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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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Thunder Tennis

http://sfbay.craigslist.org/sfc/act/1550245671.html

I see some people have more tennis ants in their tennis pants than other people’s pants regarding the upcoming season.

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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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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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