Saturday, January 31, 2009

Gettin Real Up in Hurrrr

It has come to my attention that I have not posted on the DR in almost three weeks. There are many things that I don't do over the course of three weeks, but posting on the DR should not be one of them. So what better way to spend a Saturday night than hopping back in the blogging saddle and touching on a smorgasbord of relevant social concerns.

First some business to take care of: Sammy is hurt. I know, it's positively shocking. I, too, thought he was indestructible, an athlete immune from injuries that plague the more common man. But alas, it is only his mind that is superhuman, not his ankle. The man has a bright future working for the Geek Squad, if nothing else. So Elton slides to the middle, and we march forward with Sammy leading from the bench, rather than from the paint. As always, I remain vigilant, and big things await our Sixers as spring nears.

Not quite as important, yet equally as shocking, reality tv has taken a turn for the worse. As some of you might know, it's not beyond the Big Firm to mindlessly tune into MTV and watch trashy white people share a jersey shore house, or a straight guy tell his parents that he does gay porn for a living. I'm even mildly entertained by meth addicts breaking their addiction and fat kids training for a triathlon. But this year's Real World, set in tropical Red Hook, Brooklyn, is taking it too far. For those of you who have better shit to do...well damn you. Let me set the stage- This year's show features an Iraqi-war vet from Gettysburg ignoring his post-traumatic syndrome symptoms in favor of pursuing a most unpromising singing career; a male mormon virgin who wears eye-liner and pastels; a gay dude from South Beach who trains dolphins and wears V neck t-shirts deeper than the massive man's voice in the Trading Places jail scene, or that of Michael McCrary of Boyz II men fame; a meathead from New England; a black jawn with a firm backside and breasts like cassaba melons; and oh yeah, a tranny with a deeper voice than the gay dude's V-necks. A TRANNY! A true and honest slice of American life. In fact, I venture to say this is "realest" house in all the land, J-Roll's humble abode excluded (Martha...even you- and everyone who went to GFS - will like this link). The transgender individual is fresh off a trip to Thailand where her manhood was removed in favor of some lovely lady lumps. Now I don't know about you, but I go to Bangkok for the the clean air and the massages. But I suppose it's also a safe and sanitary destination to interrupt God's work. But my beef with her has nothing to do with her chosen path, her affinity for boy shorts, or even her constant dead-arms. Really, I just feel damn near terrible for the incredibly drunk, coked-up frat boy bankers in New York grinding on her in the bar for all the world to see. Plenty of people want to get on tv. Plenty of people are willing to romance a questionable companion if they think that will get them on the Real World. But I'm not so certain those same people would be eager, let alone willing to freak dance a post-op tranny to impress their friends all for a mere 15 seconds of shine. I see a lawsuit, and/or a suicide complicating matters in the near future for the show's producers.

On a completely unrelated note, when I'm not watching shows that simultaneously uplift my self-image and destroy my sense of worth, I am dodging do-gooders on the street like the Mets avoid the playoffs. It would appear that children - namely international children- need my hard-earned money. It would also appear that not just anybody can throw on a Children International fleece, carry a clipboard, and ask you if you have a free moment. Nope, you have to be abrasive, annoying, and persistent. Let it be known, Children International volunteers sucking money from this already depleted economy who populate the corner near my residence and State Street near my office: Americans don't support their own children, let alone international children! Sure, it's a foregone conclusion that I already can't tolerate you, but why make me hate the poor innocent children on whose behalf you purport to solicit money?! Selfish, I tell ya, straight up selfish.

Now that I'm all worked up, I have nothing more to contribute to this esteemed webosphere. Happy Black History Month to all.


Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Love Me Some Sweet Sweet Internets

For those of you who do not know what the above baked good is, here ya go. What angers me most about this story is not the name of the cookie, but rather the lack of realism. I mean c'mon guy... I have seen my share of drunken black people and none of them have jimmies for hair or gross red gelatinous eyes.

What other facts have the Internet reinforced for me this week? Well for one, Giants fans are a bunch of whiny little bitches.



Secondly: One should not attempt to rape a raccoon no matter how good it feels.

Thirdly: David lee Roth is as I believed fucking crazy and immensely entertaining.

Lastly: As we all know Philly accents are great and horribly trashy sounding. Now the Internet and Judge Judy know it too.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

THE OLD UNIFORMS ARE BACK!!!

No, it's not what your thinking - we're not going back to the early 90's era Shawn Bradley classics. But according to the reputable news organization Sixers4Guidos.com next year we're going back to the '82 - '83 classic throwback jams PERMANENTLY.

Apparently Jeff Ruland went into Mitchell and Ness to buy an authentic Lenard Copeland throwback and saw that the '82 jerseys were flying off the shelves faster than Obama watches on Chelten Ave on Inauguration Day. And then he realized that Sammy D averages like 26 rebounds a game when he's wearing the throwbacks. So he and his homie Moses Malone went up to Brian Roberts' office and told him that if he switched the jerseys back they would personally affix a David Cohen bobblehead to the roof of the Comcast Center right next to the Billy Penn statue. And so Roberts called up the Sixers personally couturiers office at 15th and Lehigh and told them to make it happen, but since they were backlogged with orders for Sammy D's Team Canada uniform they said they could do it but that Royal Ivey would have to share Donyell Marshall's jersey and apparently Ivey has it written into his contract that he doesn't share jerseys. So Roberts figured the change could wait until next year.

Not coincidentally the day this news broke Sammy D had 10 points, 17 boards and 3 blocks tonight and the Sixies went to .500 for the first time in forever.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

GOD-DOG-IT!!!!

Before we move on to other pressing matters, I feel it important to say a few things about the terrible, hideous, malodorous game of football last Sunday, the game that once again confirmed the Birds' reputation as suspect big-game performers.

