Archive for March, 2011


Have you ever eaten 10 waffles (in a row)?  I just have and let me tell you that Ambien may have a new competitor when it comes to sleep aids, not to be confused with  sleep AIDS which you can catch in your sleep.  There’s only one cure for getting completely fucking sideways on a Saturday night, too, so the 10 waffle method has that going for it as well.  Can’t wait to see what 3 hambrrgrrs does for 10 waffles and my sex life.  Let me assure you that once Monday comes I will be back to my weekly regimen of Flinstone gummy vitamins, broccoli florets and bulgur wheat milkshakes (they leave the thickest, tastiest mustaches).  Where am I going with all of this you might be asking yourself, or your pet parrot? Both excess and whatever the opposite of excess is will serve you well in life (any attempts at moderation will only leave you with track marks up and down your arms and people constantly letting you know there is a tiny bit of, what looks like baby batter in the corner of your mouth from the insane amount of pole smoking you’ve been doing in order to facilitate those back alley heroin overdoes you’ve come to crave so much), BUT excess and whatever the opposite of excess is, is not good for your Swiss forehands in Indian Wells.  That last sentence just felt like some sort of crazed Coltrane free jazz solo I must say.

So Federror (surely not the first to hit upon this “witty” play on words) sheepishly emerged from the shadows to have another awkward interview with Pam Shriver (I find her name funny enough) and admitted that he had no idea he’d be playing for the number 2 spot if he faced Screech in the Semi’s.  It was cute but you could smell that little Swiss lie like a fart in an elevator and it showed on the court as he hit the ball long and into the net more times than I care to look up on the Indian Wells stat chart. Translation: dude was nervous.

Diamonds and Pearls

In my humble opinion (or I.M.H.O. for you all you dorks out there) Federererer is pushing to hard ’cause he knows his dominance is and has been over for a couple years.  It must also be nerve racking to lose 4 times in a row to the douchiest tennis player of all time (I’m sure if Screech wasn’t a tennis player he’d be a Serbian rapper, dropping knowledge about harsh Balkan winters and the day he lost his Yak).  I’m sure all three Screeches have gotten into Fed’s head at one time or another, what with Samuel Powers loud shirts and Dustin Diamonds infamous tub video.  Sometimes the hardest part isn’t losing, but who you’re losing too.

Take for instance the women’s final which is sadly taking place right now.  If Wozniacki (currently up 6-1 and probably kicking herself for allowing Bah-toe-lee to win a single game) loses to Bah-toe-lee, it won’t be so much that she lost, it would be the fact that she should have won in less time that it takes for me to burn my hot dog casserole dinner.  I actually like Bah-toe-lee and her Danny Devito circa Penguin era likeness, but I have no idea how she got her foot in the quarters, let alone her giant ass in  the finals.  She just held then broke and the crowd went bananas, so maybe she will pull it out, but it would take nothing less than a Tonya Harding moment*.

For now I think I’ll retire to my bed (three bean bags lined up in a row) and await lunch time and the epic beatdown Rafa hopefully hands to Samuel “Diamond Dust” Powers.

*up 3-1 in the second I may be forced to eat my words but I will fall back on the fact that the state of the women’s game is more erratic than a trapped tit mouse in a tomato can.



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I seriously just tried to figure out how to use this thing/pressword for what seemed like an eternity before realizing that I was just high, but then realizing again that an eternity has passed since I’ve put fingertips to my overpriced Apple product without the sole intent of jangling my white chocolate ding dong and pink snowballs.  I must say that what’s brought me back from the abyss is not just a yearning to write long, run-on, redundant sentences, but the amazing Indian Wells action.  And with that I must add that Karlovic v. Nadal has just got underway and it appears that Elizabeth Shue is directly behind the Croat’s bent over bung which is indeed exciting if you’re me (impossible) or work for TMZ (likely).  In all seriousness some major things have happened in the tennis world as of late that has brought me back, at least enough to write about it for one post, maybe 4, who knows?  Children and Nazi’s like lists so for all the Nazi’s out there…:

1. I was able to see Raonic in San Jose and he definitely lived up to his John Mayer like tennis abilities and Federerererish good looks.  I may have that backwards but I either way I am pretty fuckin’ crushed out on this kid.  One minute every cucumber in town is gushing over how cool he is on the court and the next minute you hear he took a belt to his coach’s backside in South Africa mid-match. As you might guess I love people who are inconsistent.

2. Last night I witnessed the hair of Ryan Harrison. It was amazing.

3. I was also able to see Monfils in San Ho as the ho’s probably don’t like to call it.  There is a pretty rad story that goes along with that match as he played a young douche from Stanford and brought “his boyzzz” with him.  Monfils had some fun mocking them during the match as I was ready to defend my nappy headed hero to the death.  But alas, the story will have to waith.  I accidentally hit the ‘h’, but decided it matched my dramatic comeback.

4. Murray lost to Donald “Fucking” Young.  Fuckin’ A.  I wasn’t able to see the match due to my new job of working more hours in the day than there are in a day, but I did get a big ol’ granddad chuckle when I saw the tennis line/box score/tally in my New England Journal of Tennis Yucks.  What I would have liked to have seen more was the nuclear meltdown Young undoubtedly had losing 6-0, 6-4 to Robredbro. Love those inconsistent bros.  Can someone please confirm for me that Young did indeed (my new favorite word, your new least favorite word) smash 18 rackets (or racquets if you’re a smug bug) as I dreamed he did last night.

5. The ‘Pove.

5 1/2. There’s a frenchman in the quarters.

6. I’ve missed the one way communication with all three of you who read my site.

And with that I’m back. And with that I must go show my next door neighbor what a real drunk looks like. And with that we’re all back to square one…what a relief.

Happy St. Paddy’s day, amateurs!


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