Another, Less Buoyant Reading from the Newly Revised King James Bible
Saturday, April 29, 2006
 
There was a man in the land of Verizon, whose name was Eddie, of the Jordans; and that man was perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil.

And there were given unto him fifteen players who cleaved strongly to the rock, and were of wondrous length and athleticism.

His substance also was twenty thousand fans, and three thousand bacon-ready hogs, and five hundred silk robes, and five hundred she asses, and a very great franchise; so that this man was the fifth-greatest of all the men of the East.

And his players went and feasted in their houses, every one his day; and sent and called for their assorted she asses to eat and to drink with them.

And it was so, when the days of their feasting were gone about, that Eddie of the Jordans sent and sanctified them, and rose up early in the morning, and offered Papa John's Individual-Size Ten-Dollar Pizzas according to the number of them all: for Eddie of the Jordans said, It may be that my players have sinned, and cursed God in their hearts. Thus did Eddie of the Jordans continually.

Now there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the LORD, and Satan came also among them.

And the LORD said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Eddie of the Jordans, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil?

Then Satan answered the LORD, and said, Doth Eddie fear God for nought? Hast not thou made a hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land.

But put forth thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face.

And the LORD said unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in thy power; only upon himself put not forth thine hand. So Satan went forth from the presence of the LORD.

And there was a day when his players were contesting with red-clad warriors from a city whose river was once afire:

and there came two messengers unto Eddie, and said, Thy players' hands have turned like unto hooves, and they cannot cleave to the rock; yea, they have allowed the rock to be taken away; and we only are escaped alone to tell thee;

The fire of God is fallen from heaven, and hath burned up the will of thy players to struggle for thy divine purpose, and the fire hath consumed it; and we only are escaped alone to tell thee;

Thy players were eating and drinking wine in the center of Verizon: and, behold, there came a great wind from the wilderness, and one who calls himself king drove all before him, and smote them with daggers; and we only are escaped alone to tell thee.

Then Eddie of the Jordans arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshipped,

and said, Like Steve of the Blakes, naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither: the LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.

In all this Eddie of the Jordans sinned not, nor charged God foolishly; but instead said, Wait a little while, that the contest may be rejoined in two nights, and in the meantime I shall find consolation in espying the tops of bosoms.

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posted by Rex Immensae Majestatis Chapman
Moby Shaq, Part One
Friday, April 28, 2006
 
by pbdotc, with apologies to h. melville

Call me Gilbert. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my man-purse, and nothing particular to interest me at Golden State, I thought I would pimp it a little and see the capital of the free world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before Air Jordan billboards, and bringing up the rear of every shootaround; and especially whenever my iPod mix gets locked on slow jams, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get outside the Beltway as I can. This is my substitute for glock and switchblade. With a philosophical flourish Clyde Frazier throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the 'Benz and the Rock Creek Parkway. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the Dulles Toll Road with me.

There now is your insular city of Tyson's Corner, belted round by strip malls as Michael Jordan's fingaz by championship rings - commerce surrounds it with its endorsements. Right and left, the game takes you toward the cameras. Its extreme down-town is the Soufwest, where New York Avenue is studded by clubs and rife with hoes, which a few hours previous were out of sight amid the crushing commute. Look at the crowds of NBA star-gazers there.

Circumnavigate tha Districk on a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Democracy Blvd to ye olde Cap Centre, and from thence, by Takoma Park northward. What do you see? - Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in NBA reveries. Some in surburban McMansions; some chilling upon the Red Line; some looking over the Washington Post for news from Detroit; some high aloft in the nosebleed seats, others court-side as if striving to get a whiff of rubber on hardwood. But these are all fans; of week days pent up in cubicle and office park - tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the post-game analysis on TNT, and seemingly bound for $2 Pabst nite at the Sign of the Whale. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of three-point land; loitering under the shady lee of the herpes triangle will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the game of basketballs they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand - miles of them - leagues. Caucasians most, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues, - north, east, south, and west of the MCI Center. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of all those balling millionaires attract them thither?

Once more. Say, you are in the country; in some high land of Lakers. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is Magic in it. Let the most absent- minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries - stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you from Minnesota to Los Angeles -- or in my case, from Golden State to DC -- if hoops there be at all in that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment; yes as every one knows, balling and the big city are wedded for ever.

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posted by pbdotc
"LeBron is a Moose"
 


LeBron Summering in Calais, Maine



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posted by Popeye "The Pearl" Duckworth
"Sometimes I Feel Like I Don't Have A Partner"
Thursday, April 27, 2006
 
Even as Caron Butler does it again and again, true WizzNutterss occasionally shed a tear for the man-child we had to set free to get Caron in the fold: Kwame Brown, who suffered the indignity of being traded to Southern California to play for the best coach in the game and with the best player in the game. Of course, Phil Jackson soon agreed with the former best player in the game regarding Kwame's apparently pre-harvested nuts, and we all wondered: Would the change of scenery really help, or would we be back to having tantalizing potential flashed in our faces without any hope of such potential consistently flashing us?

Now we know: All Kwame needed was a superfan. And his name is Flea.