I made several sucky predictions and will the first to say I have nobody to blame but myself. I drank the kool-aid willingly, and it was the wrong decision. Or was it? How was I to know that Jim Johnson, so often the bedrock of success around here, a man I called a genius only days ago, would be decisively out-coached by a guy named Todd Haley?

How could I have foreseen David Akers taking this special opportunity on this huge stage and unleashing a diarrhea bomb for the entire state of Arizona to smell?

Greg Lewis dropping a pass? Unheard of.

And not even Zoltar could grant the necessary power of intuition required to see Donovan McNabb allowing a 4th quarter drive to end in the other team celebrating like a black man had been elected president. How was I, or anyone, capable of seeing so many unlikely events occurring at once in the same game?

Oh wait, I know: BECAUSE ALL OF THESE THINGS HAVE HAPPENED BEFORE.

Which brings me back to kool-aid, the sweet delicious killer. I chose to drink it knowing Jim Johnson had been outsmarted in big playoff games before, against St. Louis in 2001, Tampa Bay in 2002, and New England in 2004, three gigantic games in which our defense couldn't hold a lead, make a key stop, and/or make a play when we needed it. Yes, the players play the game and are responsible as well, but I have a problem with the scheme when Larry Fitzgerald is running around in single-coverage catching touchdowns.

I gulped it down despite not having any confidence in Akers beyond 45 yards since back when Sammy Dalembert was eating chicken patties and curly fries in the Seton Hall cafeteria.

Greg Lewis is not even worthy of an analogy of any sort. He's like that box of stale pasta that has been in your cupboard for 5 years, that you actually hate looking at but haven't thrown away for some reason. It's old and bowtie, a style you don't like in the first place, and it wouldn't have tasted good even fresh and with the best of ingredients. But there it sits. Every stinking time you open the cupboard. Shit, I just gave him an analogy he doesn't deserve.

Which leads to me Donovan McNabb. I will try to avoid unfair criticism because he did play well. The bottom line is that he had the ball in his hands with a chance to tie the game in the 4th quarter and he couldn't do it. Is it all his fault? No, of course not, but this, similar to the other things listed above, is not a new development. Don has failed so many times now with the game in his hands that it is no longer merely troubling, it is a trend. He's a good quarterback but not a leader, a great athlete but not a great competitor, and most vexing for us Philly fans, a success but not a winner.

So what else did this game prove? It proved that God is racist and prefers white quarterbacks to black safeties. It proved that a stud receiver makes a difference. It proved that the NFL is weird and almost any team can get hot for a month and make the Super Bowl. And it proved that no matter how much "house money" a team plays with, or how little a team has to lose, it is totally demoralizing when the season ends and the Arizona Cardinals have just beaten you.

Onward and upward.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

History Is Made!


Today we awake in a glorious new world where Shane Victorino signs for a measly $3 million and Elton Brand returns to the fold as the higher paid version of Reggie Evans, and where a great and beloved black man can aspire to our nation's highest office!! It's true!! Obama?!? Marlon/Morandini '16!!

Meanwhile the Phightins are trying to play Tim Geithner and bailing out all last years role players with million dollar deals that border on the reasonable. Ryan Madson locked up for 3 years at 12 millions, Chad Durbin for just over 1 mill, and J Dafoe for 2 years at 5. All this seems fair to your DR editors and made even more so by the fact that the big chocolate guy in the middle wants Iverson money just so he can re-establish his rightful place as the strikeout king of the world after a late season hot streak left him just short of the crown. 18 MILLION IS TOO MUCH!!!! We could buy 36 Chan Ho Parks with that money for chrissake!!! And then form them into an uber Chan Ho Park, somewhat similar to Voltron but way more into bukkakke.

But anyway, the Sixies came within a German 18-footer of evening their record at .500 on MLK day. Myself and Ms DiabloGrande were in attendance and I can tell you that the Sixies comeback from 12 down with 2 minutes left reminded me of the North Africa campaign, except in this version General Rommell looks like Jim Carrey and controls a giant Luftwaffe bomber squadron, and Reggie Evans is an undersized power forward with a short wingspan trying in desperation and ultimately in vain to stop the bombs from falling.

But soon we'll be back, led by a resurgent Sammy D who's no doubt spent the long layoff between games perfecting the behind-the-back dribble he used with such devastating effectiveness against Big D.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Junk Food For Thought

As I count down the hours before my warm body must exit its warm cocoon of blankets and enter a world of pain known as 7:15am on a 8-degree day, I have a few thoughts I wanted to share. My ten-year City Year-San Jose reunion is taking place this weekend, in San Jose of all places, hence the early departure time for me Saturday morning. This means I will be away and largely out-of-touch from everything safe and familiar for the next 4 days. Namely the DR. So I felt it was important to leave with a parting note.

First and foremost, how about them Sixers!! As Eldiablogrande and I watched the Sixers run the Spurs outta Philly with a tantalizing combination of fast-breaks, outside shooting, and Sammy D jump hooks, one thing occurred to us: Elton Brand better not fuck up this flow! It feels familiar to how we were playing during the second half of last year, before we signed Brand, and now he's coming back and the team again needs to adjust to having a supposed legitimate power forward. It's not a good sign when the highest paid, most highly regarded player comes back from an injury and NOBODY thinks this is a good thing. By no means have I given up on Elton Brand, I just have had such a good time watching this team run around like the kids from Lord of The Flies that I don't want a parental figure messing things up.

Now on to the Birds. So much to say about this game, none of it particularly original. Still I will try to explain why I think the Eagles will win and proceed to the Super Bowl.

Two camps have set-up shop around these parts. The camp that thinks the Eagles will destroy the Cardinals, and the camp that is stressed out by how many people are in the first camp. A word to the first camp: chill. And a word to the second camp: relax. Chill and relax, they are the same, right? No my friend, they are different, but instead of wasting time delving into that question I will simply segue into some reasons why I am in fact both chill and relaxed as Sunday approaches.

