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Archive for August, 2009

Hot Off The Toilet

The Daily Dump or The Turd Chronicles

The Turd Chronicles

I would’ve crapped my pants if I had enough power to propel my poo through the toilet and into my pants which were lying around my ankles while reading this month’s edition of Inside Tennis.  If you look on the left page you’ll see an ad for the Bryan brothers and their new (*ha!*) band.  I’m sure you can all guesstimate how rockin’ two white doubles tennis players are.  On the scale of most bitchin’ I’m sure they lie somewhere between Graf Orlock and Kowloon Walled City.  Don’t believe me? Check out this awesome video . Apparently 25 seconds is all the camera man could take, and I really don’t blame him.  Those jams were so groovy, how could one not put down the camera and let the music move you? And the ad for their band makes them look like the Mervyn’s (R.I.P.) catalogue boys they are.  They’re standing on a tennis court, and it’s all cracked with weeds coming up and shit. You can’t play on that! You guys are fucking crazy! And they’re wearing all black n’ shit.  I wouldn’t fuck with these guys if I ran into ’em at Crate and Barrel on a Sunday afternoon after my church’s potluck, that’s for damn show.

In other boring ass news, the Williams brothers bought a piece of the Me-Ah-Me Dolphins. I don’t watch football as I haven’t had a lobotomy yet, but I’m sure this is news to someone.

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Cincinnati Chili

Cincinnati Chili

Cool as an electric turquoise cucumber, Roger Federer dismantled the Serbian Brainiac amidst hundreds of gassy Cincinnati tennis fans.  There was a thick, pungent smell of ass in the air as Number 1 calmly took the tennis out of the boy in straights, steam rolling a Cleveland steamer (Cinci style) he had laid on Screech’s chest in the first.  I’m all for breakthrough performances (see Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost, or God in The Bible), but taking Screech over his knee as if he was the 3rd fetus to escape from Mirka’s thigh trap was down right embarassing.  Why don’t we take a closer, more smelly gander at said thrashing, for, if Christianity has taught us anything, it’s that Sunday, if not all days, is a day to glorify violence (and drink wine) in the morning.

I’m not sure what’s stronger, the Cincinnati unemployment rate or Screech’s backhand, but if we took both to the carnival and had them smash that giant hammer to see who could ring the bell something tells me neither would leave the hay-strewn field with that classy, over-sized, neon blue panda bear.  In the beginning Monfils created the heaven and the earth Federer (by the way, at what point is spell check going to recognize the word “Federer” as a word?) introduced his up-the-line forehand to Djoke’s backhand net shot.  Neither was pretty, but one wasn’t pretty in the way that bad used to mean good, and the other wasn’t pretty in that it wasn’t pretty, ala your older sister on prom night.  If I was Federer, which I am, I would’ve chained my forehand to Djoke’s backhand like a filthy hippie chains himself to more filty hippies to protest a large prescription waste management company in Florida. It didn’t go that way so the match lasted 34 tacos.

Did anyone see the sign that guy was holding, sitting at the top of the stadium?  “Roger is _ock!”? At first I thought the ‘o’ was an ‘a’, which of course would’ve been “back.” Not the case my unemployed friend.  I immedieately thought “cock” for some reason, but that wouldn’t make sense no matter which way you smoked it.  So what does that leave us with? Well: Bock, Dock, Jock, Hock, Lock, Mock, Pock, Rock and Sock.  I’m just gonna go on believing that the fan who made the sign is mentally ill and believes that Roger Federer is indeed a sock.

Also, I’d like to make it be known that I’d like to see more shots of slow, old, very white, ladies with very white hair aimlessly searching for their seat while the world’s number 1 tennis player in the world waits for said bag of nearly buried bones to sit her cauliflower ass down.  You just know that shit happens more often than we see, not unlike cum in your IHOP pancakes. Consider this my coming out party.  I indeed like to see old women who can’t walk or see, hold up foreigners. If I can somehow work this fetish into the bedroom.

