Riddle Me This...

From and for the double-ee's among us comes a new DR feature...the weekly riddle. Well, it may become weekly, depending on how many dead arms I accrue this week as a result of frustration and general hated of nerds.

The rules are simple: First correct answer in the comments wins a prize from EDG. Complaints, questions and disputes are encouraged, though they may not be heeded.

This week's answer will be a 7-word sentence. Each clue has a one word answer. Google is your friend, but not necessarily your savior. And away we go...

1. First name of a murderous movie character who shares a last name with the titular hero of a disney channel show.

2. Nickname of a former linebacker with presumably miniscule Polish testicles.

3. First word in the title of a Matthew Modine movie about God's punishment to homosexuals (according to Jerry Falwell).

4. First name of a well-known Philly baller who a DR staff member once met in a college cafeteria
or, in case I am the only one who remembers the story: First name of a well-known Philly baller who shares a last name with the units of kinematic viscosity.

5. Last name of a man who in 1936 showed up the namesake of a child whom Shop-Rite denied a birthday cake in 2008.

6. Homonym for the first part of the nom-de-plume of a famous cartoonist whose last name is the same as the lead character in a John Candy movie with an interrogative title.

7. A leading cause of cancer in Great Britain (hint: Rhymes with the second word in the name of an IPA brewed in New Haven, Connecticut)

67.25 Million - 13.76 Million = W's

I know what you must be saying: "Bubak, what kind of funny math are you using to come up with 67.25 - 13.76= W's?"

Simple, take the Sixers payroll, subtract EB's salary and voila! WINS. Ask yourself, when is it a good thing for your team's 80 million dollar man to go down six weeks into his first season? When you have a big young athletic black man who is apparently a friend of the gays...that's when. I see this separated shoulder as blessing in disguise, in fact the only thing that could be better for this team would be if our Elton looked like this Elton. For one, with EB out for at least a month we will get to see how good of a coach Mr. West Germany is. Can he come up with new and inventive ways for our beloved Sixies to score in the half court? How Will Mr. Tony do it without our only legit half court scorer? If can keep West German broads in line he can do anything.

The best and most important thing about this injury is that we'll get to watch Marreese blossom into the beast that I know he is. Secondly, without that slow fucker EB we will be able to do what we do best... run run run. Last season when we were at our best we were running. Just imagine Dre Miller captaining the ship also known as REO Speedwagon with jet engines AI, Young Thad, and Marreese joining him. Add in some Sammy D grabbin boards and blocking shots and now you're talking. I think I may have just messed myself thinking about it. If things go the way I am foreseeing them, I may have to start a new blog titled the Marreese Report.


My video of the post is an oldie but a goodie that most of you have seen at least once, but I watched it today and I like it.

Unconditional Love

Thankfully, our editor-in-chief has shed some light on the Mo Cheeks firing. And he wrote the post from home, not even wasting the corporate man's time. But what Eldiablogrande failed to do was identify the problem, the one reason WHY we suck, play with poor body language, and continue to frustrate people from Port Richmond to Fort Washington. Well, being the doctor that I am, I feel quite confident that I have identified what ails us. And sadly, I need look no further than the DR staff.

In recent weeks, big things have happened. Shit, in the last few months, HUGE things have happened. And through it all we have lost sight of our singular purpose, our mission as bloggers, and our duty as fans. Put simply, we have been neglecting Sammy D himself.


See Sammy needs attention. He needs constant adoration, reassurance and applause. If we, the DR staff don't do it, I'm pretty damn certain no one will. The Chief and I agreed earlier today that it's impossible to be mad at Sammy, or at the very least, impossible to stay mad. He's like the kid you adopted from what was very likely a broken home. You visited him in the orphanage (Seton Hall), where he was playing with building blocks (engineering students), sporting a christmas sweater, & styling a permanent smile. You asked the den-mother (Tommy Amaker) how he got there (a raft), what he needs (to get far away from Eddie Griffin), and how he would flourish. And eventually you and your husband decided to take a chance and see if you could make a difference in the young man's life. So you brought him back to your home (the First Union Center). You know, the one in the suburbs with the white picket fence, swing set and the poodle. You introduced him to your daughter Mary-Beth (Dei Lynam), you told him "this is yours, Sammy. All this is yours. This is your sister, Sammy. Say hello, give her a hug. We are your family now." And then you gave him his very own race car bed (a huge contract), showered him with toys (Sixers dancers) and overwhelmed him with well-balanced meals. You even introduced him to tofu and seared tuna. In no time, Sammy was playing on the swing set out back (TGI Fridays with AI), and frolicking in the sandbox with the other kids (Club Egypt). But soon you realized a disturbing trend. He began to break shit (goal-tend) and continued to recklessly destroy your family's good name in the neighborhood. Namely, Sammy wouldn't stop destroying Dad's model trains (fouling out) and mom's favorite pottery (shooting on the wrong basket), and he was constantly urinating in the neighbor's flower bed. But just when you are ready to send that little freak back to the orphanage (another team), he flashes that million dollar smile, calls you -his adopted mother - "mom," and promises he will stop stealing your money and torturing the cat (no more hook shots from the FT line). So you pat young Sammy on the head (send him into the game), you tell him you love him, and you give him another chance (a ridiculous contract extension). Because behind those jacked up teeth, his slowly growing mustache, his increasingly baggy jeans, and the weed you keep finding in his Girbauds, Sammy has a little thing we call "potential" (hops, long arms, and limitless energy). But potential is nothing more than a fun word to say if it's not realized, if it's not nurtured. And frankly, we at the DR, much like the 76ers front office, have stopped patting Sammy on the head and giving him our patience, understanding and sympathy. The big guy just needs some love.

