Suicidally distraguht from the disasterous results of this year's crop of invitro Wizards -- not to mention Flemish whores who stole all his absenthe -- late last night Swedish intern August Strindberg retired to his resting place in Norra Begravningsplatsen, wrapped himself in a polio-laced blanket made of wool and Visigoth chesthair, and had a nervous breakdown ...
Thankfully, Jarrko was there to record August's baby screams, infantile laughter, Anglocized babbling and a burping plague of frogs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Now you can hear a desperate man's very private Scandinavian version of severe mental illness UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL with the composition "August's Breakdown (Jarrko's Vale of Cashmere Refix)." We're sure this will be latest dancefloor clearewr on God's Mixtape, right after Jay-Z's homoerotic Bron Bron tribute, "Hand Powder Where It Count (I'm Chaffed)."
We describe new track with very trendish "Ambient Black Metal for Mad Ballers" -- at lesat that's what Jarrko named it when he send a handmade CD-R demo package to the Flingco Sound System!!! (Please sign Jarksa and his perfect vision of DisturboCore to your beautiful boutique!!!!! Uplifting sounds of Wrnlrd is WizzNutzz house band in new Bristol HQ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Straight Outta Norra Begravningsplatsen!!!
You think that was a crushing defeat? Folly!
When a man has awoken in a steamy ditch and studied his ravaged reflection in a pool of his own vomit,and thought, "Hey, not bad" -- such a man is not crushed by mismatched point totals.
Nay, every one of us is born defeated, and crushingly so; our subsequent worldly failings are but reminders our our essential nature. And thus should be received with gratitude! Please sir may I have another! It is some sign of arrogance for one to not feel one's face? DeShawn is merely staring bravely into the numbness of the human soul. I, for one, cannot feel anything above my gullet, below my thighs, or west of my pancreas -- and the region remaining is a hot mess of weeping sores and engorged pustules.
Mighty Lebron was frightened as he fell to earth, fearing injury? We at Wizznutzz have been falling for generations -- hitting rock bottom would be sweet relief. Lebron is but a bit player on the stage of this tragedy, a transient Rosencrantz amid a cast of thousands, of Rods and Gars and Gods.
It was said last Thursday, and shall be said again: Wizards in six!
Check back before tipoff for complete position by position analisis!
But first, a certain intern that we behate to belove just nailed this soiled sheaf of robust violence to the back of a Montgomery Wards greeter!!!!!
Straight Outta Norra Begravningsplatsen!!! Its August Strindberg!
and hes got a mind full of basketball incites made by genius (and full of small holes made by the absinthe)
As I famously once quipped, "If all bacon is crispy...oh damn damn damned whore of a life!" And ne'er tru'er words 'ere spoken. But you know what? Sometimes damned whores are okay! And sometimes life is okay too. And if this passing hope is nothing but a flickering picture-show on the vaginal walls of the succubus, well then get me some popcorn, because this film has won my heart. Yes, awards season is upon us, and these Zardonauts are the wildest romp since "Un Chien Pervis" (1923). All this chatter of Most Valuable Players is but a fig leaf on a castrato. Middle-aged Bryant is little more than an incipient Pharaoh Salieri, mule-driving the Jews (Farmar, Seckbach) to "glory." And Most Improved?Hedo Turkoglu dares speak of personal improvement when he still cannot fall asleep after road games without cuddling "Nicky," his plush donkey sewn from Vlade Divac's used nicotine patches?
Nay, the real winners live and bowl much closer to home, in our own dwindling Chinatown.
Coach of the Year is Dave Hopla, narrowly beating out Mike O'Koren, who moistly collected nut after nut in those bulging cheeks. But Hopla has to be the choice - the man who taught Brendan Haywood to accept his vulnerabilities and squat deeply. Phil Chenier posthumously collects a Lifetime Achivement Award from the Lifetime Network for his Golden Girls teleplays. Sixth Man goes once again, and forevermore, to Don MacLean. Andray Blatche is my pick for Best Actor in a Dramedy. Antawn Jamison: Best Smile. Stay sweet Antawn!!!
Point is, my friends, none of us are fools. We all know how this movie ends.
We have read of Icarus and the sun, we have read of Oedipus and the succulent succubus. The chorus murmurs and our cilia tremble in accord: "The Wizznutzz story is a story about overcoming odds, but mostly not overcoming odds." We can hope otherwise - but hope and five kronors buy you nothing but a five-kronor whore (and, two months later, a case of the Austrian Prickles). Nay, there is hope and then there is the screeching harpy, and the screeching harpy does not lose. The screeching harpy is like Robert Horry, carpetbagging her way to victories - unearned victories, but victories nonetheless. My overcoat grows slightly more soiled, and the wind outside this Merrifield Taco Bell grows cold.
But! At times like this I return to the scriptures. Camus tells us: "I must imagine Sisyphus happy." Schwartz speaks: "In dreams begin responsibilities." Buckhantz proclaims: 'It's not possible! It's not possible - but it happened anyway!"
Brother Albert, Brother Delmore, Brother Steve, do not fail me now!
The not-possible shall become oaken deed.
