Friday, March 28, 2008

Free Shit Friday

Here at the DR we expect a lot of our readers. We expect you to check in many times a day even though many of us (OK, just me) contributers don't feel it necessary to post with regularity. We expect you to read our oftentimes barely coherent posts, click on an absurd amount of hyperlinks, watch very, very strange youtube videos, comment, not take offense to generally disgustingly offensive shit and dammit if we don't expect you to do it all with a smile. In our egomaniacal minds, we tend to assume that being awarded the privilege to get inside of our morbid heads for a few minutes a day is enough of a reward for all of you, but in a rare moment of clarity today, it occurred to me that maybe you (greedy bastards that you all can be) wanted, nay, deserved more.

I, for one, am not prepared to give away money, or any material possessions for that matter, and I suspect my co-d's here feel the same way. Recent headlines out of New York suggest that offering my body as a prize would be unwise, even in spite of the spectacularly high demand, so I'm left with the only item of substance I have left that could effectively be bestowed upon the masses: pirated, copyrighted music. Every Friday (or thereabouts, let's be honest, I'm not the most reliable of Irishmen, which is quite a statement) I'll drop some bangers on you, and do my best to relate somehow to Sammy D and his Philly sports peers, but if I don't just be happy that I'm not charging. Yet.

Before I begin with the copyright infringement, I'd like to ask you all to take a moment to view the below clip, courtesy of youtube:

Remember that? If not, be prepared to be reminded of it this evening when Shaquille O'Neal comes to town for the first time in a Suns jersey. What Shaq may not know is that Sammy D cares not about what you wear, he cares only about bitch slapping your basketball out of the air and sure as shit isn't changing his ways tonight. Similarly (or not?) the rest of the boys in white, red, black and gold plan to go Globetrotters on the desert dwellers this evening, making it rain in style. In ironic honor of that, the first song of the day is:

Shaq featuring Biggie - "Can't Stop the Reign"

The Phillies begin the season on Monday,taking on the glorified minor leaguers, the Washington Nationals. The Phils had a shit Spring Training run, but there's no reason not to believe Cousin Jimmy's off-season predictions, as he is still batting 1.000 in that department. So, on behalf of the Phightin's, enjoy the following highly uninspired choice:

Main Source - A Friendly Game of Baseball

I really don't have anything to report on the Eagles, other than that they signed a couple of guys this past week that I've never heard of and likely will be cut before the season starts. So, I've chosen the following two songs because I remember wearing an Eagles jersey when I bought the mixtape that they were on back in '95:

Nas - Understanding

The Lox feat. Biggie - Bad Boys

Finally, I really have nothing on the Flyers (or Phantoms for that matter) other than I know a lot of white people play hockey, and a lot of white people watch hockey. A lot of white poeple also live in Fishtown (including our very own Bubak), and therefore this seems appropriate:

An Ode to Fishtown

So, assuming no legal action between now and then, check back next week for more free shit, courtesy of your friends at the DR. Have an excellent weekend, and whatever you do, don't allow me anywhere near a TV set after 3AM. Somebody is bound to get hurt.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Who's Number One?

ElDiabloGrande and Tha Bul Bubak were in attendance during the Sixers rout of the Bulls last night. During lulls in the action, a.k.a. every time Joakim Noah touched the ball, we got to talking about the best halftime shows around the NBA. The following is a list of the best there is, was, and ever will be.

As a young Bubak I was certain that one day I would grow to be a big athletic freak who would be dunking with regularity. Alas, I have been the same height since I was 12 so those hopes were dashed early on.(I have also gained about 130ish lbs since I was twelve, this doesn't help with my vertical leap.) It was my yearning to be an athletic freak and every mans yearning to slam dunk a basketball that led to rise of the first halftime performer on our list:

The Bud Light Daredevils: The Bud Light Daredevils were formed in 1983 and travelled worldwide until 1998. You must understand that these trampoline doting, high flying, slam dunkers came about in an era before every mascot and dancer out there was dunking off trampolines. Nothing beat going to a live game as kid...except going to a live game and seeing three to four grown men doing crazy acrobatics finished by slamming a round ball made of leather through a giant O.

Acrobazia: One of the all time greats. These two men made being gay cool...for the 8 minutes they were doing their thang at center court. What can be said about these men that hasn't already been said about my body, they are strong and attractive. Without further ado, I present you with ACROBAZIA!