Tonight I did what I normally do: check ESPN post-game, see if we won, and process the box score. Sure enough, Sammy started, but he only played 19 minutes. AND, he only had one foul. So clearly, Sammy's minutes are heading south faster than a young father escaping an unwanted pregnancy. Why have the 76ers gone in a different direction? Is there any reason that Reggie Evans should get the same amount of burn as our beloved leader? I like Mareese Speights as much as the next guy, but I write for the DR, not the SR, damnit.


Since I know deep down in my belly that Sammy reads this blog, I want to put this in no uncertain terms. And although I question his firm grasp of the English language, I trust he can find someone to translate these generous, yet deserving words of support.

Sammy Dalembert, keep your head up high,
In the words of my other hero, believe that you can fly.
You dunk, you goal-tend, you even talk funny,
But ignore the naysayers, you deserve all your money.
Elton Brand's shoulder is hurt, so we now turn to you,
In these tough times, lead forward our crew.
Here's to winning streaks and creating a crazy crowd,
Stop rubbing your meat on Mary-Beth, and make Haiti proud!

And just for the record, I NEED this jersey

Mo, Or Less?

Midnight has come and gone, and Coach Mo has turned back into a pumpkin, or at least has been kicked out the proverbial ball by an angry bouncer. Many will be sad to see him go, some will cry good riddance, and still others will wonder why the local ShopRite is refusing their request for a personalized birthday cake.

The feelings are mixed here at the DR's secret world headquarters. On the one hand, I've always been a big fan of Mo's debonair style, easy demeanor, and perplexing five o'clock shadow that seemed to exist only on his upper lip. On the other, he certainly wasn't doing a very effective job as a coach.

It was written in this blog back in the salad days of 2007 that Coach Mo was the perfect leader for last years team. His laid-back, modest style of was the perfect environment for a group of young players trying to grow and discover themselves. Contrasted to the suffocating ego-centric presence of most NBA coaches, Mo's persona on the sidelines and in press conferences was a breath of fresh air for players and fans alike.

On the other time, we've always known or suspected that Mo was not a very good X's and O's coach. Throughout his career he's been able to overachieve, but he's never shown the ability to handle a team that's supposed to win. That's the difference between last year's team and this year's; with EB here, we're supposed to win. And the fact that we are not falls, justly or not, at the feet of the coach.


Have poorly suited personnel contributed to this team's stumbles? Possibly. Should Mo have been given more time to turn things around? Probably. Do I think Tony "I Coached in West Germany 25 Years Ago" DiLeo is the solution to the Sixers' problems? Not particularly. But at the end of the day, there is no way to fire the players (even Iguodala), so it's the coach that has to go. Here's hoping Tony D can turn it around, and that Mo lands on his feet somewhere, and that for his sake that somewhere is on Delaware Avenue and features full nudity.

Of Mustaches and Men

As you can see from the picture above, I have recently decided to forgo my beard for a while in favor of the stache. There a many things one thinks about when he(or she) decides to become mustachioed. Just how pervy will I look? How many times can I offer the ladies free mustache rides? How annoying is shaving going to be? Will Tom Selleck finally return my letters? There are the dreams that maybe one day I can legitimately grow handlebars, or enter the World Beard and Mustache Championships.

There are other things that I never thought about when making my decision to go with the ol pushbroom. Who knew my 70's style upper lip rug would demand so much respect from the public? Did I think the ladies really do love a mustache ride that much...nope. There are more things that come with stache, which I will say has virtually taken over my life, but to know them you'll just have to join the club.

On a side note, it has recently come to my attention that you fine people of the internets are running out of room to store you various nick knacks and whathaveyous from tires to elephants...guess what? I have found salvation!!