We will go to Ohio, and we will dine upon Damon Jones's pancreas, and then we will urinate upon his hollowed bloodwarm cadaver! Acrid pissy steam will rise, mixing with the Cuyahoga mist, and the billowing gray clouds will form the mouth of Agent Steinz, and the mouth will speak: "Wizards in six!"
Monday, October 29, 2007
NBA SEASON PREVIEW -- PART ONE!!!!
Wizznutzz intern August Strindberg (now on Wikipedia!!!) spent the offseason leading the Jämtland Vermod in the Swedish celebrity "And Nil" summerball league.
He has returned, having looked deep inside himself and, I think you will agree, unearthed a new personal low!
Straight Outta Norra Begravningsplatsen!!!
As each new NBA season approaches, I spend one long night and day riding my decrepit nag around the outskirts of Norra Begravningsplatsen -- around and around, again and again, until the nag is lathered and I am moreso.
Simpleminded Swedes -- which describes the entirety of my countrymen -- laugh and scoff, hurling accusations of futility. Futility? Futility is their life of milking and plucking. Futility is Ronnell Taylor and Jonas Hayes in an off-Broadway revival of "Mame" (though actually their performances turned out to be something of a revelation to this old critic).
Nay, there is nothing futile about this midnight ride. For when my nag collapses with exhaustion and gout, and I stumble home in the dawn gloaming, I know clarity awaits. The ride was only a prelude. The important thing is what the ride has left behind -- that is, what the ride has left upon my behind. For I undertake this ride clad in my soiled overcoat and nothing more, my buttocks bare against the bristling back of my sandpapery nag.
The friction is quite invigorating and abrasive. And once I have stumbled home and am huddled by the firelight, I peer upon my constellation of sores, a Rorschach in rashes, and in these runes I read THE FATE OF THE NBA SEASON TO COME.
WHAT TO LOOK FOR
Ira Newble. The Wondering Jew continues to wonder: "Why don't I ever play?" ANTI-SEMITISM. The Papists got Sam Jacobsen, and they'll get you too. Beware the prickly-thighed albino! A.K.A. Drew Gooden!
WHAT TO LOOK FOR
David Wesley. Where is he? Seriously, I'm not sure. Perhaps he is in a dank seaside town somewhere, weeping into a bowl of steel-cut oats, still wearing last night's goulash. Or perhaps I am thinking of myself. Be warned, D-Wes -- there but for the grace of God go ye and not I.
WHAT TO LOOK FOR
After an away game in New Jersey, as a prank, on a dare from Nick Young, Dominic McGuire decapitates Gilbert Arenas and mails his head back to Laura Govan in Northern Virginia.
In the words of the bard Buckhantz, "An injustice anywhere is a backbreaker everywhere." Even with our recent misfortune, harmony still reigns -- Kindly Antawn, Hobo Cal, Beetle-Browed Eddie Jordan.
But a foul wind blows off the Cuyahoga. Disturbing rumbles have been belching forth from Cleveland for some time now: Larry Hughes's missing smile; the inexplicable suppression of Ira Newble; Eric Snow.
Too long have we stood silent, allowing the questions to remain unasked, the answers to lurk behind a veil of Pussycat Doll interstitials. But though my tongue is little more than a blackened slug, more adept for producing pus then words -- nevertheless, I must speak! Mine eyes hath seen this before, y mine eyes willath see 'tagain: The Cherokee Trail of Tears; the Bataan Death March; the Island of Dr. Moreau; the Cavs 2007 playoff run.
We are all witnesses, yes -- witnesses to a cruel, repressive regime, a technofascist police state that will stop at nothing in its frantic, hubristic quest for domination. Suddenly it all makes sense! The sleepy, narcotized gazes of once-proud Donyell Marshall, Zydrunas Ilgauskas, and David Wesley -- the squeaky wheel gets the lobotomy. The floppy flailings of Anderson Varejao -- clearly a Frankensteinian experiment gone horribly awry. And poor Ira Newble, an innocent victim of rampant anti-Semitism.
Blame not LeBron! This "King James" is nothing but a puppet prince, a billboard figurehead. Like China's Last Emperor, he is an innocent child shielded from the crumbling realities, a baby-faced opiate for the gullible masses, with only his wet nurse Maverick Carter for comfort. LeBron knows nothing of the suffering beyond his palace walls.
Nay, the blame lays with Cavaliers' owner Daniel Gilbert, a spunky blend of Kim Jong Il, Saparmurat Niyazov, Idi Amin, and J Edgar Hoover. Or is there a force even above him -- perhaps even the mossy, mottled she-succubus herself?
Our recent troubles are nothing compared to the sufferings of these boys in beige. Like the Lincoln Brigade fighting for our Spanish brothers, we must hear and heed the call of duty, of dignity, of freedom. It won't be easy -- it might be ugly -- it'll probably last only four games -- but we have no choice. We are summoned. Onwards, my syphilitic hordes! Our faces will be unfelt, our nuts will sit unharvested, and the child Andray shall lead us to glory.
Like Lawrence Franks first girlfriend, the team is just trying to get over the hump!