Flea, who played bass on an album I heard so often when I worked for Trader Joe's that I now involuntarily shudder whenever I hear the word "californication," now has a blog on NBA.com, a blog so full of incites that it doesn't allow you to link to individual posts, that you may be better forced to read the entire thing and let the genius really get all over your shirt. Those who lack time to savor it all, though, would be advised to scroll down to the post titled, with the parens, "(An Open Letter to Kwame Brown)" and subtitled "You could be a hero in this town." Already we see the rhyming acumen that has made Flea's songs so popular. But the post itself is a poem even more inspiring. (Some naysayers, citing the title, may insist that this is a letter, but anything with capital letters this few and line breaks this arbitrary has to be a poem. Just ask any unpopular fifteen-year-old!)

Though I am saving the full analysis of this epic verse for my book "Poetry, Thou Hast Met Thy Match: In Your Fat Face, Harold Bloom!", I can nonetheless share with you some of the moments that must have been most inspirational to our favorite French-dressing guzzler.
i know that you are a man of reasonable intelligence
and a man of considerable emotional depth
so i write this letter, leaving none of my thoughts dormant
hoping that i can be of some inspiration to you

It's always inspiring to be addressed by someone who believes you're reasonably intelligent and who has left none of his thoughts dormant!
and you cannot leave the greatness within you unexpressed
it would be a disservice to the universe
unless of course you know in your heart that you would rather be doing
something else and you are only in the nba for the cash
in which case you should go do that other thing
because you do only get to live this life once
and it is a crying shame when people leave their song unsung
but to the pedestrian fan like myself
it sure seems like you were born to tear it up on the hoop
court

Here Flea introduces the motif of "the unsung song" that will come to dominate the poem and subtly asserts that there is another planet deep in the cosmos that is keenly following Kwame's various turmoils. Of more immediate interest is the seemingly awkward but actually deeply meaningful line break between "hoop" and "court." For one thing, the line break emphasizes the word that follows it - perhaps Flea is trying to make Kwame recall his love for the game by invoking another meaning of "court." But "court" as place of judgment also seems apposite here, for it is on the scales of public opinion that Kwame has been found to be lightweight. Flea addresses this in the climactic lines of the poem:
now i ask you please not to take offense at this kwame
i do not pass judgement
but it seems to me that something is troubling you
and keeping you from your own greatness
and you need to work it out

i see you not try sometimes
i see you not go for the rebound sometimes
i see you not get back on defense sometimes
i see you not help out on defense sometimes

and once in a while i see you block a shot get an awesome rebound and
explode to the hoop like a genius and put the ball in the hole with
great gusto

What can you say about how Flea sets up that parallel construction, pounds it home with that undifferentiated repetition, then suddenly flips it both syntactically (the adverbial phrase "once in a while" now preceding the verb phrase) and semantically? TWO-HANDED REVERSE JAM FOR THE BIG MAN! Also, Flea's refusal to punctuate or capitalize anything really comes in handy here in presenting himself as a humble supplicant to Kwame's outsize talent.



The thing is, it's worked: Ever since Flea pled Kwame's case on February 10th, the manchild's been scoring and rebounding more. As we conclude April, which of course is National Poetry Month, Kwame's become a force to be reckoned with as the Lakers try to block out the Suns. Which leads any Wizznutt with one question:

Where the hell were you, Ian MacKaye?

POP QUESTION: Name a Rock-Poet & Player combo you would love to see, a perhaps, a line or 2 of the poem...

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posted by Rex Immensae Majestatis Chapman
A Reading from the Newly Revised King James Bible
 
And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him: and he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,

Blessed is he who wears the number that signifies nothing, for he contend with red-clad warriors from a city whose river was once afire; and he shall rain down threes, and lo their fire shall be quenched;

Blessed is he who body-slams any who claim to be King, for he who claims to be King is a false prophet, and woe betide he who shall call this foul;

Blessed are they who are beset by zebras, for theirs is the kingdom of hardcourt heaven;

Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.

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posted by Rex Immensae Majestatis Chapman
Janky Spanky v. Sheriffs Gonna Gitcha
 

Clinton Portis may not be the most articulate pro athlete, but he is a total trip. While the on field antics of Chad Johnson and Steve Smith grabbed the spotlight of the national NFL media last season, Clinton Portis made a name for himself for being awesome with local media (we all remember Jerome From Southeast).

If you haven't heard his interview with the Junkies' give the podcast a listen. I'm a better person for knowing exactly where CP signed his letter of intent to the U.

(Thanks to General Excellence for sharing the link)

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posted by Popeye "The Pearl" Duckworth
Ahh The Sweet Taste of Ripe Meat From the Bacon Vine
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
 
"Steve Jackson Called You a 'Moose' Bron-Bron, YA HEARD!!!!"

I spent Bloody Saturday bowling for kids and vultures. As the day passed I could feel it in my pancreas that our Bullets (by the way, get used to me calling the Wizards the Bullets, just like it will always be Wild World, People's Drug Store and the Capital Centre) were suffering against the Cleveland Grizzlies.