Real Reasons:

1) We have a better team
Sure, that didn't stop Russia from losing to Team USA in Hockey in 1980, or keep the Giants from upsetting New England in last years Super Bowl, but more often than not the better team wins the game.

2) They have great receivers, we have a great secondary
I'm as scared of Larry Fitzgerald and Anquan Boldin as the next guy, but let's think about this rationally for a second. Do we really think Jim Johnson, the genius defensive mind, will let the Cardinals take their one true strength, their passing game, and beat us with it? It's possible Arizona will go crazy and have their way in the air. It's just as possible that our talented secondary will play well, give up a big play of two, but overall contain the Arizona receivers as well as anybody. Personally, I'd bet Jim Johnson will play a lot of nickel defense and dare the Cardinals to beat us on the ground.

3) Donovan McNabb
He drives me crazy he really does. He throws at least five passes a game that resemble Ebby Calvin "Nuke" Laloosh wild pitches. He rarely scrambles and when he does he never fights for extra yards or stays in-bounds. He makes stupid faces. But let's face it: he's better than most everybody else, and when he plays well we tend to win. I think he'll play well on Sunday.

4) Random Freshness
This will sound ridiculous but I think two random guys will make a difference in this game. These two guys missed significant time with injuries and thus are fresher than a detention class at Eastside High and ready to do damage to Kurt Warner. Chris Clemons and Victor Abiamiri are young, have great names, and will do work.

5) Home Field Will Work Against Arizona
As we Philly fans know all to well, playing the biggest game of the year at home isn't always a good thing. If Philly can get an early lead, the collective anxiety and trepidation in the stands can rub off on the home team, making them tighter than a pair of Richard Simmon's spandex while simultaneously keeping the road team looser than public-school teachers at happy hour.


Fake Reasons:

1)Strange Coincidences
Bear with me for a minute: We lost to Tampa Bay in the 2002 NFC Championship game; this year Tampa Bay loses its final game to Oakland, opening the door for us to make the playoffs. We lost to Carolina in the 2003 NFC Championship game; this year Carolina gets killed in the playoffs, setting up the match-up between the Eagles and the Cardinals. Who beat us in the 2001 NFC Championship game? Kurt Warner, that's who. So in a roundabout way each of our past NFC Championship demons has played a part in where we are now. I like the symmetry.

2)The Power of Positive Thinking
Why do I feel so good? I'm not sure I can explain it, but I just remember when the season looked dead, when McNabb was as good as gone and the season in flames, and I feel sorry for anyone who can't simply enjoy what has happened since, where we are now, and most of all the fact that we've gotten an extra month of exciting and meaningful football on Sundays. If we lose we lose, but I will wake up on Sunday and watch my favorite team play, which is more than 90% of the fans out there can say. Besides, we're not gonna lose. And why not??......

3)God
As has been chronicled here before, Brian Dawkins is a righteous man who loves him some God the way Andy Reid loves him some extra mayonnaise. As BDawk has morphed from player to mystical spirit-guide of the gridiron, I have come to put faith in his faith. Simply put, I don't see how God can possibly let BDawk down, and vice versa. I'd like to add that I will be converting to whatever branch of Christianity Brian Dawkins belongs to if the Birds win the Super Bowl.

4)Dreadlock Imposta'
Remember Stephen Spach? He was the dispensable white guy with dreads who was on the Eagles a year or two ago. He cut his dreads and became the starting tight end for Arizona. Last week he got hurt and will miss the rest of the year. I don't know why I'm mentioning this but for some reason I found it worth mentioning. Mostly I dislike white guys with dreads.

5)This is our year
All I really need to see to know this shit is ours is JRoll in a luxury box in Arizona. Show me JRoll and I'll show you a trip to Tampa.


And now I'm off to San Francisco, the land of Bucho, Vid VW, and the Mexican spot that gave me the worst food poisoning of my life. I'll see you suckas next week.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

The Man, The Myth, The Legend

I could trouble you with vivid descriptions of my uncontrollable glee that erupted around 4PM eastern this past Sunday. I could even engage you in a stimulating discussion focused on how damn cold it is here in Chicago. Frankly, I could delve into just about anything that is actually important or relevant to our collective lives (or at least to mine), but I would only be neglecting the attention, admiration and applause a great man of society has come to warrant.

As some of you might already know, the bear in the hug pictured above has proven, yet again, if you think your life is normal, move to NY, join a professional sports team, and watch your good reputation unravel. Or in some cases, get exactly what you deserve.

Word on the street is Eddy Curry, a fine family man who has somehow managed to father four children by the age of 26, is both progressive in one respect, and regressive in another. That's right, the Knicks overweight and heavily tattooed center is a homosexual racist.


First the rather benign remarks. According to his chauffeur - an ex-felon, presumably well versed in homosexuality, torture, and desperate measures - Curry repeatedly called him "white slave", "fucking Jew", "white devil", "cracker", and perhaps most descriptive and to the point, "grandmaster of the KKK." Those are some serious allegations, Mr. Curry. There are plenty who might have beef with generously labeling someone else the grand wizard. In fact, white slave might even be considered offensive. But just when you think his warm flavor of racism sets Mr. Curry apart from other thoughtful athletes, I remind you that reverse racism may be the trend, rather than the exception. So try as you may, Mr. Eddy, it will take more to distinguish yourself as a bonehead idiot who has lost touch with reality.