But its fun seeing springs first young, learning how to fly. People are talking with hop about how DSong "sees the court" and how Etan 'Grand Mal' Thomas is "a force in the paint" and how Jarvis Hayes is "realizing his potential". It reminds us of the glorious days of Scott Lynns late 90s call-in postgame show, when folks be talking about how Tracy Murray just needs more minutes and Calbert Cheaney showed "fire" and Dana had a different man every night. This kind of talking is the OPTIMISTIC DEMENTIA that happens to THE LONG SUFFERING. Like when people say:
"Im glad i got cancer, it made me appreciate life!" or "Im not going to be delivering Papa Johns forever, Im just one audtion away from the big break!" or "Hip Hop is revolutionary music" or when your son hasnt learned to talk and just stares at the roof all day and as you wipe the drool of his 9 year old face, you announce: "Hes always looking up. Our boy is going to be an astronaut!"
Just a couple days ago the Penny Dreadfuls were chockity chocko with Petit-bourgeois analists stoking smithy's fires of woe and grief. Though seeing this photo of the Slack Pack:
did move my loins - hey FATHEAD can u make me a vinyl wall sticker of these squatters?? Awesome suit Ghitza... something tells me that 9XL Captain Stubing number wasnt off da rack!
Wilbon brought up the possibility of a CURSE. Yes we have had our share of curses, as we have talked about before. And we have flown too close to the sun before. And you know our motto here at wizznutzz wheaton Bureau: "The story of Washington basketball is the story of overcoming odds. But mostly is the story of not overcoming odds." Yes things were sure sad. August Strindberg's Hungarian Suicide Song ringtone seemed somehow shriller than usual. The wiz were suddenly staring down more barrels than Breaker Morant. But a wind of hope has blown through the room with a salty warmth, saltier and warmer than the time Gil shoved a slab of smoked bacon up the locker hand drier. Suddenly Lots of people have good positive attitudes about the Wizards Playoff picture and its new slogan: "The Producers! Now Starring Dolph Sweet Jr. and Brian Austin Green!"
ITS A NEW DAY, THE SUN RISES AGAIN ON MIDDLE-OF-THE-ALPHABET STREET, DARIUS SONGALIA MILKS HIS GOAT, LIFE GOES ON...
FIRST Gil had successful surgery and wrote about it on his blog and on his even more amazing other blog and seems to be in good spirits even though the doctors wouldnt let him control the orthroscopic camera with his HALO paddle. After some rehabbing with a shirtless Eddie Jordan on his moon-bounce G-Trainer treadmill, all the Final Boss guys came by to sign his cast, and Gil got up to lots of pranks to relieve the tension, clownin with the inpatients like it was scenes from the Fat Boys movie 'Disorderlies' that he made Mike Hall go and get from Best Buy.
Gil put ice in bedpans, had wheel chair races, walked around with his hospital gown open at the front, spoke like he wuz a pirate, called his own cellphone and said "Gilbert its me, theres been a terrible accident!", wrote "cut me off" on an unconscious ladys arm, wrote "Lesbian Money" on dollar bills, replaced seizure medication with candy Runts, convinced Awvee Storey to donate a kidney, and smothered James Lang with a pillow!
[timeout: who is telling phil mickelson to wear those silky synthetic tshirts with the super-tight collars? PMix looks like a Manatee that got entangled in a discarded Hefty bag! AND Hey Josh Boone, Cypress Hill wants their ugly white guy back!]
Gilbert doesnt waste any time and on his website invites people to submit "CHALLENGE VIDEOS" showing in 30 seconds or less something they can do thats amazing and unique. The winners get free swag! Gil sets an age limit of under 25 so he cant stuff the entry box with his own videos, but Andray Blatche has already sent in a video that shows him bobbing for pancakes in the bath!
SECOND Beloved Agent Steinz raised the mood roof two of his sweetest posts in a season of posts so sweet it has been like if they wrote the Bible with Lik-m-Aid.
If you r a discouraged millionaire, hanging out with poor folks is such a great pick me up! Thats why Rod STricklnd only travels by bus! Laughter is the best medicine, except it your real poor then medicine is the best medicine!
What a day it was:
-Under the cruel gaze of basketball media, Calvin Booth is usually dismissed as a 'poor man's Kevin Willis' but in the thankful eyes of the less fortunate he got to just be a 'poor mans Calvin Booth'!!
-"Then came Mike Hall, with the dinner rolls." It is not only greatest sentence ever, it is also the title of the new Raymond Carver anthology!
-Susan OMalleys sister Kathy dresses the whole family in Mothering Hut sweats!!!! -Susan OMalley danced! GWiz danced! Steinz why the hell is there no video?????? Stitch those clips together with some livestock safety footage, an Eastern Motors commercial and the last 20 minutes of the Russian dub of 'Jack Frost' and youve basically got "WIZZNUTZZ: THE MOVIE"!!!!
-"Then some kids who called themselves SB, Serious Business, came out and performed three raps, all of which involved the Pollins. Like the first lyric of the first rap started thus: "Yeah, yeah, They say Abe Pollin is such a sensation...."
Got to give big props to SB.. they must be geniuses rappers because we all know there are only 3 words that rhyme with 'POLLIN". One of them is "Josh Brolin' and the othertwo are stenciled on Abe's medical alert braclet!!!!