Of the Eagles & Other Demons

Though it may seem as though we work so hard at blogging as to preclude any hope with the fairer sex, the dedicated professionals of the DR do, every now and again, enjoy the company of those who lack the Y chromosome. (And not just the ones who expose themselves for money). But the good graces of the ladies are always tenuous, and all it takes is one small transgression for a blogger to be stuck back where he started, trying to rekindle romantic sparks from kindergarten in Hill Tavern over the holidays. Avoiding said transgressions is never easy, and made even more difficult when said ladies profess their allegiance to certain rival sports teams.

Dating a Dallas native hasn't been all that hard, to be honest. For one thing, I had written the Eagles season off weeks ago, and was having a fabulous time ignoring the NFL in favor of the lovable Sixies, who play the Mavericks but once a year, thus eliminating much of the potential for conflict. Things have been swimming along, with hardly a mention of football save for the occasional aside regarding Wade Phillips paunch, Tony Romo's sexual orientation, and T.O.'s chlamydia.

That's all different after this weekend. A gunshot to the leg here, a few running plays there, a timely Romo pick-six and now it looks like an Eagles playoff berth is a real possibility. It goes without saying that said berth would come at the expense of the 'Boys, thus imperiling not only the chances for the Birds desperately needed changing of the guard, but also my ever-tenuous hold on the booty.


Now, don't get me wrong -- watching the Cowboys go down in flames would be as satisfying as extra strength Gold Bond on a pair of chapped testicles. But conversely, another year of watching Andy Reid run two-minute drills would be like pouring that same Gold Bond directly into my eyeballs. I feel confused, trapped, dazed, like Rosie O'Donnell at a bisexual bridal shower.

The way I see it, there are 4 ways this scenario could work itself out.

1) Strange Victory, Strange Defeat
The Eagles and Cowboys each win their next two games, setting up a do-or-die Week 17 clash in the Linc. The Eagles triumph when T.O., on his way into the end zone for the winning touchdown, is hit in the head with a D battery. His subsequent fumble is scooped up by B Dawk and returned for a touchdown, after five laterals and a crushing block by Juqua Parker that decapitates Tony Romo.

I am dumped the next day for celebrating Romo’s demise. Meanwhile the Eagles lose in the first round of the playoffs when Andy Reid gets a technical foul for calling a timeout when he has none left, having burned his final one minutes before earlier by challenging the spot on a touchback.

Odds: 5-1

2) Cleveland Steamer
The Eagles put us out of our misery by blowing next Monday’s game against the Browns. Playoff talk ends, Kevin Kolb starts, Andy Reid pulls a Pizza the Hut. My relationship survives, at least until January 19th’s Sixers-Mavericks game.

Odds: Even

3) We Win the Super Bowl (Yeah Right)
With winnable games against the Browns, Redskins and Cowboys ahead on the schedule, the Birds could be riding a five game winning streak into either Arizona or Minnesota for a first round playoff game against a team that sucks. Shades of the ’08 Giants? Shades of the ’08 Giants. An Eagles title would almost certainly doom my relationship, due to how insufferable I would no doubt become from having 2 teams win in the same year.

Odds: 25-1

4) The Inevitable Triumph of Falcons
The third team in this jolly merry-go-round for the final playoff spot was 4-12 last season and had Joey Heisman starting at quarterback. This year, thanks to a weak schedule and a Philly QB, they’re 8-5 and tied with Dallas for the last wild card spot. They have 3 winnable games left against the Vikings, Bucs and Rams. There exists a large chance that will win all three games, thus rendering both Eagles and Cowboys moot and spreading the indignity equally upon Philly and Dallas alike. Did I mention that they are a cast of Falcons?

Odds: 2-1

For what it’s worth, I refuse to entertain the possibility of a Week 17 loss to the Cowboys and its subsequent effect on my love life. Some things are just too painful to contemplate.

School Days

First to name everyone in this picture gets props. First to identify the first person to leave GFS because they were teased by the squirmy fellow in the green shirt gets infinite props.
First to try drugs was?
First to try the opposite sex's genitalia?
First to try the opposite sex's genitalia while on drugs?
So many questions here.

I have a homeless friend, do you?

I am just today recovering from this weekend's festivities. See when the DR staff, a rapper, and perhaps our two most loyal readers get-together, we do it up big. Big Jern Big. Not even the California billionaires could usher us out of the Gianni Room before we were drunk, stuffed, and collectively celebrated. Sure our outfits secured some funny looks as we strolled out of our private room. I mean, who can blame the fine patrons at Ristorante Pesto - we were wearing African garb, tuxes, fedoras and the hottest Obama gear Chelten Ave has to offer. But no one - NO ONE - does it like the DR.