Krystal Liu: You might know Krystal as the Chinese bowl flipper, to me she will always be more than that, to me she is the Chinese Bowl Flipper on a Unicycle. That's right people, not only does she ride on a ten foot unicycle, she does it with one foot while at the same time balancing bowls on her other foot that she will flip onto her head. Sounds ridiculous , outlandish and unbelievable right? Well believe it sister!

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

The Things You Pick Up in Federal Income Taxation

Hollywood is often criticized for an extreme lack of creativity and a penchant for re-making, re-using, and recycling the same premises time after time in the relentless pursuit of the dollar until they lose any value they may have had in the first place.
Case in Point.

HBO is often held aloft as the anti-hollywood, a bold, creative production center willing to take on real issues and risks in the relentless pursuit of bringing to the public a meaningful exploration of the forces of society shaping our very lives. Case in Point.

Oh, the hypocrisy.

Ellis: Hey, business is business. You use a gun, I use a fountain pen, what's the difference?

Omar Little: I got the shotgun. You got the briefcase. It's all in the game though, right?

Simon, you shark! Couldn't you at lest throw us a "Maurice, bubby..."?

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Obama Is A Long Legged Mack Daddy

As many of you know, Tha Bul Bubak has not been swept up in the insanity that is Obama Madness. I just do not particularly care for the man. However, if there is one thing that may be able to sway me it is this:

Monday, March 24, 2008

I Only Know One Thing About Him...

It's well-established fact that 'Blue Streak' starring Martin Lawrence and Luke Wilson is amongst Samuel Dalembert's most favoritest films. In fact, it's not out of the realm of possibility that he celebrated his dominating performace against the New Jersey Bruce Ratners Saturday night with multiple viewings aboard the Sixers' chartered SARS bus (although we prefer to assume he celebrated by licking shots in the air while cruising around East New York on a Kawasaki motorcycle). It's also known us through secret sources that Sammy's favorite part of the movie is this:

Why is this in any way relevant? Well, before today, we weren't particularly cognizant of the strange personal proclivities of Celtics PG Rajon Rondo. That was before loyal DR aficianado Aiden was kind enough to hit us off with this article, detailing the somewhat strange way that Rondo spends his spare time. And while Rondo is entitled to do what he wants, we can only imagine how difficult it was to explain to his parents.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Leave You Sleepin' Where the Maggots Be!

Last nights AI extravaganza was truly one of the illest basketball contests that has ever had the privilege to attend. We're still trying to process our thoughts on the whole affair as well as the half dozen Philly Specials we guzzled at our Bob n Barbra's post game victory celebration (we weren't on the list for the Iverson after party at Palmer Social Club which is either very unfortunate or very fortunate depending on how you feel about stab wounds), but until we get to the other side of this hangover here is a picture (or in this case a video, courtesy of DR reader 'lizbeth Honey ) that is worth a thousand words and ten years of all our respective lives. Enjoy:

Monday, March 17, 2008

The Farmer in Wisconsin Dells

Sixers beat Spurs on Saturday with El Diablo, Stand Watie and Chief Naka in attendance in addition to metrosexual cousin of Giuliano. Sammy D signals end of Spurs dynasty with bruising defense on Duncan capped by backbreaking rejection down the stretch. Manu Dunks, Bowen Hacks, Toneee Drives, rest of Spurs ingest Geritol and reminisce about the days they could play basketball without aid from walkers. Reggie Evans continues to be a black man doin' his thang, runnin' for president, hittin' that ass.

Sixers have run their record to 33 - 34 and are on the rise like Big Firm's hormone levels after watching this. Could anything be more satisfying than hitting the .500 mark on Wednesday during a 170 point outburst against the prodigal son aka the artist formerly known as Andre Miller? Like Marv Albert and Joseph P. Goryeb, the Dalembert Report says yesssssssss!!!!

Friday, March 14, 2008

Photo of the Day

I can't really tell what's going on in this photo. Has the kid just slain the bear and is now feasting on its flesh while displaying the head as a trophy? Is it an extremely lifelike Halloween costume? Is he using it as an intimidating key fob to deter would be stick up auteurs from stealing his enormous key? I just can't tell. Enlighten me, O illustrious DR readership! Find me the answer to this most pressing of questions!!!