-Steinz tries to stir a George Folenzbee Babbitt moment out of Mike Ruffin but to no availz:
"I typically don't get depressed"
-Drey Blatche hits on teenage girls, offering to be their prom date. "I bet your boyfriend's dont have one of these" says AB showing off his bullet scar. But a member of Serious Business quipped back "Yeah maybe, but we dont wear braces either!" The Andray "made it rain" with brocolli and headed for VIP!!
Bill Walton talks about how Gil is a real gone cat and how he loved the TAkeover and having jenuwine japes back in the association.
Then he talked about LEGACY. Be careful Bill, legacy isnt always when you think it will be once father time has climbed into bed next to it with scotch on his breath. Ayn Rand had hiNRG ideas about the Legacy of Objectivism, and sure its legacy can be found everywhere, but mostly inside the Applebees on Rockville Pike!!
Then Bill quotes the Machosensual gay militia-porn film "300":
You have to learn how "TO FIGHT IN THE SHADE!!!"
at which point Mike Ruffin stuck his head in a said, "Hey weird, ive got that same slogan engraved on my squirrel knife!"
Then the most moving of things happens. Eddie ""COld" Jordan walks up with his little son, Jackson Von Jordan, and comes up to Bill so his son can meet a legend, and Grateful Red leans down to Jacksons close and fills him with such young pride, spinning kind lies about how his Dad is the greatest coach in the NBA and once upon a time was the greatest player ever and invented dogs and all us old timers sit back and beam and think what goodness there is in the world and what a grand gesture, the young man must be proud and what an impression he will have for rest of his days, while in Jackson Von's small frightened mind he comes away only remembering a terrifying craggy white kaleidoscopic giant who is like a freaky extra from a Roald Dahl book that shall drive him in his older days to write Sadcore poetry about the fundamental cruelty of the natural world and to the sci-fi Karate-intensive fringes of the Nation of Islam.
THIRD Tuff Juice isnt going gently into the good night either! He sets up registration for
Carons Camp has the "THREE Ds" : Determination! Drive! Deer Urine! When a kid spends summer at Camp Caron they get memories, and skin conditions that last a lifetime! Expect all the japes of normal camping: SNipe hunts that end in gunfire, swapping Nair into the Nubian SIlk, scary campfire stories about the couple that found Marv Alberts bloody toupe in the back seat of their Lexus, and moonlight sneaking out to swim across the lake to the Alana Beard Camp only to to discover the girls already makin out with themselves!!!
FOURTH and perhaps most amazingly Wizards Dancer and wizznutzz MYSPACE FRIEND 'CECILIA' post a pick-me-up quote of inspiration on her bio page, and the quote is by August Strindbergs myspace friend: SOREN KIERKEGARD!!!!! "To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose oneself." - S. Kierkegaard
Now motivating quotes are common on dancer pages, but usually they are from books like Marley And Me, or Tony Robbins bestseller "I Eat The Hearts of Fat Children For Breakfast!" or from that bane of girl's high-school yearbooks everywhere: Khalil Gibran (Eurobasketcom webmaster 1883-1931)
But Kierkegaard?!?!?!?! Maybe she picked up SoreK habit from Coach Lynams days, when he would write
This is what is sad when one contemplates human life, that so many live out their lives in quiet lostness . . . they live, as it were, away from themselves and vanish like shadows. Their immortal souls are blown away, and they are not disquieted by the question of its immortality, because they are already disintegrated before they die.
FINALLY... EVEN INTERN AUGUST STRINDBERG IS FEELING LIGHTER IN THE BURLAP!!!!
Straight Outta Norra Begravningsplatsen!!!
Some might think me an unhappy man. And it is true, just three days ago the caverns of Wizznutzz echoed with my despairing yowls -- much talk of cruel fate and pickling brine and wallowing in mine own feces and whatnot. The she-succubus had clenched her loins once again, and prickly darkness was closing in.
But suddenly a spark of light appeared in the fleshy night! And then a trembling fissure spiderwebbed its way down the dank walls! And then a gust of sweet wind blew forth, and my tongue wriggled with the taste of strawberries, and I found myself on a great green hill, back in Norra Begravningsplatsen, but the Norra Begravningsplatsen of my youth, before the decay and gonorrhea, and sheep were frolicking about and I was frolicking with them -- not the frolick of ignorant youth, but the frolick of a man who finally knows his confines, and thus his freedoms as well. Our fate is sealed, brothers -- but the rest is ours.
Onwards, Deshawn -- feel not your face! Onwards, Brown Hornet -- you know how to tie a necktie! Let Etan and Brendan embrace, let Ruffin set his reptiles free, let a thousand Blatches bloom!
And what broke me from my dank prison? Who was my guide into the light? In truth, there were two: Agent Steinz and Master Walton. Says Steinz: Smile. Says Walton: Fight in the shade. Says I: yes yes and yes!
Our thoughts of course turn to mighty Sisyphus. Says Brother Camus: His fate belongs to him. His rock is his thing. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his effort will henceforth be unceasing. He knows himself to be the master of his days, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart.
My overcoat is as soiled as ever...but somehow the soilage is a sort of perfume. They can take it all away -- but they can never take this.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
MOTHERING HUT FASHIONS MAKE IT TO PRIME TIME!!!!
Its not as exciting as when cast of Dallas Reunion show all wore Pervis Ellison jerseys (We LUV u in retired mesh Char Tilt!!!) but still big news!!!