What is that you say, Mr. Curry? You are much more than a racist? A homosexual demonstrating surefire signs of jungle fever? Well I'll be damned, you are unique! Not only does Eddy enjoy belittling his help, he also savors any opportunity to point a loaded gun at his poor innocent driver's head. And oh yeah, his penis too. Curry "purportedly" had a slight obsession with ejaculating into towels and having his driver promptly clean them so his wife wouldn't find the hardened, mysteriously stiff restoration hardware linens. He also had a propensity for dropping his pants in the white devil's presence, all the while conveniently forgetting to wear under-garments, and blurting out against his will "come and touch it, Dave." Sounds like a bad case of tourette's to me, nothing more, nothing less.


As a man of the law, I am certain of one thing: while Mr. Curry has not yet had his day in court, and these allegations on their face seem remotely far-fetched, he is DEFINITELY guilty. In fact, even if later proved innocent, I'm pretty sure the presumption of guilt overcomes any "proof" his lawyers might produce. After all, they are probably just shifty jew devils too, so they can't be trusted.

A few lessons can be taken from this heroic tale. One, hire a minority, preferably foreign chauffeur. Their chances of fully understanding your disparaging remarks go down drastically when they don't speak english. What's more, rather than let your driver sue you, nip that shit in the bud before such harmful accusations can be made to begin with. Two, ejaculate into kleenex. Easily flushed, soft and abundant, tissues are their perfect, non-traceable accessory. And lastly, if you intend to drop your pants in the company of others, by all means, do so around a jersey-chasing female who might assume the risk of shame in furtherance of an accidental pregnancy, giving rise to that beloved practice known as blackmail. After all, clearly gay people snitch; at worst, women get even.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Don't Hate The Game, Hate the Players (Association)


The DR has an extra special treat for you kiddies on this fine Monday afternoon. Our very own whale-pant-wearing wearing West Coast correspondent Trapped Under Rice has decided to bless the masses with his opinions on JC Romero-gate, Steely Dan, and the Cherry Hill Mall.

According to Wikipedia Cherry Hill New Jersey is 24.4 square-miles. In that 24.4 square-mile plot there are 8 GNC's and 2 Rite-Aids with GNC's inside- that's a GNC about every two-odd miles. If Selig and his cronies want to make an example of J.C. Romero for using legal over-the-counter substances J.C. should appeal on the grounds that he was systematically relegated to a neighborhood where he, had to buy the unnamed substance.

Maybe he went to the GNC in the Cherry Hill Mall? Maybe he wanted to buy Steely Dan's, 'Two Against Nature' album? But because Cherry Hill sucks and there's no more Tower Records there, J.C. couldn't buy the daft duo's 2000 record; discouraged and suffering from CHMB (Cherry Hill Mall Boredom) he was forced to go to GNC where he had to buy the unnamed substance.

Prior to 'Two Against Nature' Steely Dan put out 7 more than impressive records and the Dan is arguably one of the most important American bands. But because they were never praised when they were relevant, the powers that be gave them a Grammy too late for their shittiest record.

J.C. Romero and Steely Dan were dealt similar plights - granted the former was decried and the latter praised - but both at the mercy of their respective institutions. Barry fucking Bonds had no business breaking Hammerin' Hanks long-standing home run record when he's jacked up on roids like Evan Carr catching wreck in the Little Gym. MLB should have penalized Bonds (amongst others) but they didn't and everyone knew the shitty truth. Now MLB wants to put their foot down and punish Romero, a hardworking man in the thankless blue-collar position of being a reliever.

Selig needs to recognize 3 key points:

1. Unnamed substance is over the counter and was allegedly approved by the Players Association, an organization condoned by MLB.

2. That the substance in question is violently more available to J.C. Romero (and any other player living in Cherry Hill for that matter) than most places in the United States.

3. Only a Fool Would Say That.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Rick Rollin

In honor of the Eagles win and advancement to the NFC Championship, there is nothing more appropriate than declaring it Rick Astley time. Enjoy.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Burn, Meadowlands, Burn



I'm a terrible fan. After being severely dismantled by the Ravens in week 12, for at least the third time this season I declared the Eagles dead, extinct, no longer of the football earth. Subsequently, and highly unsurprisingly considering my history of things going the exact opposite of the way I predict they will, our Birds flew high, defied the odds by winning 4 out of 5 down the stretch, and receiving unlikely and unexpected help from the Texans, the Raiders and most importantly from Beanie Sigel (as seen above) whose attendence of the Eagles-Cowboys game resulted in the Cowboys deciding that it was best to either get down or lay down in his presence, providing us the path to the playoffs. Of course, our first round of the playoffs was spent bag-tagging Adrian "Purple Jesus" Peterson and his band of merry purple gentlemen, resulting in our first playoff win since the 2006 season.

On Sunday, we once again face off against the unlikely reigning Super Bowl champs, the much hated Giants, with whom we split our season series, with both games decided by less that a touchdown. This week we return to the scene of the last matchup, won by the Eagles much more decisively than the score would indicate, in the Meadowlands. The Giants are favored, and based upon season record alone they should be, but it is important to remember that we have a history of doing big, great things in that building. It's the last year of its existence, and there is a school of thought out there that we could very well be due for one final fuck you to the New York/New Jersey faithful. That also may be complete nonsense and we could be walking into a bloodbath. This is why I avoid making football predictions.