Was Carlos Bernardes wearing tennis tennis shoes?  Wouldn’t flip-flops suffice. If you think about it, as a chair umpire you’re more closely related to the lifeguard species than you are an actual tennis player, so I say dress like it.  I mean, you’re in a high chair, run with it.  Bring a fucking whistle up there, and a towel, and put some of that sun screen (black people get burned too) on. Put a lot of it on your nose, like when dude from Nerds went to the beach with all his bros to score some grade A wizard sleeve. Hell, I’d even like to see one of those floatable red banana looking thingies that all those 80 year-old botox beauties were running around with on (man)Boobwatch.

I'll be a sonofabitch if dude on the far right isn't a CGI porcupine with a broken neck

I'll be a sonofabitch if dude on the far right isn't a CGI porcupine with a broken neck

I have a lot of shit to talk about off the court ’cause not a lot was going on on the court.  Take for instance this:

In the third game Federer had a sweet dunker to draw in Screech to unleash an even better volley to get break point. At this point it’s 3-0 and I’ve got a case of the turds from last night’s pork fest (which I ATE).

See.

If Federer was a 6 year-old boy and you asked him what the score of the match was his response may have been, “it’s 4-0 and 3 quarters,” or “4-0 and 5 sixteenths.” Like any young lad, eager to get older he makes it 5-0 in no time.  At some point, presumably not while serving or returning serve, Screech changed his shirt which gave us all a glimmer of hope, namely those of us who sweat a lot and feel very self-conscious about it. One for the little, sweaty guy.

The first point of the 7th game had both players more stretched out than ____________________ ‘s (insert ex-girlfriend’s name here) legs at a Louisville slugger hiding contest.  It was so stretched out I was envisioning tennis in widescreen, then thinking of all the milliseconds I’ve missed due to players who’ve run out of the shot, then thinking of taking a dump, then back to the tennis for a little while, then way back to my first girlfirend Lisa Fernandez who would hold my hand, but wouldn’t hold anything else, then tennis again, but it was blury due to all of the man tears in my eyes which were undoubtedly due to me being so fucking manly that my body had to expell the over abundance of testosterone somehow, no matter how ironic.

Fed wins the first set in a toenail biter, 6-1.  If I wasn’t stealing my cable I’d demand my money back from my neighbor who I’m not stealing from my cable from.  Seriously, whenever I hear commercials talking about “my cable provider” I initially wonder how they know Kong, my landlord/neighbor/cable provider.

Screech started the 2nd set strong holding, then breaking Grand Master Turqoise to go up 2-0. He then did something else good and it was 3-0.  Roger then woke up from his slumber, handed the baby walkie talkies to Mirka and raced back to even the playing field, or court in this matter.

I finally take notice of those incompetent commentators when Ion Eagle (tennis’ version of that slimy English guy on Mad Men whose name I do not know as I’ve only recently been forced to watch this show by my gf, along with millions of other penisless boyfriends who begrudginly admit that the show is actually really good), dropped the “it could be over bomb” with Screech down 30-40.   Djoke serves and Eyeon Eagle blurts something about it possibly being over for the Serb.  Goin’ out on a limb, eh Ion? Yah think Federer might win this match, eh?  Federer fucks the shit out of Djoke’s second serve and at the same moment a small bit of love cream seeped from Ion’s incredibelly smelly, bespectacled man vagina. He eventually doesn’t get the money shot he’s hoping for though as Djoke jolds.

Ion declares a break point for screech at 15-30, up 5-4. I’m not a mathematician (I don’t even know what math is really) but
it didn’t matter though as Federer served his way out of a wet, Serbian paper bag to hold at 5-5.

Anyone else amused by the sight of Swiss flags (or Serbian for that matter) being waved in downtown Cincinnati, a town that believes that not only do spaghetti, chili and cheddar cheese belong on the same plate, but that they belong in your mouth at the same *gag* time?

Fed broke Djreech at 5-5, then to no one’s surprise held to win whatever kind of weird looking trophy the city of Cinci had dreamt up while high on chilighetti.

I’ll pass on the review of the Big Bird Beatdown Dementia handed to Sharapova thank you very much.

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