I took that loss hard and decided to go on a hunger strike and sustained myself on Artic Blast Gatorade Fierce and day old chibatta bread from the Mount Pleasant Seven Eleven for three days. As delirium set in I wandered the streets of the Penn Quarter with nothing but my Jarvis Hayes bobble-head, Stackhouse Carolina jersey, a lawn chair and the moo-moo-moo-moo Chipotle jingle running through my head.

The purge was needed to overcome my self-loathing and answer the questions I had about my superfan status. At three in the afternoon yesterday I staked out a spot on the sidewalk on 7th and G right in front of the Chipotle so that I could feel the aura of the Pollin Center and watch the game on the Jumbotron.

The slow start for the Bullets, and Cold Mountain looking like Mount Vesuvius coming out of the gates, made the opening minutes painful. Alas... With 7 minutes to go in the 1st quarter the sweet smell of bacon wafted up "the Walk" from Clydes and things began to turn around. It wasn't long before Agent Zero smelled the Bacon at half court and with that shot a statement was made, The Assassin is coming for the King like he's Arch Duke Ferdinand. Going into the half I felt alive again and so did our Bullets.

As the wind picked up and the weather got dicey I sadly spent a lot of time chasing my lawn chair, which I didn't adequately fastened to the sidewalk, down 7th Street and into Zengo.

Apparently Bron-Bron has spent some time watching and taking notes on Steve Blake's passing drills video that Scabbers made his Freshmen year at Maryland. He obviously learned a lot, but hasn't quite perfected the behind the back pass into the third row yet, but he was working on it, Gilbert just got in the way.

Twan-Twan's four point play, Caron's clinic in the post and Gilby's awesome steal transition to a nosebone-360-foul-and-one. Oh the joy!!!!

The Bullets resparked the Fiery Cuyahoga and left Cleveland burnin. Now we have the home court Adv of Chinatown. Leave your Thundersticks at home and bring your ham castinets.

Incites:
J-Jeff trimmed back the Amish Paradise beard because he doesn't raise barns he razes barns. I personally thought it was a good look and is great for capturing and saving Kung Pao dipping sauce for later.

Anderson "Sideshow" Varjeous is a joke. He apparently still plays for the Cavaliers and wasn't invited to play with Cleveland Grizzlies, but how great would he look with a beard? Imagine Cree Summer with a beard only much hotter. Although, he played a mean game of Hack-a-Twan?

I Heart Caron. He's a star. Give him some love. send him an email He may write you back. He may ask you out to Drinxxxxx, He may give you his tickets to see Coach Jim Calhoun play Puch in a UConn production of A Midsummer's Night Dream.

Peja Stoyivic has apparently got "Arvydas Sabonis of the Knee" and will therefore remove any chance the Indy Pace had of upsetting the Knots.

Quotables:
Scott Jackson in the Bullets post game show: "LeBron is a Moose"
(I smell a new nickname) He really did say this, and he's absolutely right. I snapped a picture of him during the off-season after his rookie year on a trip to Nova Scotia just outside of Calais Maine... I just gotta find it.

Speaking of Scott. He has to deal with he biggest idiots: "The wizzle looked great against the octopussy, I mean the Clevel-n octopussy go in and out like the octopussy and they (at this point Steve is doing all he can to hold it together) hit from everywhere."
Like I said I missed some of the game running around chasing my lawn chair kite so I must've missed it when Coach Brown called the play to get the ball into a diabolical vixen super spy in the low post.

Whoooaaa sounds like Coach Eddie's got a for real man crush the King: "We're gonna Hug and Kiss him on the way to the basket, nothing flagrant."
I don't know man, if a part of your strategy is having Etan slip the Moose some tongue on his way to the hoop… sounds awfully flagrant to me.

Gil: "It's War"
I really wish this term would leave the lexicon of sports especially when we really are at war, but I'll give President Gil a pass since he is the commander in cheif, a trained assassin and knows more about killing than I do, and he knows where I live... he knows where we all live.

Accouterments:
Brett Favre is coming back because he's just got to break George Blanda's career interception record. He's just 22 INTs shy. Corners and Safeties of the NFC North are all smiles today.

Ricky Williams loves the Ganja way more than football and won't play for the fish this year. If Ricky was smart he'd get the good folks at Balco to breed him some purple-undetectable-sticky-icky-icky but no, Ricky's loyal to neighborhood dope man Fatty Suge. Who's actually a cousin of one of Caramelo's boys.


Speaking of Balco... Barry Bond jacks one, finally. Obviously, the Cream and the Clear work better than whatever product Barry's got flowing through his veins now.

And for the love of Pete, could the Nats please win another home game. Here's a diabolical scheme cooked up by an operative and me:
i think you're on to something about changing around the park in the middle of innings to make it worse for the away team. That sh** would have to be discreet but how sweet would it be if the wall quietly crept up a foot or so when the other team came up. Also, slightly adjust the stadium lights so that they shine into the batter's eyes. And finally, covertly inject poisonous gas into the away dugout and either impair or severely kill them. Home winning % would be guaranteed to go up.

Frank Robinson needs to get on that.

Snakes on a Plane

(Who would win a jujitsu fight the Burger King or King James)

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posted by Popeye "The Pearl" Duckworth



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