Tennisburger Joins KKK Rally (calm down) on Grass Waaaaaay Late, Dog Eats Homework

I find it pretty obnoixious when bloggers apologize for not posting.  It reeks of self-importance and narcissim, as if people actually count on them for something other than the occasional, semi-annual chuckle.  Besides, none of you (all 18 of you) know me, so it’d be easy for me to drop the “I’ve-been-taking-care-of-sick-African-babies-in-Africa-bomb,” or “the “I-stubbed-my-big-toe-real-bad-bomb,” thus erasing any guilt on my side all while increasing your awe of me (*the guy can watch 10 hours of tennis hosted by Brad Gilbert, and still have time to stub his toe?*).  With that rant ranted, it’d be stupid of me to tell you I’ve had a bit of a life lately filled with poon (that’s not on a computer screen), and ice cream cones in the park and hand holding and poon.  Boo-fucking-hoo, right? This doesn’t mean I haven’t been watching, but poon is kind of like a special needs kid (a retard), and needs A LOT of attention. Almost too much attention! You hear me, babe? So I’m not gonna say sorry, ’cause it would make me sound like a butthole, so ummmm, day four right?

Is um, Bondarenko’s tramp stamp a tramp stamp if it’s in between in her shoulder blades and not, ya’ know, in the traditional tramp stamp area?  I mean, it’s Harley Davidson wings we’re dealing with here.  On the other hand her sister’s first initial is in the middle, which I’m torn on.  It’s sweet to have your sister represented on your tattoo, but when your tattoo is a pair of wings, it’s bordering on those sister shots in Playboy.  Whatever. So I watched the first point of the Venus match and had saw enough.  She went fucking bananas on that Bondarenko.  There’s a taco place by my house called El Taco Loco and I’m thinking maybe they could sponsor Venus when she plays on grass.  Maybe wear a little taco hat or sumpin’.  Maybe a hot sauce tramp stamp.  Ooooh, they could put their logo on all of that ridiculous bandage action she’s got on her left leg.  So sans hot sauce tramp stamp Venus shut Bondarenko down, and I started to wonder why I came out of hibernation to begin with. Next!

Llllllleyton “5 setter” Hewitttttt somehow took out Del “where’s the rest of my name” Potro in 3 sets.  I’m so stunned by this one I don’t have any yucks.  Well actually, Del Potro does look like that evil dude in Karate Kid, so you can work that into some type of joke if you’d like.  In case you’re in a time machine and stuck at 6.25.09-10:05am, Hewittttttt took Del Potro to the kiwi shack 6-3, 7-5, 7-5.  I’m officially calling Hewitttt my dark horse…in white.  Mothersucker tore the felt off that ball.  Even Gonzalez let out a little “oooh la la” after seeing his forehand strokes.

Why is Pam Shriver in my grill interviewing old geezer windsor castle sluts and demanding small mexican babies to draw her a picture in their coloring book?  I’d ask this frumpy twat to walk away into the sunset, but I’m not sure England has sunsets, and if they do I’d have to look at her large mom-ass as she walked in the opposite direction from me.  Maybe instead of Henman hill, or Murray mulch (or whatever they’re calling it), they should call it Hamburger Hill, in memoriam of Pam Shriver’s giant grey ass.

Dang it! And now I gotta go.  I’ll be in and out for the rest of the Wimbledon with a bag of half-assed effort. Leave the door unlocked!

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Roddick Loses Beer Bong, Match in the Parisian Dusk

The world grows bigger as the light leaves it. There are no boundaries and no landmarks.  The trees and the rocks and the anthills begin to disappear, one by one, whisked away under the magical cloak of Monfils’ DROPPA.

-Beryl Markham, West With The Night (1942)

I may not be the smartest man in the world. I may not even be smart. But what I do know is that Monfils is your God and you must all bow down to his finesse, his style, and most importantly, his hair.  I survived the day not knowing the outcome despite many attempts by the assholes I choose to surround myself with.  Voicemails thinly veiled with the serious tone of someone who needs to impart some important, yet not un-taboo information that was patiently sitting on my DVR.  Texts that began innocently enough, only to morph into some sort of wannabe clairvoyant mystic looking back into past tennis matches from the days of yore (specifically this day of yore).  Conversations, with wry smiles, and partially cracked smiles, waiting to bombard my eardrums with the latest news that took place half a world away on a tiny tennis court as dusk settled in.  Ah yes, I survived all of you buttholes and your attempts at torment.  I knew when to hangup up my phone, when to cover up the screen of that same phone and when to walk away from somebody’s bumping gums, or quite simply punch them in the mouth.  If you survivied the rigors a tennis fan with a job must put up with from time-to-time, here’s to you! Allez!