Also, in case nobody noticed, the Sixers beat the Pistons on Wednesday. Did you hear me people??? The SIXERS beat the PISTONS!!! Which circumstance led to our high school correspondent Willa to compose the following ode to DeShawn Stevenson's beard, sung to the tune of 'My Favorite Things':

Sideburns and whiskers and goatees and 'staches
Choppers and handlebars, full beards and patches,
Hairs that connect from my chin to my ears
These are a few of my favorite beards,

When the razor cuts
When the soap burns
When the scissors chop
I simply remember my favorite beards,
And then I must leave... the barber shop.

Have a good weekend people, and try not to drink too many Bay Breezes!!!!!

Wednesday, March 12, 2008


He would eat nachos, that's what he would do!

Dear Bul Bubak,
Recently I have been pondering some of life's greatest most important questions. Why are we here? Does God really exist? What exactly is in bologna? I have spent much time thinking and reflecting on these questions and have answered all except one. I will not bore you with these answers as I am in dire need of the answer to my one last question - What would do if you had access to a time travel device?

I need Help Bubak!!

Dear Anonymous,
Obviously my first choice would be to go to the future, buy a sports almanac, go back to the past giving said almanac to myself from the past thus making millions betting on sports!!! Alas some douchebag stole my idea when I was 8 ruining my shit. I can't just go and do that after everybody has seen it happen in a movie. No, for Bubak is a greater man than that, Bubak shall do a service for all of humanity!
I would go back to the summer of 1993 and unravel one of the all time great mysteries of the world? How in the hell could Whoomp There It Is and Whoot There It Is be popular after coming out only a month apart? For those of you who were living under a rock in '93 let me remind you that Whoomp was a Tag Team song and Whoot was performed by that powerhouse 95 South. (Coincidentally a road very near my house). First of all, neither of these songs are very good. That being said, whites love a bad song with an even somewhat catchy chorus that they can easily learn. Case in point: The year was 1993, the month October, October 20th to be exact. It was on this crisp autumn night that I first witnessed a sight that would be forever burned into my brain: a 47 year old Jew singing Whoomp There It Is at Veterans Stadium. I was 12 and at the first World Series series game of my life, the Phils lost 15-14, but I will always have that glowing memory of father Bubak getting his Whoomp on. For this reason, and the fact that it came out first, I am partial to Whoomp! Whoot has its pros as well, do not think that I am not an equal opportunity shitty song enthusiast. For one thing, Whoot only has 1 verse and the rest is just filler and chorus. Secondly, the word Whoot is used an astonishing 84 times in this short song. Thirdly, the copius use of the phrase(and I use phrase in the most general of terms)Ooh-e ooo e is amazing and insipiring. So how was it that these two songs came to be embraced by us stupid gringos? If you have $17.40 you can find out for yourself. I wish I had an answer, but until I get up to 88 miles an hour and get my flux capacitor back from the shop, the world may never know.

Department of Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean Jacque Wamutombo

It's possible, even probable, that the video you are about the watch is the most mesmerizing in the history of the so-called. Did you know that if you look directly into Mutombo's eyes you can see the ghost of Orlando Woolridge!!!

Cuzzes in Paradise

I, Big Firm, am fresh off what I hope will become my annual adventure to the sunny shores of Florida. While the white sand beaches (fo reals, them shits is white least in comparison to Margate) are always enticing, and scantily-clad coeds on spring break will forever be tempting, the real draw for me is the Phils. Last year I saw three games, following the team from Clearwater to St. Petersburg and back again. This year, I saw only one. But in my 3.5 hours spent at Brighthouse Networks Field, and the surrounding three days near the Gulf owned by Mexico, I realized that Philadelphians are a rare and incredible breed .