If you have been living under under a rock, then you have definitely seen "BLOG SHOW", starring Jamie Mottram of 'Cold Pizza' and Dan Steinberg of 'Hot Pocket'!!!
Its is part of Comcasts Washington Posts LIve brought to u by the Professionals Professional, Russ Thaler ladies and gentleman, who boasts 3 certifcates of completion from The Chad Bixby School of Cable Broadcastng!!!!!
AT first I thought it was a weird IDea:
like Charlie Mingus famously said,
"hosting a TV show about blogging is like LM(F)AO about Architecture"!!!!!
But "Blog TV" is more infectious than the SARS Express!!!! WE love the bell! "Everytime a Bell rings a blogger gets undressed in the dark!"
BUT EVEN THIS FINE NEWZ CAN NOT LIFT THE MOODS OF WIZZNUTZZ INTERN AUGUST STRINDBERG (1849 - 1912)!!!!
Straight Outta Norra Begravningsplatsen!!!
My overcoat cannot contain soilage of this volume; the sludge of disappointment, regret, and my own man-waste bubbles upwards, frothing about my upturned collar. The shrieks of the succubus...--ah, why even continue?
I should have known. No juice is tuffer than the fresh-squeezed brine of inevitable defeat. And that is the brine in which we shall pickle for the next six months, until fruitless hope worms up its bare Ruffinian head once again next October. ...But until then we have two more weeks of futile spasming, like a still-beating heart torn from a disbelieving man-breast.
Brothers Ike, Duck, and Pervis, soon I shall rejoin ye in Hades.
Look, a soiled overcoat is a fact of life. I get that. I'm not a child. The futility of hope, the dank void of the she-succubus -- I know all about it. So I'm not asking for the plum of the fruit of the edenic bountifying orgasmo here. But a home blowout to the Rosacrucian Blazoo? Seriously? Must fate lower its septic battle-axe with such haste? Can't we at least ooze slowly towards irrelevance, like the olden days? This trapdoor to Hades is a bit abrupt; I prefer the elongated descent, best personified by Rod of Ye Half-Smoke.
Antawn, Father of Antwan, can't you do anything to stop this madness? We questioned you, yes, your defending and offending and everything in between -- but that questioning was the questioning of a child, the curiousity of one who does not seek answers. And now the answers are upon us nevertheless! And they are vile! Which is what we deserve, of course -- but must deserts always come so soon? Cannot our delusion linger at least through the all-star break? Yes, even the playoffs will soon be a sad fantasy, but if what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, shouldn't what comes to Vegas never leave Vegas? And if so, could we not hope to at least arrive in Nevada with dignity intact?
Ruffin is no savior. Bulletproof is but a child. Constable Hayes will soon be on the dole. Donnell is twin to incompetence. Booth is a cavernous jaw. There is nothing to do but mount my steed, a nag too decayed to even summon a bestial flicker in my rotted loins, and ride to Norra Begravningsplatsen, where I may degenerate in peace.
Even the Agent, especially the Agent...I cannot even discuss such sorrow. There is only one glimmer in the damp oblivion of the present future: the Lithuanian Carolinian, Dar-Dar Sinks, tie-dyed champion of the early 90s.
August Strindberg checks in from Norra Begravningsplatsen!!!
Even a dying bird, spastically flapping and fluttering in a dark pool of its own blood, appears to dance with something like joy. So too does my heart twitch deep within the dank cavern of my syphilitic innards. For the Wiz-zards ascend! Of course, their fate will inevitably be that of Icarus, tender flesh singed by the flaming, engorged orb. In the Wiz-zards case, the engorged orb will be the leaking pustule of Andres Nocioni; the tender flesh: Andray Blatche's cream-suited, cream-filled swag. But no matter!
For these are blessed days -- ah, to watch these winged heroes soar, clad in their gold and obsidian pyjamas!
Twenty-six nuts have been harvested to date. How many more can be sequestered in Mike O'Koren's billowing cheeks before the cup runneth over?
How long will the she-succubus permit such joy? My overcoat somehow seems slightly less soiled -- I know it is merely a ruse of her hysteric wiles, luring me to inhuman depths of future degradation -- but nevertheless!
A glorious delusion it is, and I am already late for the Monday night crafting party at Roger Mason Jr's apartment in Rosslyn. Felt and googly-eyes tonight! I shall make a bookmark for my deceased mother. Rog is crafting a yacht-wear outfit for his John Riggins dolly. Brendan wants new socks.
I cannot wait -- I literally cannot! Ah, I have not felt such giddiness since I was drugged by Ripe Sheila, the Slovenian whore.
Harvest on, sweet O'Koren! Fifty nuts shall be ours!
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wizznutzz will soon return from holiday detention this weekend and are gathering incites around our ankles like they were NBA babies (HAppy BDAY IZela!) or NBA Pants (What is this rash Greg Ballard??).
mEANTIME the Wizards R burning faster that a gasoline-soaked monk! If they beat OLand tonite, they will be first DC team in 1st place this late in seazon since that lumbering campionship Meander-thal: the 78-79 Bullets!!!
With division crown wizards get home court advantage = Damon Jones drowned face down in the Tidal Basin!!!