6-4, 6-2, 6-3.  That’s how the night ended for Monfils and Roddick.  Although I’m sure Dirty Dick had no idea of the score as he continually had his head down (like most of his dates), pouting about, of all the things, the sun and its incessant insistence on going down, ironically.  Monfils was apparently wearing some type of special contacts which illuminates everything for you as he had no problem picking up the ball.  Or maybe drinking a 12 pack of Natty Ice every night with your frat brahs ain’t to nice on the eyeballs.  I suppose we’ll never know the real answer to this question.  Actually we’ll know right now.  Monfils=good, and Roddick=890 yawns.  One wanted to finish what he started, the other wanted to maybe get back to it another day.  Monfils treated the match as I would treat a bottle of whiskey, or  fun, or my newfangled girlfriend.  Roddick treated the match the way I treat the rest of my boring life, or my giant student loans.  If you don’t understand that joke you’re welcome to come over and look at my beautiful new girlfriend or my stacks of delinquent letters from Direct Loans as both are quite impressive (and stacked).

The match.  Not much to say except Monfils set Roddick on fire, pissed on him, revived him long enough to drag his body over hot shards of Capn’ Crunch, then threw his ass into that obnoxious private plane of his with a Barbie nightlight.  I heard (and illegally taped) a phone conversation Roddick had with one of his old fraternity brothers and have transcribed it for you down below:

Roddick: So I was, like, out there ya’ know, and Monfils was all droppa this and droppa that.

Undetermined Douche: Bro.

Roddick: Yeah way bro.

Undetermined Douche: Well why didn’t you just, like, lay some droppas down of your own. The guy does stand, like, 15 feet behind the baseline.

Roddick: But, brah, droppas aren’t for the faint of heart. And besides, it takes talent, skill.  A feel for the game. Style. Finesse.  You’ve seen me out there.  I’m just a big dumb oaf with a hat that sweats too much.

Undetermined Douche: True.

(sound of beer being chugged through beer bong)

Undetermined Douche: Well why didn’t you hit more angled shots?

Roddick: Have you seen me play?!

There’s more but it just gets sadder (kinda like this post).  There was also talk from Cahill (pronounced in some really irritating way as he’s Australian, like Caw-heeeel) that, and I quote, as you’ll see from the following quote marks, (see I wasn’t lying) “when the sun goes down it dulls the bounce [of the ball, I’m presuming].”  Anyone want a shot at this one?  Cliff Drysdale (the ying to my yang) asked if this was significant, which is funny because A) Drysdale played tennis for many years and B) I’m guessing is not retarded.  Cahill went on in a very annoying voice (’cause he’s Australian) that there is a very significant difference.  There was even emphasis on “very” as bullshitters will often do to persuade the poor sap who has been entangled in their web of lies and bullshit.  How in the shit can the sun, which in my humble opinion is very very very far away (no bullshit here) affect the bounce of a ball, on clay no less? Just talking about this bullshit is making me tired. And hungry. And a little horny.

Men’s semis you ask?  Davydenko v. Gonzo.  Del Potro v. Monfils.  Murray v. Gonz could go either way. I bet  my sister’s jug of pennies on it.  Women’s semis you ask? Azarenka v. Sharapova. Stosur v. Serena.

Yes, RAFA! went down in case you’re really impressive with your “dodging your friends attempts to spoil your matches for you.”  I haven’t the time or the energy to spew about it here as my performance art piece at the old age community retirement home should suffice.  They have turkey gravy on mush for the 4pm Wednesday show. Bring a cane and it’s all you can drink white cranberry juice.  Seriously though Soderling had 61 winners? Monfils had 45 against Raggedy Anne and Andy and that was sick in its own right.  I would venture to say this post has less type-0’s than these guys had winners.  So I mean, c’mon, I know RAFA! hates Soderling due to the buttpicking incident, but you have to admit when you’ve outplayed. Besides, who isn’t stoked that Miami Vice is out early?

I’ll be around tomorrow, will you?  No really, will you, I need to know if I can jerk in the living room.

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