For those who have never been, let me set the scene. It's as though everyone in Philadelphia who you assume is too broke to afford a trip to Florida during prime spring break weeks decides to forego their unborn child's college tuition in favor of grouper sandwiches, bud light, and dip n dots (which by the way are indeed the fuckin wave of the future. I can't hype these little miniature pellets of ice cream up enough. It's as if Alf or some other extra terrestrial being ventured into the ice cream making business while simultaneously channeling my brain for the best flavors of creamy ice. A word to the wise, though: don't wait until the 7th inning to fill yourfavorite team's miniature batting helmet with countless round and delicious treats, as you might get stuck with strawberry...or something equally as unexciting. So put down that brat, delay that super pretzel, and shun frozen lemonade. Dip n Dots is the vatican city of tasty treats). Philadelphians of all ages collect in a shit town about 20 miles west of Tampa Bay, all to watch their favorite baseball players play three innings, sign some autographs, and retire to their condos. But the best part is, amongst these so-called Philadelphians I would honestly say 2% are actually from Philadelphia. You got South Jersey, Upper Dublin, Lower Moreland, Horsham, Norristown, Neshaminy... you might ask how I know this? Well I have an answer for you, my always curious reader: the scary concession guys throwing out peanuts and hawking programs who don't realize their skin is an ungodly orange spend the better part of the game actually yelling out various Pennsylvania counties to encourage fan response. I promise you that "Philadelphia county" got my blood pumping, but I was alone, if not joined by Johari Smith. Yet when "Montgomery County" erupted from the orange man's lungs, half the section went crazy like the Quaker City mummers had just won the fancy competition, and naturally...the other half booed.

So you roll into Clearwater and the first thing you see are Phillies fans. People everywhere sporting Utley jerseys, Burrell T shirts, Mike Schmidt throwbacks. I even saw a Freddy Garcia jersey, and someone making fun of it. Little boys, little girls, cuzzes and cuzzettes. And one thing unites them all: JORTS. Last I checked, jean shorts were not cool. In fact, last I checked, if they didn't have a rapper's face on them, jean shorts have no place in modern fashion. Sure, I wore jean shorts back in the day to compliment my growing collection of Izod and Structure polo shirts. And yeah, there wasn't much cooler than a crisp pair of Nautica denims to throw around my 26 inch middle school waist, but we all must come to terms with the future. That or embrace the notion of others questioning our sexuality and purchase tighter jean shorts and roll them up at the bottom and towards the lower thigh (I swear I'm not looking at you, PSK). If ice cream can, certainly fashion can adjust as well. But the folks in Clearwater, those proud Philadelphia-area cuzzes who want nothing more than an Iggles championship and a white quarterback to lead them there... those people love them some jean shorts. Moreover it would appear that the best way to compliment a pair of Bugle Boy jean shorts is to throw a fanny pack around your waist. Now you tell me: why is it called a fanny pack if every shmuck wearing one has it facing towards the front? Some questions remain unanswered, I suppose. But here I am, parading into the hotel, surrounded by "family," so to speak, yet I'm the only one who didn't get the message. I don't even have a pair of white Reeboks, a salt n pepper goatee, or silver caps on my far too viewable top teeth. It's as though I don't fit in. But all of these growing notions of self-doubt aside, its refreshing to see my people, most of whom can be overheard discussing their hatred for the Mets or their love for egg sandwiches. I'm serious, I heard both conversations...twice.

The hotel and beach scene is a far cry from South Beach. Perhaps the most exciting news is that a softball tournament is being held nearby, and some of the college teams are staying at the Hilton. Quinnipiac University appears to have taken over. I see big leg, strong shouldered broads (looooooook at all these broooooads) everywhere. Most of whom I can't stomach, a few of whom I'd like to magnetize. But in any event, the players, the parents, the loyal fans can be seen throughout the pool area, the beach, and the elevators. The night scene isn't exactly popping. The crowd looks and sounds better suited for the Melrose Diner. But I'm not in Clearwater to bob my head to terrible rap in a bar filled with people I want to beat up. I'm in Clearwater to embrace my home team in a sunny surrounding, pay 5 dollars for a ticket, and perhaps purchase a t shirt with a parrot or beer guzzling turtle on the back. That and eat grouper sandwiches. I don't even like fish, but grouper is advertised as barely tasting like fish. Drown that bitch in some hot sauce and I could be eating tofu for all I know. But grouper is EVERYWHERE. So I ate it. During the course of my stay I ate at a Frenchy's (twice), a Green Iguana, a Cooters, and a Hooters. Tell me I wasn't living the dream!