Also last few days to get 20% discount Tees at the maybe not glitchyanymore MOTHERINGHUT!! Tees flying out the door!!! Send us action fotos of you in your new shirts! SOmebody even bought a"foreskin" shirt! send us a foto! Of shirt AND foreskin (for mothering hut "skins of fame" wall!)
Caron talks about his new chef "Christopher" who used to simmer down baked beans for Patrick Ewing during ":The Year of Magical Thinking" aka Ewings stint as assistanmt coach of Les Boullez! We love C-BUTZ and we cannot lie! he sdays he eats "things out of the water" in his new "regime"!!
While we are quietly eating holiday yule meats, Intern Auguist Strindberg never rests. Here is a Letter to City Paper that they refused to run!!!
Attention: Editor Washington City Paper
December 17, 2006
I write to bitterly protest the suggestion, as tendered in the (12/15) "Cheap Seats" column of your forsaken periodical, that I am not real. I assure you that this is, however regrettably, a damned feint. I am real, and I do not require the florid confirmations of your penny dreadful to make it so. I am as real as the astringent sting of absinthe in my throat. I am as real as the waking fatigue that reminds me once more of the woeful stalemate that is my godless enterprise. And I am as real as the desiccated crumbs of breakfast egg that decorate my fetid overcoat. Your charge, on the other hand, is as phony as hope's romance. Your principal source, "James Morris", is a fraud and a rank liar. He claims a lifelong allegiance to Washington's Bullets and its New World Wizards. But I have met this man James, and I have stared into his eyes, and I did not see suffering. And if any man knows suffering, it is either a Swedish man, or a man who barracks for the theatre of cruelty that is our local basketball franchise. Alas, I can count both these whores as my bed-mates. In the care of your halfwit scribe David McKenna, any remaining truths find themselves in the hands of an eager masseuse. And as the late Red Auerbach pressed: "A man can knead all the buttocks he wants, but he's never going to work out the aches of his shame."
August Strindberg Playwright Intern, Wizznutzz.com
A Furious Dispatch From Our Intern August Strindberg!
The frauditity is fraudulent, much like the she-succubus who lures one into her she-void with muttony aromas only to bestow a lifetime of soiled overcoats. I speak of course of this Morris James sham, a rotting embryo of manhood. His incites are blind, his nicknames are nickel-plated, and his overcoat knows not the stench of Strickland. Why, this newcomer carpetbagging Johnny-come-lately could not even hoist a cheeseboot, even if said cheeseboot were to be emptied of cheese.
A flare has been fired and the crystals embedded in our palms are aglow -- all interns must assemble, from all corners of the globe and Silver Spring.
I mounted a steed in Norra Begravningsplatsen and rode like the wind, until the furious saddle chafing aggravated a bed sore. Infection set in and I was forced to stop in Vilnius, where Brother Nesby rubbed a soothing balm (two parts coca, one part bacon grease) into my throbbing loins. I remounted, but my decaying nag broke down in Caucus Mountains and I had no choice but to crawl within her fetid carcass for protection from the harsh winds of the steppe.
It is from within from said carcass that I write now, but August is not vanquished! I have not felt such vim since my youth, since dark Sabrina, she of the bangles and curls and chlamydia! I will soon reach Landover, joining my brethren Jarkko, Dana, Chenier's Ghost, all my mates-in-arms, and justice shall be ours! Our overcoats shall be splattered with the blood of the infidel, and Buckhantz will insert the final dagger.
Ride fast August! Tie up your horse at Spencers Gifts!
Intern August Strindberg has never felt close to anyone in his life -- until tonight. His beloved Steve Buckhantz had a meltdown at the end of the game this evening: yelling about the 5-second rule on the final inbound play, not to mention his conniptions over numerous calls or noncalls that didn't benefit the Bulletz. Plus, Buck's despondent "BACKBREAKER!" scream when Vinpenisity hit the 3-pointer as time expired -- even though there was a whole overtime session for the Wizz to pull out the game -- gave August the second boner of his life. (The first came when his mother, Ulrika Eleanora Norling, placed him in a dry well and washed him with hot bacon fat.)
We would have video excerpts to support Strindberg and Buckhant'z depression, but the game was shown locally on NewsChannel 8, which Wheaton Circuit City bans due to excess frontal nudity during 2004-2005 season, so we have no TiVo tape. Instead, read our old tale of The Brothers Grimm and please view the photo below from the first game of this 2006-2007 season -- this was shot before the game even started!!! This image perfectly illustrates the violent darkness that pervades the mulched souls of the Wizards' annoucers:
Phil is even giving Buck the finger!
Now, on to August's incites!!!!
When they say Christ descended into Hell, they mean that he descended to earth, this penitentiary, this madhouse and morgue of a world -- this phone booth of death. For murder does not come from a phantomous 5-second call on a 7-second inbound -- ah, 7 seconds is all it takes for an atomic explosion or a New Wind to blow our bones to dust.
Nor does sweet release come from a gratuitous man-slap in the paint while in the act of lifting one's balls to the rim -- for gratuity is all a man can ask for when two palms of dilapidated flesh wrap themselves around an orange latex orb, thrusting toward a puckered hole that is small and angry, with no gliding force to ease its transition from light to darkness, to pleasure and pain, such pain, such pain....