In that spirit of avoidance, I have defferred to Chief Naka's thorough post below when it comes to matters of the heart and mind as they pertain to outcomes of upcoming games, and instead will combine my limited knowledge of the game of football with my love for acting as if I am a complete expert on the game and offer you fine readers Flintskins' Five Keys to the Game:



Donovan McNabb vs. Eli Manning - Yes, very original, the quarterback comparison. However, this one comes with a slight twist. Most QB comparisons rely on the positives of each and who will have the most weapons come game time, blah blah. Not this time. This game will be won or lost on the ground, so ultimately what it comes down to for 5 and Peyton's special needs brother is who fucks up less. We've seen 5 throw at some feet, and lord knows that he is as capable as any of us at not paying attention during that whole "handing off" thing that he and Westbrook/Buck have to do at times during the course of a football game, generally resulting in turnover fun. However, we've also seen Eli Manning look like Eli Cohen when he drops back into the pocket, between sacks, interceptions, fumbles and general depression he can certainly be a liability back there. Less of a solution than it is an observation, but whichever QB is forced to shift the run-pass balance to the pass is likely in trouble. Not only does it indicate that the ground game has not worked out as planned, and/or they are behind on the scoreboard, but one super bowl miracle pass aside both of these guys have shown us that they do not always play their best when the game is put on their shoulders. Sure, at times they both have, but single elimination playoff games are no time for "maybe".



Brandon Jacobs – With the exception of one 40 yard end-zone finder, our defense shut Purple Jesus down for the most part on Sunday. What is fortunate about that he is seen by many as one of, if not the best RB in the league, and while BJ (editors note: heh) is not given the same consideration he is roughly the size of three Purple Jesus’. Consider our defense is beat to shit from carrying this whole team on our stretch run and this could be a problem. Potentially in our favor is that he has had some lingering injuries and did not practice at all with the team until yesterday, although if lack of practicing is detrimental, that would also apply to B-West, and I would prefer not to go down that road. My solution? True, in week 14 we held Jacobs down, but he was already kind of injured, and then he got injured more so we really didn't see that much of him. So I offer the same advice I suggested to the fucking Cowboys (yes, I gave THOSE ass-clowns advice, which they of course promptly ignored) around this time last year, and that is to force Jacobs outside, as he turns corners like a tank. Yes, he is bigger than most of our linebackers, but any combination of Mike Patterson, Broderick Bunkley, Victor Abiamiri and even Trevor “Identity Crisis” Laws forms a voltronesque Jabba the Hut that my Grand Cherokee would have a tough time busting through. Throw a linebacker into the mix and it could be a long day for Jacobs.



Giants Wide Receivers – This is normally the part where I would discuss how to deal with Plaxico Burress. Thanks to paint chips and the second amendment this has been made easy for me. If you have not yet sent a thank you card to the makers of Glocks for not equipping their gats with dedicated safeties, I urge you to do so and promise you it is not too late. That being said, they do still have a receiving corps to worry about. While it is tempting to assume that because you can’t name more than one, mayyybe two of them off the top of your head that they are not to be worried about at all, may I remind you that the majority of our receivers can’t be named outside of Cherry Hill. I mean honestly, do you know what Jason Avant actually looks like? Because I sure as shit do not, but I do know he has become our best slot receiver since Antonio Freeman and Freddie Mitchell before his first trip to Zinman Furs. My point is, Plax was by far their biggest threat and a certified Eagle-killer, but just because he decided that sweatpants were adequate for pistol transportation does not mean there is no need to worry. The key here is that our secondary keeps doing what it has been doing. Asante had the pick-six on Sunday, Sheldon covered well and should have had an INT, Dawk is possessed and as a result the Vikings for the most part had little production when going to the air. We did shut-down the Plax-less WR's in the Meadowlands in week 14 and considering that there have been no significant injuries or losses in the secondary since, if the Birds D shows up bloodthristy with heads full of game tape they should have a dominant edge. As I mentioned before, this is a game likely to be won or lost on the ground, but you can't run every down, some balls are going to have to go airborne. No homo.



Eagles Offensive Line - There's no real sugar coating this one. Our O-Line is looking like Kim Myers the day after St. Patricks Day. For the most part it held it's own against the Vikings, who despite having two of its D-Line starters injured last Sunday is very good. However, probably not as good as the Giants D-Line. The importance of our O-Line is at least twofold, in the sense that it needs to stop the pass rush of the Giants and it also needs to create holes for Westbrook and Buckhalter. Jon Runyan and Tra Thomas have been playing injured for weeks (if not years), Nick Cole is Shawn Andrews' backup's backup, but has been solid for the most part, along with Todd Herremans and Jamaal Jackson, although Jackson was shaken up a few times last week as well. While Shawn Andrews was finally cleared to practice this week, as of today he has not been activated for the game, and no indication has been given that he will be. So, it will be the same battered five guys that have been in there. Well, again, I don't really know if there is a solution to this one, other than hoping for the continuation of what we've seen thus far. Short of finding Robocop and putting him in Runyan's jersey it looks like a mix of painkillers, steroids and whiskey seems to be the best bet. There really is no downside if you think about it.



Jim Johnson - To go into cliche land, defense wins championships, and Jim Johnson causes offensive coordinators to lay awake, in puddle of their own bodily fluids worrying what is coming at them. Ultimately, if the Birds do win, it is all but guaranteed that this man will deserve the game ball. The things he will have Brian Dawkins do this week might call for children to have their eyes covered during most of the Eagles defensive downs, and frankly it is exactly what we will need. If Jimmy JJ can dial up defensive schemes throughout the course of the day that keep Eli, Jacobs and the rest of them back peddling, it will be hard for the Jints to come away with a W. Just remember, we've all heard countless times that other teams have 'figured" out Reid and Mornhinweg's offense, but have you EVER heard anyone say that Jim Johnson's defenses have been figured out? The answer is no. Trust me. If you claim you have, chances are you were very high. Chances also are that I was with you and can corroborate that you are wrong. I repeat, if Johnson brings the heat, we have a great chance of winning this game.

Those certainly are not the only five keys to this Sunday's game, but five big ones, and more importantly the first five I came up with. As mentioned, I officially refrain from making predictions in this space as NONE OF THEM have ever come true. To avoid tempting fate, I'm not going to make a prediction that I really think is the opposite of what I think will happen either, because I'm far too paranoid for that (thanks decade-plus of weed). At the end of the day, even if I'm forced to turn off the TV midway through the first quarter because it's too ugly to watch anymore, it's playoff football, and there's no better kind. See y'all bitches on Sunday.