Rolled up to Brighthouse Networks Field and the first thing I hear is a guy in a Ford Explorer (PA license plate) cursing out a parking attendant (female) for making him go around a few cars while trying to park. Walking to the field you see jews, blacks, whites, (no Asians), some carrying gloves, some carrying beverage belts. I even saw a blind guy. That's how dedicated Phillies fans are: fuck if that guy needs to see Ryan Howard's inevitable homer (he hit one about an hour later) soar over the Radisson Clearwater sign in right field, alls he needs is the sound of that lumber connecting.

After brushing off some rather pathetic attempts by some local high school softball team trying to raise money, and motoring through a collection of old people, I'm in the stadium, right down the third base line, drowning in a sea of jean shorts and sleeveless shirts.

I'm starting to learn a few things: 1) if you have a sleeveless shirt, you are either a) out of shape or b) proudly displaying a barb-wire tattoo or c) both; 2) if you are over the age of 70, you are convinced anyone under the age of 30 has never heard of Jonny Callison or Richie Allen; 3) if you are from the Philly area and have pale ass skin, you pretend that suntan lotion does not exist; 4) if your name is Bill Giles and you are sitting two rows behind me, you don't like when I turn around and take your picture. And you wear velcro white sneakers.

But all of these distractions don't keep me from getting to my seat. 7 rows up from the Phils dugout, the old man next to me is telling me all about his bum knee and looking through what appear to be military issued binoculars. Mind you we are 15 feet from the field. He calls his son's attention to the two Hooters girls serving as honorary ballgirls (I can just imagine the selection system at the restaurant and the excitement each girl must have when they realize they are going to get banged by Burrell, stabbed by Ruiz, punched by Myers, and verbally abused by Uncle Charlie).

No one seems to even notice that in no time, not even two innings into the game, the Phillies are losing 9-1. Kendrick has me wishing for the day he gets traded to a Japanese team, though I'd prefer get back this man in return. How quickly we forget that Cerrano also starred in Japan! But honestly, no one cares that we are getting smoked. Charlie is cracking up, Jayson Werth is signing autographs, J roll has struck out twice and doesn't think twice about his girlfriend farting in jars and preserving them for 2012, let alone failing to capitalize on her venture... all is well in the world of the defending division champs. That is until Scott Rolen steps to the plate, and the house erupts in boos. I swear not a soul was paying attention until that bow-legged Nazi started wagging his bat in that obnoxious manner. Not even fat ass John Daly throwing out the first pitch (there were four first pitches, for some reason) could distract the crowd from their ice filled buckets of Bud Light, but Scott Rolen's at-bat attracts the masses. Like Flintskins sniffing out a teenage girl, or Eldiablo locating a pork spot... Phillies fans sense the presence of their enemies. Thankfully no batteries are thrown (regrettably no grenades were available), and just another sunny day comes and goes.

After the game J roll films a commercial for the United Way flanked by Little Leaguers sporting what appears to be their first respective mustaches. I, too, once thought it was cool to let my whiskers grow. And i distinctly remember thinking that I could grow a full stache in middle school. I also could at that time do simple algebra and run a mile without wanting to die. Those were the days. But the crowd slowly makes its way towards the exits, encouraged to come again, reminded to drive safely, and told to check out Frenchy's famous, a left field stomping grounds that stands as the makeshift Chickie and Pete's of the region. Undoubtedly they too will be gracing the Southwest terminal in Tampa in no time.

So another year passes for me in Clearwater. Last year the Phils went on to win the NL East. Now I'm no scientist, but you do the math: Big Firm in Clearwater 2007 = Phils in the postseason 2007; Big Firm in Clearwater 2008 = Phils in World Series 2008?? You can all thank me later. And just because this story is absolutely absurd, I have included it as well.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Spitzer!? I Hardly Even Know Her

We generally try to avoid issues that don't involve...actually we don't try to avoid any issues at all. Here's a great pic of NY's whore-bunger-in-chief next to NJ's incomparable James McGreevey. Notice the matching outfits! No homo!!

Props to Wonkette, from whence we obtained the photo.

To Bung, or Not to Bung

Let it never be said that the Dalembert Report is intolerant to differing viewpoints (even though we are). Certain parts of our readership have been demanding they be heard with regards to what (they claim) is a significant editorial lapse on our part (they are stupid). Anyway, here is Toof, who claims to be inventor of the verb "to bung".