I have spent the last few days reflecting on the glory of baked cheese, the many talents of the anal princess, and the genius behind a BYO nudie bar, but really, I have been scouring these cold and frigid streets for inspiration. Something... anything to write on, to get the new year of Dalembert off on the right foot. Yet I have found very little. When your daily routine takes you out of your apartment in Boystown and directly to the bankruptcy court, there simply isn't that much jumping out at you. Shit, even my gym is bankrupt. The talk of the town revolves around 15 degree temperatures, Derrick Rose, and Obama. But none of that interests me, at least not at the present moment. And then, just earlier this evening, inspiration materialized in the form of my main man Ray.


Let me explain. I often say I don't have any friends in Chicago. I may look like Balki, but I most certainly don't have a Cousin Larry. But that statement is shortsighted, because I have Ray. I met Ray three months ago when I was carrying a large grip of Mexican food down Jackson Street after work one day. Just as I was about to board the bus, a large, bearded black man hollered "yo big man, you gonna eat that?". I raised my eyebrows, lifted my plastic platter, and shrugged "it's all yours, brother." I gave him burritos, and in turn, he gave me good karma. Since then, the Phillies won the world series, I passed the bar, and Plaxico Burress shot himself in the leg. The connection seems evident. So, I've ventured underneath the Wabash/Adams El maybe 8-10 times since, carrying any leftovers that materialize from the various office parties we in the Fed building take part in. And everytime, there's Ray, smoking a cigarette, pumping Curtis Mayfield out of his boom box, and taking inventory of his overstuffed shopping cart. When I roll up around the corner, without fail I get a hearty "DREW! My man!". I learned his name one night after he requested mine and since then, Ray and the Firm, all day ay'day.


Well tonight I spotted Ray, but not in his normal spot. I wasn't even looking for him, as a matter of fact. I hopped on the subway home and there was Ray, heading north...on a date. No bull shit. My favorite gold-hearted homeless friend, arm in arm with his lady-friend, has a more vibrant love life than the Firm, himself. How do I know it was a date? Because he yelled across the train "I'm on a date!" And with a chuckle and a shaken head, I pumped my fist in support. I found inspiration, in the most surprising of places, and I think I learned a valuable lesson. When it's cold as a witches nipple, and you have no food, teeth or shelter, you get back to the basics: vagina. It all makes perfect sense.

For those of you who don't spend 4 hours in front of the TV every night after work, A) you are missing out and B) I urge you to check out the latest and greatest show Fox has concocted. Even better than the littlest groom, "Secret Millionaire" takes young rich people, surrounds them with unsuspecting poor people who think the rich people are poor, and waits for the hilarity to ensue. It's supposed to generally be heartwarming, where the poor people are so welcoming of the rich people and ultimately the rich people write a big fatty check to the poor people and get the fuck out of dodge. Here's hoping there is an episode that takes place in Philly. Imagine these fellows rubbin shoulders with these fine young men. Ah, one can dream.

DR FOR LIFE!

The Birth of a Dalemocracy

The First Annual Dalembert Report Awards and Strip Club Gala was a smashing success, so smashing that in the days after only two facts could be pulled with any certainty out of the burning rubble heap that is our collective brain: 1) We’re doing it again next year. 2) The 2008 Dalembert Award winners are…

Category: The Shavlik Randolph Award for Best Use of Homophobia
Winner: Flintskinz, "Taking down the gay picture was even gayer than the inherent gayness found within that really gay picture."
Prize: A pink and veiny penis lighter

Category: The Bring It Head Award for Best High School Reference
Winner: Big Firm, "Andre Miller not only looks like Juice Goldman but he apparently has the same lift as Juice when taking a jumper. Don't get me wrong, I love Andre Miller, but every time he takes a midrange jumper, I find myself asking the age old question: What the Dilly Oh?"
Prize: A fitted Germantown High Bears hat

Category: The Jerny Firm Award for Picture of the Year
Winner: Eldiablogrande, "Bul and Mrs. Bubak Enjoy a Holiday in Egypt"
Prize: A UNC Law beer cozy made by Big Jern himself

Category: The Latarian Milton Award for Video of the Year
Winner: DVDubs & Flintskinz, "Wrenches!!!"
Prize: A 50 cent church sale wrench spray painted gold

Category: The Let’s All Hope Dan Wins So He Doesn’t Hang Himself with an Aged Stripper’s G-String At the Dolphin Tavern After the Awards Dinner Award for Comment of the Year
Winner: DVDubs, The Phillies’ Nickname Comment
Prize: A McNabb bobblehead spray painted gold

Category: The Bloody Fucking Womb Award for Quote of the Year
Winner: Big Firm, "My recent trip to New York reminded me of the eternal question that confounds us all: why is it that the only way to fund a fresh set of basketball uniforms for the local church league is through mass distribution of king size peanut M&Ms?"
Prize: Family-sized bag of peanut M&Ms

Category: The I Am A Corporate Drone Award for Best Use of Photoshop
Winner: Eldiablogrande, "Yoko Marbury"

Category: The Jojari Award for Prediction of the Year
Winner: Big Firm, "Moreover, the Phillies are winning the fuckin World Series sometime soon. I'm talking "another Cincinnati Bengal gets arrested" soon. Now that Howard is toweling off with 100 dollar bills and Brett Myers has spent an entire off-season teaching his wife a lesson, not only should the NL East beware, but the majors at large should take note: the Phightins' mean bidness."

