smoke break. Hell, join a union, then you can sit on your ass every 15 minutes.  If you got the chops to cover your breaks you’ll be kissing more trophies than I kiss barbie dolls.  Whoah whoah, let’s reign this pony in.

So Screech was up, what?, 6-1?, 7-1 in the second and blew it?  Muryay came back in the set after losing the set! That’s how hangry this guy is!  I was once so hangry I missed the Arby’s shuttle, ran it down, punched a hole in the gas tank, drank the gas, drove the shuttle on fumes to Arby’s, hopped the counter, bum rushed the kitchen, grabbed a chunk of Arby’s horse meat, lit a match and firebreathed my horse sandwich to perfection.  So you can see Muryay and I have a lot in common.

So what happend? I dunno, I have a baseball game to get to.  Murray came back to make me happy 7-5.  I also thought I heard Muryay apologize for beating him when they came to the net to make out, but that kinda stuff only happens in dreamburgers (ultimate shamefest!). Does this make Muryay number 3?

Oh, but I have to ask before I go, did anyone see that cute black girl do the jackoff dance right before the match! If you taped the match and have that and can upload that tiny snippet of jackoff dance they showed I’d be forver in your debt (like saved my life sty-lee).

Let’s Go!


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