In response to the DR's flagrantly inappropriate reference to Sammy D's capacity as a bung artist yesterday, this faithful DR reader feels that is imperative that he clarify the boundaries for the proper use of a term he first coined. You won't learn about what is means to bung by looking up bung in the dictionary and you won't learn what it means to bung by watching this. This is because Sammy D is still looking for his first successful experience bunging.

Get Real Sammy D! It aint gonna happen. No Way. Yeah Right. It's just not a skill they teach you in Haiti. However, Sammy D is probably the only player in the NBA who could do this.

So that still leaves us with the question of what it means to bung? The answer is simple. Although a bung artist might be able to do this, only this is the true and proper definition of what it means to bung. Rex Chapman, the Godfather of bung.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Stats, The Real Story...

After spending minutes, MINUTES, doing some in depth statistical analysis I have come to the conclusion that we, TDR Nation, will have a 'Ship in our hands, and a finals MVP center in no time at all. Since his rookie year in the league circa 01-02, our beloved Sammy D has increased his scoring as such: 1.5 ppg, 8.0 ppg, 8.2 ppg, 7.3 ppg*, 10.7 ppg, 11 ppg. In those six seasons his rebounds per game have jumped from 2.0 to 10.0. At this rate, by the end of the 09-10 season Sammy should be averaging about 16 and 14. I can hear you Negadelphians now, "16 and 14? That's aiight cuz, but NBA Finals MVP?" Just wait and see, for all you cuzzes out there I will put it in Fishtown terms: As the season goes on, Sammy gets better.

2005 PLAYOFFS: That season, Sammy averaged 8.2 ppg and 7.5 rpg. In the Playoffs, true greats pickup their game, Sammy is a true great! in the five games series against Detroit, our beloved Haitian sensation averaged 11.6 ppg and 12.8 rpg. When it matters most, you can count on this guy.

Dunking ability: How many NBA center can dunk from the free throw line?

This Very Season: October scoring average 4.0 ppg, November 12.1 ppg, December10.6 ppg, January 12.1 ppg, February 8.1 ppg(An obvious drop in scoring due to Sammy Protesting the ridiculousness of Black history month being in February. Why they gotta get the shortest month? thinks not!)March, 14.2 ppg. The man just keeps getting better with every month, game, minute and second. Sheeiit, he might be average 20 in April.

After spending an entire 287 seconds on this analysis I can say that Sammy plays his best ball on 2 days rest. Not 1, not 3 and definitely not 3+ when he averages just 5 and 7. Yo Stefanski listen up! Play every remaining game on two days rest while simultaneously playing all of those games in March and we should go undefeated and be chilling with Larry O'Brien in no time.

*This average of 7.3 ppg came in the tumultuous year in which Mo Cheeks had just taken over the reins and some adjustment to a new system is a given.

Sunday, March 9, 2008

The Sixers Are The Next Wire

A small but dedicated collection of television viewers, following tonight's series finale, will be without the crown jewel of their entertainment snobbery, The Wire. As a fringe Wire nut, somebody who spreads the gospel but faces harsh condemnation from nuttier nuts when I fess-up to not having seen all of season 4, I lament the end of a dope-ass show; as a Sixers fan I feel honored and lucky to be part of a new cult club, a small army of forward-thinkers soon to be known simply as "The I-Told-You-So's".

The Wire has provided 5 seasons of genuinely groundbreaking writing and acting in comparison to what has passed for television cop drama. It avoided the trappings of primetime television: stock characters, clunky plot devices, and resolution, predictable, satisfying, or otherwise. When it ended tonight with a montage of debatable worthiness, it left many with a huge void. Where will you find such realness on tv? Can it be matched, or even approached?

Eight hours previous to the start of The Wire, a basketball game began in the depressing town of Milwaukee. Over the course of the next 3 hours the Sixers ruthlessly emasculated the Bucks in front of their quiet contingent of fans. They rebounded and pushed the ball with the fanatical joy of Omar robbing the re-up and tossing the stash down the sewer. They passed the ball with equal parts generosity and greed, McNulty playing wingman to Bunk, knowing Bunk will get him laid next time around. We saw Avon Barksdale go to jail and lose his corners. We saw Stringer Bell try to implement a new corporate model and get rewarded with(fuck a spoiler alert for an episode from 3 years ago but there it is for anybody who needs it) shotgun shells in his gut. We saw Marlo rise fast, lose the crown, and return to the corners to rebuild his rep.