Category: The Home Run Kim Batiste Award for Best Obscure Philly Athlete Reference
Winner: DVDubs, "What about Jose Dejesus, Ken Howell, Rick Mahorn, Juan Samuel, Ricky Jordan, Greg Gross, Michael Zordic, Ron Hextall, and Eric Dejardins?"
Prize: Kyle Korver figurine, spray painted gold

Category: The Honorary Grandma Dalembert Award for Intangible Contributions
Winner: The Bul Bubak
Prize: Martin Luther King High Panthers fitted hat

Category: The Dalembert Award for Post of the Year
Winner: #1 Chief Naka, "Damn These Restrictions"
Prize: Life size measure up poster of Sammy D; infinite props and respect

Thanks to all our readers, but especially those who commented and voted. Viva la DR!!

Donovan Rides On The Highway of Broken Stars

As fashionable as it is to pronounce the Donovan McNabb era dead and buried, I will hold off for the moment. The more I think about it the less surprised I will be if he's back next season. If Eagles fans know one thing about Andy Reid, besides that he has the parenting skills of Peter Griffin, it's that he's one stubborn fat man. He coaches with the mentality that whatever he's doing is right, will work, and should not be questioned, even if it's consistently wrong, does not work, and defies all logic. If logic and reason, not to mention salary repercussions, agree that Donovan McNabb should be in another uniform next year, well goshdarnit Andy will do the opposite. Which I'm ok with(fire Reid). But regardless of what happens after the season, I think it's worth re-tracing some of the important moments in Donovan's career, a rocky ten years of sustained drama fairly conventional for a superstar athlete in Philadelphia.

Being a superstar in Philadelphia means three things: you will be loved, you will be hated, and you will eventually leave. Philly fans are blood-sucking agents of adulation, a tireless mob of vampires constantly seeking the pacifying tonic of success, which a superstar can provide like no normal athlete. Superstars have the most blood, their blood tastes the best, and they're easier to find and eat than some puny bench-warmer who looks like everybody else and has sour blood. And that's what happens here in Philly, we eat our stars alive. They arrive on the scene with wide smiles encased in fresh-faces, unaware of everything except their own talent. They leave with wrinkles and exhausted eyes. Sometimes their eyes are exhausted due to concussions. Sometimes due to weed. But always exhausted.

Charles Barkley was traded in the prime of his career, sick of losing and made sicker by the sight of the early 90's uniforms. Eric Lindros went from The Next One to trade bait before the cobwebs cleared from his last concussion. Scott Rolen scoffed at a $100 million contract offer and high-tailed it to St. Louis, where the country grammar didn't include booing. Allen Iverson got traded after a decade of drama so pronounced it should have been shown on daytime television. Thus Donovan McNabb is just another in a line of superstar talents who's career will be heavily debated but unanimously labeled "disappointment". Here's what I'll remember:

Kiss The Don's Pinky: Moments of Greatness

Breaks Mark Carriers Ankles: I don't remember the year but I remember the play like it was yesterday. McNabb under pressure, scrambles to his left, avoids Bruce Smith, finds some running room, and is about five yards from the end-zone when confronted by Redskins safety Mark Carrier. Don squares up, shimmies like MJ in the Thriller video, leaves Carrier and his broken ego in a heap on the field and scores a touchdown.

Broken Leg Heroics: against Arizona in 2002, Don breaks his leg, then FINISHES THE GAME AND THROWS FOUR TOUCHDOWNS. Amazing. When I play old man basketball with my dad and assorted weekend warriors I often excuse myself from competition when I jam my finger or scrape my knee. People who accuse Don of being a wimp all-too-easily forget this effort.

4th and 26: Playoffs, at home, Green Bay and Brett Favre. 4th and 26 says it all and doesn't require much review. However it is worth noting that overall Donovan played a ridiculous game that day and merely capped it off with 4th and 26. I have the video, come over and watch if you don't believe me.

14 Seconds of Heaven: in front of a national audience in 2004 Donovan embarrassed the Dallas defense by spending more time on the run than Jason Bourne. After scrambling for an eternity he unleashed a throw Troy Aikmen called "the best throw I've ever seen" into the annoying hands of 1st round bust Freddie Mitchell. Supreme effort.

2004 NFC Championship Game: Don finally gets the Eagles into the Super Bowl with a strong game in a pressure-packed cauldron. Leads the Birds to a convincing win over Atlanta, throws a couple TD's, doesn't turn the ball over, hoists a big trophy over his head afterwards.