GO BIRDS!

Thursday, January 8, 2009

He-Brain and Bra-Heezy



When faced with a crucial decision in life I must decide which lump of anatomy to trust: my brain or my heart. Complicating matters is my gut, which wins two-thirds of the arguments due to numbing hunger. With so much internal tension broiling inside, how am I supposed to make tough choices? In matters of the heart it would make sense to listen to the heart, except my heart is blind to the world and often sidetracked by the loud screaming coming from the gut, only inches away. The brain has some advantages, including memory and the power of analytic thought, but lives so far from the gut that it often operates at half capacity, making tough choices nearly impossible. And therein lies the problem: the heart and the head are so intertwined that it's hard to tell where one stops and the other starts. And yet separating them sometimes is the only way of focusing and getting perspective.

This applies to sports as well. The Eagles play a huge playoff game this Sunday against the Giants, a game full or intrigue, subplot, and genuine rivalry. Instead of making a simple pick of who I think will win, I think it's important to introduce the characters who are battling within my body to decide on the pick. I'm not sure they can agree on the game, but I'm positive they will agree that no strangers will be allowed to watch with them, and cheesesteaks will be consumed ferociously. So let me introduce them now, Mr. Heartless Brain and Mr. Brainless Heart, or for brevity's sake, He-Brain and Bra-Heezy.

The Heartless Brain avoids the trap of thinking too highly of destiny, fate, or outright magic. He sees two teams, rationally determines which is better, and expects the better team to win. He looks at match-ups, sees the major mismatches and has no trouble accepting what these match-ups could mean for his team. Stats are often used by He-Brain as explanation for an opinion. He has watched enough games to know for sure that nobody is guaranteed anything; there is no cosmic law at work making sure fairness and justice will prevail. Sports, like life, isn't fair, and He-Brain isn't particularly moved by this reality, whereas Bra-Heazy is driven crazy by the inequality of the universe, especially how it relates to his favorite teams. He-Brain could pick against his own team in the playoffs, and will. Lastly, he thinks Sammy D is overpaid, should never shoot the ball, and will never be more than a disappointing NBA player.

The Brainless Heart puts far too much stock in coincidence, meaningless media opinion, and superstition. He often feels overly positive or negative for reasons that have little or nothing to do with reality. Losses can be attributed to a player or team appearance on a major magazine cover. A win is credited to a specific seating arrangement among friends in Bra-Heezy's living room, or to an outfit worn during the game. The Brainless Heart has opinions, strong ones, but they fluctuate wildly and are as inconsistent as Oprah's diet. Bra-Heezy is quick to pronounce his team the best, then even quicker to reverse course and proclaim his team is awful, maybe the worst in the league. There is no rhyme or reason to his pattern of thought besides the consistent lack of sound judgment and an inability to deal with basic outcomes and facts with maturity. Bra-Heezy makes ESPN, talk radio, and Dei Lynam possible, yet he is still cooler than He-Brain. He believes Sammy D was sent to earth to led the Sixers to a championship, and inspire a blog in his name along the way.


Now that you know the players, here are their picks for this weeks game.

Heartless Brain: I think the Giants will win because of all the obvious reasons: they are home, they are rested, and they were a much better, more consistent team throughout the year. They can and will run the ball effectively, and Eli Manning is good enough to make plays through the air. The Eagles have convinced a lot of people they are better than they are, but when faced with a strong team in a hostile environment, they will prove to be what they were all year: predictable, inconsistent, and frustrating to root for. Final Score: Giants 27 Eagles 17

Brainless Heart: The Eagles will win this game because of all the obvious reasons: they are the hotter team, they have nothing to lose, and they have playoff beards. Brian Westbrook has always killed the Giants, and will do so again. Expect at least two BWest td's. The team chemistry is flowing like activator through a moist jheri-curl and the beards of unity are just the type of quirky talisman that championship teams need. Asante Samuel is destined to redeem himself for the dropped INT in the Super Bowl, and he will take a pick to the house. And lastly, and most important, the Phillies won in '80 and '08. And the last time the Eagles won a title was in '60. Flip that sucker over, juggle it a bit, and you get '09. Destiny people!
Final Score: Eagles 20 Giants 17



The rest of the DR Staff picks

Big Firm
Head: Eagles 21
Giants 17

Heart: Eagles 24
Giants 13

Bul Bubak(Choosing with his gut I presume)
Eagles 23
Giants 17

ElDiabloGrande(Clearly straight He-Brain at work)
Giants 27
Eagles 20

DVDubs
Head: Eagles 27
Giants 24

Heart: Eagles 87
Giants 0(with every Giant player getting injured or dying)


Flintskins

Citing previous incorrect predictions regarding football and The DR, Finetone excused himself from prognosticating but promised a football post of his own. Classic Bra Heezy.

Stand Watie remains silent.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Women, Can't Live With 'Em, Already Know Everything About Em

Thankfully, Chief Naka has the beat on the Sixers, the very tall Chinese, and the sexiest diapers out there on the streets. That leaves room for me to discuss mindless shit that undoubtedly doesn't concern a soul other than my own. That being said, I push forward nonetheless.

I spent the better part of my Saturday night/early Sunday morning in a roundtable discussion touching on matters of the heart, matters of the penis, and matters of the penis that are clouded by matters of the heart. If that makes little sense to you, then I'm sorry, you were not one of the three (and for a hot one four) DR editors in attendance at the time. What I learned in between lagers, trips to the bathroom, Martha's tasty cookies, and frequent visits to www.bigsausagepizza.com, is quite simply the following: I know absolutely everything there is to know about these creatures of the earth that we all call "women." Everything. I am an expert, so to speak, a modern-day nostradamus in this field. Okok, I know what you're thinking. If there is anyone who doesn't know shit about women, it might be the Big Firm himself. But behold, a brief tutorial.