The King is always under siege from younger(or as Bul Bubak and myself like to say, youthier), hungrier cats, who crave corners, demand respect, and yearn for a crown for themselves. The Sixers are Michael, the next top dog, who is too young to be taken seriously by established hustlers but too hard to be ignored for long. The Sixers are The Wire, the realist show left, the show you should start watching now before a buddy from work tells you you should.

The Sixers are the next Wire. Only better. Much better. The Sixers ARE real, and instead of blocking search warrants they block lay-ups; they don't steal scrap metal they steal outlet passes, and as they streak down-court like a getaway car pursued by the cops the only ending tends to be predictable yet satisfying: a Sammy D ultra-bung. Mourn the Wire for tonight if you must. Be sad. But shake it off and take heed: it begins anew in new form vs. the Celtics, at the Wachovia tonight at 7pm.

The Dalembert Report is telling you this now so we won't have to say I-Told-You-So later. But we will anyway.

Friday, March 7, 2008

I Got Monkey Tooooooooooooo!

TDR's Los Angeles bureau comes to us with the following bit of Dalembert news, courtesy of an inside source who was staying at the same hotel as the Sixers during their recent west coast swing.

"I was chillin' by the pool around 3pm" relates the source, "when I see none other than SAMMY D putting the moves on a fine young coed-looking jawn over a pina colada daiquiri. She couldn't have been more than 90 pounds for real! Sammy's pimp game was off the charts, and I could see he was impressing said jawn with his charming Haitian accent and command of Shakespearean sonnets. Sammy can really deliver a rhyming couplet! Anyways, I walked past and made eye contact with Willie Green, who simply shrugged in Sammy's direction and rolled his eyes. 10 minutes later, Sam was escorting the young lass up to his hotel room. Keep in mind this was all happening at 3 in the afternoon!"

It's stories like these that make us at TDR realize that our faith in Sammy is not misplaced. Less than 4 hours after this 'interlude' Sam was bunging down hook shots on Chris Kaman to the tune of 11 and 11, and the Sixers were well on their way to their 28th win. As Tha Bul Bubak once said to me whilst rubbing a Smazny Syr across the scrotum of a Czech boy scout: That's How The Players Do.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Ask Tha Bul Bubak...

Due to the length and seriousness of this query, Tha Bul Bubak will only be addressing one question this week.

Dear Bul Bubak,
I have a dilemma that I’m hoping you can solve. It’s somewhat of a moot point by now, but still, it is an ethical issue that I believe calls for a ruling. Here is the situation:

While looking for my car keys I was rummaging through the backpack of my 18 year old daughter. I didn’t find the keys, but I did find a fat little packet of weed. I happened to know that this blue backpack is one that travels everywhere with my daughter, hanging in a careless and casual manner off of her right shoulder. She drops it here, leaves it there, and is constantly asking me if I have seen it. I confiscated the fat pouch of weed. My daughter was sitting on the couch and I waved it in her face. I told her it was neither acceptable nor smart to be out in the world with a fat bag of weed in the backpack you were continually losing. She said something about had I heard of zippers and didn’t I think I was overreacting. I said yes I have heard of zippers and no I am not overreacting. Consider it confiscated. She said whatever.

I was on my way out the door so I stuck it in my pocket.

I forgot all about it until I got home and was looking for my credit card, which I thought I might have stuck in my pocket. My credit card was not there, but the weed was. I took it upstairs. On the shelf of the bookcase in my room I have two boxes where I keep things of value to me. One box sits on top of the other and holds most things. The other is in the shape of a red and blue star and I rarely use it. I put the pouch of weed in the star box, put the other one on top, and considered it safe until I decided what to do with it. Several days went by. My son came over. I wanted him to do something for me that he didn’t want to do. I told him:
"If you do this for me I have something for you. No, not vicodan, but still good."
I went upstairs to get my bribe. I moved the full box and took the top off the box in the shape of a star... It was empty!

"Hey!" I shouted to my daughter, who happened to be in her room. "Did you take that weed?"
"I did," she said, perfectly calm. "You didn’t hide it very well."
"But that’s stealing!"
"It’s not stealing, it was mine."
"But I confiscated it from you—"
"And I took it back from you. You should have hidden it better."