Donovan Needs Klonopin: His Moments of Infamy

Draft Day: He gets booed upon being drafted. Not his fault but part of his legacy here.

2002 NFC Championship Game vs. Tampa: coming off a broken leg, Donovan is stuffed by Tampa's defense and the Eagles lose one of the most painful games I have ever seen. Honestly not all his fault(fire Reid) but he certainly didn't play well and the final image from that game is of Ronde Barber returning a terrible McNabb pass ninety-something yards for a touchdown.

2004 Super Bowl: Mystery shrouds this game and maybe we will never know why exactly the Eagles played the second half as if it were a company cookout game of flag-football. The reality remains that McNabb threw three awful picks, was incapable of running a hurry-up offense at the end, and essentially turned in a turd of a game on the biggest stage. This game dogs him to this day, and will forever.

Don vs. TO, and TO wins: I can't really blame Donovan for not stooping down to TO's lunatic level of outright insubordination, but what I wanted was to see him stand up, call TO a fucking idiot, challenge him to a fistfight, and shatter TO's glass jaw. Unfortunately he played it too cool, tried to massage the situation and likely lost the respect of everyone in the locker room. A good punch to TO's jaw back in 2005 would have been like George McFly knockin Biff the fuck out in 1955: not only would TO be catching TD's in Philly now, he'd also be washing McNabb's car and applying two coats of wax.

Ties?: After a dismal tie against dismal Cincinnati, Donovan admits he had no idea NFL games could end in a tie. This is just annoying.


Maybe the final chapter in Donovan's career here will take a dramatic turn for the better. Maybe not. But if I had to guess I'd put my money on him leaving town like so many superstars before him, with a suitcase full of cash, a medicine cabinet full of anti-depressants, and just enough blood in his body to win for a new team in a new city.


On a sidenote, I grappled with whether or not to write about the 1st Annual Dalembert Awards Banquet and Stripper Extravaganza and decided to leave it up to my editorial comrades to take it on. I look forward to seeing in words a summary of events which I could scarcely find adequate language for.

For Your Consideration

As the unanimous winner of the DR LVP award, I am in the unique position to judge my compatriots whose ceaseless toil over the past year deserves and demands not only your respect, but more prestigious honors. I have read every word and clicked every link, and below you will find the nominees for the Inaugural Edition of the Dalembert Report Awards.

The rules are simple. There are 10 categories, each with 5 or 6 nominees. You may vote for one nominee in each category. Voting will be done via email. Make your selections and email them to thedalembertawards@gmail.com with the subject heading “Awards Ballot”. There is no standard format for the ballot; just make it clear. Anyone is eligible to vote regardless of age, race, sex, intelligence, citizenship, however, you must identify yourself on your ballot by full name or easily identifiable pseudonym (one person one vote people—it’s the law!).

Many of these nominees may make no sense to some of you. That’s ok. Vote anyway. The voting process requires you to take a little time, go back, re-read, get a sense of the context. Don’t be lazy—you will certainly smile, you might laugh, and there’s at least a chance you will vomit.

Voting will remain open until Friday, November 28th, 12:00am. The winners will be announced at the Dalembert Report Awards Dinner and Strip Club Gala on Saturday, November 29th.

Bitching, whining, complaining and politicking for you personal favorites (nominated or not) is encouraged, either via email or (preferably) in the comment section. Let’s hear it for Democracy!

- Stand Watie

The 2008 Dalembert Report Awards Nominees

The Shavlik Randolph Award for Best Use of Homophobia
1. Lets be real here folks is there a woman out there who doesn't want to marry a man obsessed with poop? No. If by chance you can find one though, I am sure she is a huge lezzer. That's right a Gay American. – Do You Like Funny Haircuts?, The Bul Bubak

2. The only dudes who remember other dudes' birthdays are likely the types of dudes who like other dudes. – Comment to Esquiring, Flintskinz

3. Whereas the tell of a homosexual in North Carolina was preferring Marlboro Milds to Reds, there is no such thing as a subtle statement in these parts. I, for one, can't wait to get spotted at the gym. – Live & Direct From Boystown, Big Firm

4. Stairs in the postgame press conference: "there's no better feeling than getting a big hit and coming back to the dugout and getting your ass hammered by guys." – Comment to What Does it All Mean?, Eldiablogrande

5. Taking down the gay picture was even gayer than the inherent gayness found within that really gay picture. – Comment to Veterans – So Much More Than a Stadium, Flintskinz

The Bring It Head Award for Best High School Reference
1. They have an Alaskan who can drain 20 footers w/ one hand, two hand, even three hands. – A New Year with New Purpose, Big Firm * - competition note – this reference was used many times throughout the year but credit must go to the initiator.