For a fleeting second, when the Sciuridae Fearer took a charge from Tha Carter, I felt something long lost. It wasn't joy -- never. Yet, it was not nonjoy. Alas, happiness consumes itself like a flame. It cannot burn for ever, it must go out, and the presentiment of its end destroys it at its very peak.
So, lo, from the depths of my fetid overcoat, I smell this loss more deeply than I do the rat skulls who have nested deep inside my own. From this recondite view inside Norra Begravningsplatsen, I can examine moss and metal, stone and sulfur, penury and punishment. The rotted rhizomes of this loss will spread beneath this team's frozen soil like a viral death march. Let the season end before it ever begins, is it ever thus.
I desiderate darkness, surely, but on my own terms. Joey Crawford, you of the polished pate, the tempestuous temper, the Oedipal eyes -- you have brought such night to my life, such blackened sky to my soul. When a man has come back from so many points that he must use his teammates' hanging digits to properly count the amount, you should pity him, praise his efforts, caress his hands, and clean his wounds like the nurse maiden who once dressed me up in gauze and lit me afire. But, no. Once the ladder has been climbed, and the abacus put away for all is even, a man opens his eyes and sees...nothing. For you, Joeth, are a blindfold for hope in the waning seconds, a desert for the thirsty, a venomous snake for the perpetually bitten. May you be slapped with a double technical in the game of life.
Why is it so painful to watch a person sink, or a team flounder like this morning's poisoned catch? Because there is something unnatural in it, for nature demands personal progress, evolution, and every backward step means wasted energy.
I have nothing to say, nothing of significance, but sometimes a man must speak, if only to wheeze the death rattle, a moist garlicky waft in the face of the she-succubus. The Wizards' season approaches and my heart spasms like a bird with a broken wing. My loins are bestirred, a damp warmth that I have not felt since my Academy days (when scalding tea was often pouredonto my lap).
And, what is this? -- my overcoat somehow seems slightly less soiled. Perhaps it is the bleaching power of hope -- a rare chemical alchemy engineered by the chemical engineer himself, M. Ruffin.
Ruffin is perhaps the best emblem of this preseason, engineering the chemistry among such disparate elements: Constable Hayes, who has momentarily apprehended his criminal nemesis, the fiendish Kneecapper; Andray, young Bulletproof, the victor of a much-anticipated Slava-clash this summer in Long Beach; Awvrwee Storryy, who plea-bargained with the Miami PD, turned State's Evidence, and is now undercover in New Jersey, cozying up to Cliff Robinson; etc.
The Jimmy Olson of these superfriends is a newcomer, an energetic scribe who has not yet succumbed to the inherent futitlity of the written word (a futility I know all too well). I speak of course of Steinz, a nut-harvester supreme who has already provided more scoops than Gar Heard at Baskin-Robbins. Lead on, Brother Steinz! Send Wizznutzz back to the bleak journalistic irrelevancy where we belong.
His Rasta-Romanian accent is OFF THA HOOK. And TOTALLy incomprehensable!!!
Plus, don't forget BONUS INCITES from the pine-ridin' interns over at THE DAILY BACON!!!
PLUS, BIG NEWS!!! Wizznutzz to appear live to offer INCITES on UNCLE BRAM WEinstein's show Saturday April 29 at 12:30 p.m. on WTEM AM-980, the 15th 16th most popular radio station in all of WashingtonD.C.!!!!! Listen live at www.sportstalk980.com
So a few weeks ago Dr Chestnutt from the Kingdom of green Lies known as CELTICS DOOMthrew down a Gilbert vs Pierce challenge to intern August Strindberg:
Zero vs. The Truth. The empty actuality of Being vs. Infinite Change. Put Strindberg on it Wizznutzz, I'll see if Celticsdoom can dig up Heidegger. Investigation #1 - what are the existential ramifications of The Void of Pure Nothingness telling The Principles of Reality to go fuck itself? Is bacon the fundamental component of all matter?
A fair question.
Well this week a ragged looking crow flew through my window, pecked a piece of old egg out of my girlfriends beard, and dropped a torn scroll that contained AUgusts reply:
A lesser man than I -- nay, a lesser writer, for there are none but, and a godlier man, for there are none but -- would perhaps attempt an epigram along the lines of "Paul Pierced the Wiz-Ards."
This would be regrettable, but then, what isn't?
The Blog of the pasty Celts hath called me out, and a response is in order.
But what response can there be to a prayer chucked up by the boy with the thorn in his side? Still bearing the stigmata scars of his youthful nightclubbery, the headbanded disciple Paul was blessed, no doubt. But what good is the favor of the gentle Christ when confronted with Thor's hammer, Loki's trickery, or Freya's terrifying womanly void? Tis a game of gods, and no shamgod (nor scalabrine) shall sniff this playoffs this spring.