I did not feel that it was in my interest as a parent to tell her that I needed it in order to bribe her brother to do something distasteful to him, but in truth, I felt cheated and wronged. Therefore I decided to write to you Bubak. My question is the following: Wasn’t what I did, CONFISCATE, right? And wasn’t what she did, STEAL, wrong? I will await your advice and wisdom, and if I agree with you, will follow the one and abide by the other.

Having Enormous Lineage Problems!

Dear HELP,
This is indeed a very precarious position you find yourself in. I must preface my ruling by stating that, while I feel for you and the situation you are in, I have been on the teenager side of this and some part of me applauds the audacity she has shown.

One school of thought on this matter says you shouldn’t be going through your daughters belongings. In this case though, you were not spying, but looking for YOUR car keys. I feel like I know you HELP, and as such I have a sneaking suspicion that if you had your druthers you would have rather not found that "fat packet of weed." That does us no good now as you have obviously found said fat packet.

What do we do/where do we go from here?

The fact that your daughter seemed not care when you waived the contraband in her face shows me that there has been a pattern of little to no discipline in the past which has led her to believe there will be little to no discipline in the future. I am not in the business of telling people how to parent, just giving my opinion. (Please take it as such and no more) I say this remembering that after the first time I was caught, every time one of my parents called me I was worried as I was sure they had "caught" me again. Assuming this daughter of yours has older brothers who are/were at the house all the time with their friends who accepted her as one of them, I could see where she would regard weed and/or your finding her weed as no big deal. It is like kids being desensitized to violence after watching RAMBO 4 times.

One thing we can all agree on is that if she really wants to smoke, she will find a way.

That being a fact, please little one, heed your mothers advice: Not smart to walk around with weed in your backpack... ever! Brother Bubak left his house carrying weed one time... he spent the next two years in the Pen. I am not saying you will be arrested if you go out with weed on your person, but at the very least please be careful.

Bribing your offspring with illicit drugs takes me back... all the way back to birthday number 25. We played pin the tale on the donkey, winner receiving... Vicodin.

On to the heart of the matter – Was it stealing when she liberated her weed from you? The answer is yes... possession is nine tenths of the law. Again, I must state that I commend the bravado of your daughter for having the cojones to liberate the weed in the first place. Bravado aside, your daughter is in the wrong methinks. She also probably knows that there will be no consequences for her guerrilla liberation mission. How well you hid the herbage in question has nothing to do with anything here. Your daughter should (sorry Scrillz but it be da truf!) have respected the fact that you confiscated it and chalked that one up to experience. That is what I did, and what my predecessors have done before me. You live, you learn, and you hide better.

Now, to really really get to the heart of the matter: What you did was confiscate. Right or wrong is not my call, if you think you made the right call, you did. What your daughter did do was stealing. Stealing from your parents is always wrong, even if it is mind altering drugs. They pay for everything; food, drinks, beds, couches, bills, TV, video games, vacations etc so you have no right to steal from them.

HELP, I hope that this helps and does not cloud things further.

Monday, March 3, 2008

Life as a House

Unbeknownst to many but oft knownst to all of us, Sammy and the Sixers are making a serious playoff push. Like for real! The Cheeks-inspired running, stealing, dunk-bricking, shot-blocking, free throw-missing, hook shot-airballing, non trey-bunging helter-skelter lunacy of the 2007-08 Sixers is threatening to take the league by storm! Hide the women and children and especially the Celtics.

Shockingly, the recent resurgence has not been led by Sammy D morphing into a late 90s Shaq mixed with an early 70s Baron Samedi. Which is slightly unfortunate.

But this years Sixers, with their pass-first point guard, unassuming go-to guy, and rotation so youthful that a Haitian center with the heart of a 12 year old could qualify as a grizzled vet are threatening to win the hearts and minds of all those who care for the Nibba. Don't get me wrong--the national media as well as everyone not directly involved with the day-to-day running of this blog have no clue that they are about to bear witness to basketball's version of Cuban Revolution.

But all the fat Batista's in Boston and elsewhere are in for a wakeup call. Soon. Like next Monday. And once the ball has been set in motion, the Sixers campaign for the hearts and minds of the citizens of the world will have acquired all the unstoppable momentum of a Japanese Rube Goldberg machine. Stand in the way at your own peril!