2. I mean truly suck, like mac marston suck. – A Silver Lining in Every Turnover, Big Firm

3. Keep on postin' up like T-Bone Ward, DR staff. – Comment to Back in Action, DVDubs

4. Andre Miller not only looks like Juice Goldman but he apparently has the same lift as Juice when taking a jumper. Don't get me wrong, I love Andre Miller, but every time he takes a midrange jumper, I find myself asking the age old question: What the Dilly Oh? – Now Class, What Have We Learned Today?, Big Firm

5. PCP makes me think of Matt Levinger. Am I alone there? – Comment to Don’t Trust Me, Trust Number 6, Big Firm

The Jerny Firm Award for Picture of the Year
1. Sammy D at the Mutter Museum – Oh Britney, Big Firm

2. The Wizard Calvin Booth – 76ers players…or PLAYERS?, The Bul Bubak

3. Strong Defense! – Strong Defense!, Eldiablogrande

4. We Out of Meet – Why Can’t Us?, Eldiablogrande

5. Bul and Mrs. Bubak Enjoy a Holiday in Egypt – Bul and Mrs. Bubak Enjoy a Holiday in Egypt, Eldiablogrande

The Latarian Milton Award for Video of the Year
1. Kyle Kendrick Goes to Japan – Brett Myers, Multi-Talented, Eldiablogrande

2. Sammy D at the Flyers’ game – Just Follow the Little Ball, Big Firm

3. Wrenches!! – A Star is Born, Big Firm

4. Rick Mahorn – Just Because..., Big Firm

5. Humm Wedding – In Sickness and in Phils, Eldiablogrande

The Let’s All Hope Dan Wins So He Doesn’t Hang Himself with an Aged Stripper’s G-String At the Dolphin Tavern After the Awards Dinner Award for Comment of the Year
1. So last week, while performing a Google search of my name, to make sure that it didn't show up on a porn site (long, much more innocuous and boring story than you imagine), the Dalembert Report came up on the first page, referencing me and Coach Kevin. I have two reactions to this.

First, I need to do more noteworthy shit if this blog makes the first page of a Google search for my name.

Secondly, I don't know how the Coach Kev mythology has evolved, but I think I need to set the record straight. He was talking to the entire 1996-1997 JV squad, not just me, when he uttered his infamous, immortal words. Eldiablogrande, if you are who I think you are, you should know better.

It also wasn't just me who ran around like a chicken with the deer in the headlights, by the way. Although he did call me a two game wonder.

On another note, Pedro Feliz is obviously the answer to our third base woes. Scott Rolen must find this very funny. – Comment on Halfway There, Steve

2. Entire comment section – The Love Below

3. you forget to mention that, upon arrival in philly, robin lopez would almost definitely join leana song and quite probably develop a serious coke habit. – Comment on Pez Dispenser, Anonymous

4. it's spelled yarmulke. Even I know that shit. Unless you have been buying your in Chinatown, it isn't yamaka. – Comment on Seeing is Believing, Flintskinz

5. I'm as happy as a pig in shit (more of a reality and less of a metaphor than it should be) that the Phirries are National laaaygue East Champs. I was in attendance, as was Flintskins (two hot dogs on Amorosso 'everything but the" rolls and many beers deep) when J-"everything but the" Roll made the splendid diving grab to turn two for the clincher. It was glorious.

I am optimistic about the Phightins going deeper into the playoffs this year than last, but it is going to take contributions from our many role-players, (not so) cleverly nicknamed below:

Eric Cuntlet and his flesh colored beard, or Sub-Gum Lo Mein
Tadahito "don't call me Taguchi" Iguchi and his interpreter
Gerg "That's not a ball; gimme a real ball" dnn-dn-d-d-dn-dnnnnnnnn Roy Hobbs Dobbs
Ryan Michael Madsen
Matt "I think there are some more rooms down-" Stairs
Clay Aiken Condrey
So Terrible Taguchi
Greg Molson Golson
Scott Jane Eyre
Geoff Albert Bolinski Jenkins

In addition to the solid, necessary contributions of our "carriers," we will need strong coaching decisions from Charlie "I say, I say" Manuel, Rich Duce & Pass Doobie, and Olerud Helmet Davey "I'm a SAG actor" Lopes.