[A final point worth noting. As gay as this discussion sounds, there actually were women there. One of them left after she killed her fish by feeding it an excessive amount of comfort bubbles - a story for another day - but the other two stuck around and we didn't even pay them for their company]

#1) Women love it when you say "Hay shortie." Especially when you are in a car and they are on the street or waiting for the bus. "Hay shortie" is code for "Hi, my name is Big Firm. Drop your pants if you know what's good for you." Top it off with a creepy hand motion resembling a tiger clawing at its prey, and women practically panty drop on the spot.

#2) If you are British, black, and somewhere around 6'5'', "hey shortie" can be easily replaced by "youz is one sexy bitch," an equally effective technique honed in the streets of Manchester, perfected in the quaker halls of Abington.

#3) Women are crazy. Or some would say, they are cray cray. There seems to be this awful misconception that men will have sex with any girl who feigns an interest in receiving the business. Well that's where they are dead wrong. I have serious standards that will not be sacrificed, even for the most persistent of broads. Come with that peg leg? Get beaten down with your prosthetic. Don't have all your limbs? Get to steppin (or rollin) out my way. Still rockin a retainer? Well you can stick around, who am I kidding.


#5) Women like it when you have sex with them, and promptly turn over and go to bed while they are in the bathroom. See women, much like men, value their sleep and space. When you, as a man, honor that interest...well sir, the reward will be significant, and likely fall sometime in mid-March.

#6) Women are selfish. Selfish I tell you! Let's say you've got one woman and one man, and they are happily in a relationship. Now let's say that man wants to be friends with other women, you know, grab a bite to eat, meet for coffee, engage in harmless pillow fights and innocent tickle wars. But noooo, his woman won't let it happen. Why? Because women are selfish. How else can you explain one woman demanding all of one man's attention? I mean, I dare you to tell me it's because she likes that man. In all likelihood, the bulk of her time is spent complaining about that man. Pusssshaw to that idea. No, it's because that woman doesn't want to share you with your other friends. Call me Noah Webster, because that is precisely the definition of selfishness.

Ok, so I know six things. Frankly, I can't remember the other tidbits of knowledge I generated that night, and contemplated erasing all of the above, but figured that would be shortsighted. Some of you out there might learn something, and at the very least, deserve to know exactly how delicious/multi-dimensional sausage pizza is. I apologize in advance for the shittiness of this post, it won't happen again. 

And oh yeah. If Charles Barkely isn't the president before I die, I will do so an empty man. I love him in the gayest of ways. 

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Oh Yeah....The Sixers


Lost amid the Eagles fuss and the Phillies glorious hangover lies a forgotten entity: the professional basketball team. Yes, the Sixers do still exist and in fact still play basketball games, some of which Sammy Dalembert (barely)contributes in. Therefore they remain worthy of our attention. How have they gone from priority #1 to somewhere between Johari Smith sightings and homeless man bio's in importance here, the very sight dedicated to staying current, diligent, and enthusiastic about them?

A quick list of reasons why we've lost track of the Sixers will hopefully provide some insight.

Reason 1)They suck

Reason 2)They aren't fun to watch.

Reason 3)Their problems seem fundamental and without obvious or overnight solutions, which make reasons 1 and 2 irredeemable.

Reason 4)Sammy D never plays anymore.

Reason 5)The NBA in January is akin to years 3-8 in a 10-year relationship. You got a dog, started a joint bank account, and started dressing the same without even noticing. Yee-ha. Not very interesting.

Still, I'm here to shine a light on The Sixers for a night because dammit they are still my team and doggoneit I remain vigilant in my hope they can turn things around. So let's review last nights 104-96 victory at home against the Artest-less Houston Rockets.

I arrive nice and early with my main man Giul and we make our way down to our seats, cough, cough, on the court. On our long arduous walk down to courtside we walk directly next to Ron Artest, who is not playing tonight but rehabbing an injury of some sort, thus shooting around before the game. He's on the sideline working out ticket details with an usher. I just want to say that this is not a man I want coming into the stand after me. He's large. With big muscles. And he's nuts.

The pre-game warm-ups are always interesting to watch up close. Andre Miller dribbles aimlessly for ten minutes, not talking to anyone, not looking up, giving off the aura of a guy who'd rather be almost anywhere but here. I don't like his barely tempered contempt for the situation.

Sammy D embraces Dikembe Mutombo at midcourt in a joyous exchange of broken English pleasantries. What a moment. A second later Yao Ming shows up and it's literally twenty-two feet of love just a few feet from where I am. I see the future dictators of Haiti, The Democratic Republic of Congo, and China in front of me and damn, it looks and sounds like freedom brewing.

Dikembe's knees and elbows scare me, even where covered in warm-ups. I mention to Giul that should he enter the game and chase a loose ball anywhere near me I will be evacuating post-haste.

We notice an odd looking player on the Rockets with a mohawk. We check out the roster list and try to determine who it could be. We decide on Von Wafer.

The dance team lines up in front of us for the national anthem. Their booty shorts resemble bedazzled diapers and I stare accordingly.

The introductions begin. Five minutes later they are still beginning. This is ridiculous. Just announce the friggin players names and let's play basketball. The one bright spot during the interminable video montage is a clip of my favorite Sixer from 1993-1996, Clarence Weatherspoon. I openly wonder what 'Spoon is up to these days. Giul says he's an announcer. I make it my duty to figure this out by midnight.

The game begins and I'm stunned that A)the mohawk indeed belongs to Von Wafer B)Von Wafer starts for Houston and C)Von Wafer is not a vampire from Dusseldorf.