Now anyone knows August he likes 3 things:
-watching michael adams dive for balls -vomiting in his seat behind the visitors bench and -downing pints of absinthe n' Tab while holding court at This Mortal Coil in Wheaton Plaza (dont go looking for it, its hidden for good reason) telling anyone who will listen his feelings on Truth and Nothingness. He has told me many times:
1. The world is without truth, ergo paul pierce is without skillz.
2. Gilbert represents man's Will to Nothingness, and from this nothingness (the Universal Snub) he finds meaning.
For yon months now I have been adrift in the snaggly whorls of the clenched pubis, hearing only echoes of ambiguity from our belov’d Wiz-Ards. Amidst the recent Stellar Hiatus, I freed myself from the succubus, via an ingenious plot hinging on an ingenious riddle exploiting the odd confluence of the two Jeffs (Malone and Ruland).
ANYHOO, here I am now, still dampened with the swampy muck of inevitable depravity, momentarily free to delve into aesthetic pursuits, but haunted by the sure knowledge of my impending self-soiling. I wanted to take this opportunity to check in with Sir Darvin and his syphilitic hoards. AND CHECK IN I HAVE NOW DONE. I can make no head nor tail nor hook nor crook of the Wiz-Ards this season. Perhaps confusion, ignorance, darkness—perhaps these are our most natural states.
Clearly Calvin Booth, he of the sad eyes and a jaw full of sorrow—clearly Calvin knows the agony of the known unknown. Young Andray, flee this coil, flee like a zephyr, like the bullet you did not flee before. Head for a land where feelings are not expressed through cakes, where dressing is not French nor otherwise, where Legler is not ever. Leave us to rot in the metaphorical soiled overcoats that lurk beneath our literal soiled overcoats.
Thanks, August! So good to have you back, even if the stench of decay is overwhelming the office and making us "THROW UP IN OUR MOUTHS" (new WizzNutzz slogan!!!). Take two Prozacs with a bottle of bleach and call us in the morning!!!
Intern August Strindberg is back, and naturally he's feeling despondent about many things these days: The Wizards' losing streak, Kwame Brown's hamstring injury, the fetid smell of pig vomit that surrounds his very being.
Norra Begravningsplatsen, the Northern burial place where I left my raped soul in the bowels of Stockholm aeons ago, shares a sign in common with that above the Wizards of Washington's lockerroom door:
Huc venite pucri ut viri sitis (Come hither boys and become men)
Here in Stockholm the sign is but a cruel joke at the expense of the young men laid here by consumption, absinthe, and the black plague. At the MCI Center the sign is but a remnant of the days when Jahidi White ran the lockerroom on a barter system of cigarettes and soiled towels. Rife was the sickness then, when the man they call Salieri Jordan --- a.k.a. the Black Plague --- ran things with a steely hand and a teaching dildo. "Alas, like Gary Glitter," sayeth Salieri, "I was merely teaching these young children, not molesting them with cries of 'flaming faggot' and 'akimbo manchild.' Kwame, all is forgiven, you gaywad."
Salieri, you are filth in a uniform, bile personified, a shite hole from which no soul named Kwame shall ever escape. Have you seen his stat line this year for the Lakers? 5.9 points and 6.2 rebounds in 28 minutes per game. Such waste, such grime! And now God's Son is out for two weeks with a hamstring injury. Too many minutes were sitting on the bench contemplating the sound of Salieri's homophobic squeals, which still resonate in the Manchild's precious head. When those earth-shattering screams esacape the Manchild's ears, they take over all of L.A., filling the City of Angels with the belittling shrieks of the Chicago Devil himself. As Kobe Bryant lofts shot after putrid shot, Phil Jackson just sits there like a pile of stinking mulch, a sour look enveloping his hideous lumpen face as if to say, "Oh, something odiferous just wafted by. Let me meditate on said stench in order to trace its origin. Kwame? Kobe? No.... SALIERI."
Alas, I digress, but what else is there to fill these endless days? Digressions are like a salve for man's ripped apart heart, plugging the wound with tinctures of time. There is nothing else but darkness.
The Wizards are on a three-game losing streak, and perhaps they will overcome this bout of depression by torturing the Denver Nuggets tonight with high-decible readings of Etan Thomas' recent Sunday Source article or Gabriel Garcia Marquez's rancid new biography about my life: Memories of My Melancholy Whores.
Blast you, Garcia Marquez -- liar, fraud, stinkfish! I condemn you to the deepest recesses of hell, where we will meet face to disgusting face, and where I shall have my savage revenge upon you and your tiny chorizo.
Greetings and condolences. I spent the hottened summer awash in fetid pig-vomit. Were I to call that a new experience, I would merely be engaging in wishful thinking. But autumn is thankfully upon us, and thus I re-don my damp, infested overcoat, gray and mustard-stained, entirely unlovely except for -- what's this? behind the lapel? -- it is a cobalt sorceror, toying with an engorged orange orb!
Yes, friends, a new season has arrived. The young savior, his salad days behind him, has packed up the French dressing and is now panning for purple gold. Moses (or Abraham) would not come to Cold Mountain, so Cold Mountain has come to Moses (or James). But not to worry! For incites abound, Calvin Booth rebounds, I observate, Jarvis regulates, Ruffin titrates, Caron Oprahtes, Etan poetates, Jared purses his lips pensively.
And if the Post of Washington is to be believed, we may just have a new Ruffin in our midst, except replacing chemical engineering with magical imagineering. I of course refer to Awvryee Storeyy, the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Here's to ye, young Aywrvee!