Two other crucial details you should know about Von Wafer:
1) His shorts are entirely too tight.
2) He's wearing an elastic knee brace. On his ankle. I know it sounds weird but I stared at it for 3 hours and it was real.
*I'd like to remind everyone that other crucial details which were already mentioned but cannot be overstressed are that his name is Von Wafer and he has a mohawk. I make it a point to find out what planet this man came from and what his mission on Earth is.

This crowd could be at a funeral. It's so quiet that I feel awkward. You can hear everything the players are saying, which consists mostly of play calls and defensive switches disguised as unintelligible grunts.

Sammy picks up two fouls in the first three minutes. To the bench he trots. He will not come back this half.

Iguodala is playing well.

Tracy McGrady can't make a shot and looks in pain. Having seen Kobe and Lebron recently I can say T-Mac is not even close to that caliber of player anymore. His beard is also contrived.

Hip-Hop and the Hare Raisers make an appearance and the crowd makes noise for the first time all night. I pose this question: do all these people think they are at a basketball game with intermittent entertainment provided by a lame rabbit mascot and his band of merry ass-clowns, or at a performance by a lame rabbit mascot and his band of merry ass-clowns with intermittent basketball? I'm truly concerned about the future of rooting in this country.

The highlight of the night: with 2:56 left in the 3rd quarter a time-out is called. The ball rolls down the floor towards Sammy D, who is now in the game. He stops it with his foot, kicks it up in the air, and with another deft touch kicks it to the ref. I'm dazzled. Pure athletic brilliance by our boy.

Sammy picks up fouls 3 and 4. He trots to the bench. He will not return.

Marreese Speights dunks the ball. He's playing great. It's also feeling very natural to call him Reese.

Royal Ivey wears New Balance sneakers.

Von Wafer has scored in double digits. Who is this freak?

During a time-out in the 4th quarter they play a video montage with Mass Appeal by Gang Starr as the music. I'm impressed. They follow it up with Montell Jordan. Well done.

The most terrible person in the world is sitting behind us spewing negative garbage at Sixers players, specifically Iguodala and Andre Miller. This guy is a caricature of an imbecilic Philly fan. It's almost fake how awful he is. Plus he has a ponytail, and a voice that could substitute for an alarm clock buzzer. Seriously, this is the worst person ever.

Sixers pull ahead and finish strong. McGrady can't make a shot. Yao stays on the bench in the 4th quarter. So does the Rockets best player tonight, Von Wafer.

We win.

Sammy, optimistic and joyous as ever, takes part in the post-game huddle at center court. I don't have the guts to tell him about the DR.

A Few Words About Brian



I could write pages about how unacceptable the recent DR posting drought is, or about how much I hate the once friendly sight of the animated detective who peered dismissively at all of us the past two weeks. I've considered a 2008 Year in Review. I've pondered a 2009 Predictions post. I've chewed and spit out the misguided idea of covering the Jet Travolta tragedy. I've mulled, and continue to mull, the post about Andy Reid's beard that obviously needs to get written sometime this week. So many topics remain in play, and so many great post ideas are there to be tackled, and hopefully will be. But in the end I'm here with something as unoriginal as washed-up celebs on reality tv and yet as inspiring as washed-up celebs on reality tv singing self-penned love songs as awkward as this.* I'm giving you a few simple words concerning the brilliance of two Brians, Dawkins and Westbrook, my two favorite Eagles.

BDawk:
While lounging in my living room this evening, me and my roommate passed the time by smoking the video crack pipe known as youtube. Barry Sanders. Walter Payton. Buddy's Watching You. It went on and on. Then he found a video I had never seen, a profile of BDawk on NFL Films, in which Steve Sabol interviews #20 in-between amazing clips of Dawkins speaking in tongues to the football during warm-ups, delivering highly motivational speeches to his teammates, and saying the word doggone a lot. But there was one clip that nearly made me cry. It was during a Redskins game last season, a game in which Dawkins was miked-up. He hits a guy head first, goes down, and almost immediately you can hear him crying. Not because he's hurt, though I'm sure his neck was mostly broken. He's crying because he knows he will have to leave the game, and the thought of leaving the field fills his Wolverine heart with anguish.

Brian Dawkins is no longer the player he was several years ago, and clearly not what he used to be, that is, the best safety in the NFL. But it doesn't matter. He's more than that. He's the leader who can lift the rest of the team with his sheer intensity, ginormous heart, and trusty mobile phone that contains only one number in it: God. I don't believe in God but I believe in BDawk, and I think before this season is over he will cement his stature as a Philly legend by doing one more legendary act.

BWest:
Football is strange. In my eyes Brian Westbrook is clearly one of the top two or three running backs in the league, and has been for years. Honestly he is THE best. But his career numbers, his lasting legacy outside of Philadelphia, are destined to be overlooked and largely forgotten. It took him several years to even get on the field as a regular, and nagging injuries have kept him from playing full seasons. So should I care that the most electrifying running back in Eagles history isn't truly appreciated by the rest of the country? Probably not. Here in Philly we know what he does, and marvel as he does it when we need him most. The man is also shorter than a breakfast muffin and has the best beard on the team, an irresistible combination if ever one existed. His touchdown last Sunday against Minnesota was a classic Westbrook scamper; besides the ridiculous physical ability and intelligence it demonstrated, it fucking mattered. It ended the game, a game we easily could have let slip away had it stayed close. Westbrook is clutch. He wields the dagger.

One final point about the two Brians and what they do. They lead the team. They make it possible for McNabb to say all the stupid worthless comments he makes, because nobody on the team pays attention to what he says anymore, because BDawk and BWest are the guys who lead the team, the guys whose voices matter in the locker room.

I told you it wasn't original. I just had to give them fellas their due. Now c'mon DR, let's get back in gear!



*I literally covered my face while watching this. So painful.