I hope it all falls into place. Go Phils. – Comment on Return of the Jedi, DVDubs

The Bloody Fucking Womb Award for Quote of the Year
1. The DR is a living breathing animal, a fat furry creature with unspecified numbers of arms, legs, and tails. Sometimes we hibernate for months in a dark cave. Sometimes we graze the wide plains, with no particular focus, and lazily affirm our jungle cred with a subtle yet swift riposte. And every so often we go on creative outbursts akin to an Alpha male lion who beats down a young lion challenger, eats a lunch of fresh cheetah caught and prepared by four female lions, then naps in the sun after sexing the hell out of all four said females. The point is, you never know when we might get hungry, so stay tuned in to channel DR. – Sincerely Yours, Chief Naka

2. There are plenty of dull days ahead in which to discuss the relative merits of Elton Brand and Josh Smith, to drool over the tremendous upside potential of young black dudes with one year of college experience and incredibly ludicrous first names. – The Long Cold Winter of Our Discontent, Eldiablogrande

3. My recent trip to New York reminded me of the eternal question that confounds us all: why is it that the only way to fund a fresh set of basketball uniforms for the local church league is through mass distribution of king size peanut M&Ms? – Back in the Fold, Big Firm

4. That should not be a surprise since, judging from their size and personal hygiene, Team Spain was created when Bigfoot impregnated Rebecca Lobo. – Nervous as Hell at 4am, Chief Naka

5. If you really needed me to tell you that it was going to be a bloodbath, I highly recommend that you stop reading this page, walk away from the computer and head to the nearest hospital because there is an excellent chance you may have a massive, gaping head wound that is going to require immediate attention. – Shit Just Got Real, Flintskinz

6. Tomorrow I celebrate America's great veterans. Those that have put their lives on the line in the name of preserving democracy, all so we here at home can elect a black president and upset them all. – Veterans…So Much More Than a Stadium, Big Firm

The I Am A Corporate Drone Award for Best Use of Photoshop
1. Billy King Resume – One of These Things is Not Like the Others, Eldiablogrande

2. Michael Ironside – See You At Your Birthday Pahty Richter!, Eldiablogrande

3. Bul Bubak Eats Penis – I Choo Choo Choose You, Big Firm

4. Yoko Marbury – In Which Life is Good, Yet Inexorably Threatened by the Fucking Knicks, Eldiablogrande

5. Brokeback Mountain 2 – Don’t Trust Me, Trust Number 6, Flintskinz


The Jojari Award for Prediction of the Year
1. 2007's 0.21 post-per-day average will be at least doubled this year. - Year of the Haitian.....Canadian, Flintskinz * - Competition note – as of November 22, there have been 173 posts in 325 days, for an average of .53 posts-per-day, or 2.5 times more posts-per-day than last year.

2. Moreover, the Phillies are winning the fuckin World Series sometime soon. I'm talking "another Cincinnati Bengal gets arrested" soon. Now that Howard is toweling off with 100 dollar bills and Brett Myers has spent an entire off-season teaching his wife a lesson, not only should the NL East beware, but the majors at large should take note: the Phightins' mean bidness. A Silver Lining in Every Turnover, Big Firm

3. 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. – Cuzzes in Paradise, Big Firm

4. With The Sixteenth Pick, The Philadelphia Seventy-Sixers select MARREESE SPEIGHTS. – If the Glove Don’t Fit, I’ll Still Predict, Chief Naka

5. Brett Myers stinks. Maybe the only way to reach him is to send him down to the minors for a little while to give him the clear message that his crappity-crap performances won't be tolerated, and maybe he can get his confidence back facing minor league hitters. – Comment to Naka Got Me Thinking…, DVDubs

The Home Run Kim Batiste Award for Best Obscure Philly Athlete Reference
1. Matt Harpring – KorverGate, Eldiablogrande

2. Rob Ducey (the other Philly athlete with Canadian roots) – Omar ‘the Track Star’ Bin Laden, Big Firm

3. Dickie Thon, Clyde Simmons, Seth Joyner, Rodney Buford, Von Hayes, Big Ben Rivera, Scotty Brooks, Sil Campusano, Eric Allen, Heathcliff Slocumb and a host of others who I once loved or oddly appreciated - if you aren't dead or in prison, I encourage you to unretire. – Go Away…And Stay Away, Big Firm

4. What about Jose Dejesus, Ken Howell, Rick Mahorn, Juan Samuel, Ricky Jordan, Greg Gross, Michael Zordic, Ron Hextall, and Eric Dejardins? – Comment to Go Away and Stay Away, DVDubs

5. Jeff Kemp, Rodney Peete, Ty(and Koy) Detmer, Bubby Brister, Bobby Hoying, Doug Pederson, and Mike McMahon. – Damn it Feels Good to be a Moron, Chief Naka

The Dalembert Award for Post of the Year
1. Ask the Bul Bubak, March 6 – the Bul Bubak

2. I Got Monkey Tooooooooooooo! – Eldiablogrande

3. Cuzzes in Paradise – Big Firm

4. Damn These Restrictions – Chief Naka

5. Looking Good Louis – Chief Naka

6. Go Away…and Stay Away – Big Firm

Sleazy... Demure... Athletic

One thing that I know for certain is that everyone who reads this blog loves titties. And that's not just because we are all perverts; it's because everyone in the world loves titties. Male, female, young, old... it doesn't matter. Titties carry a universal appeal.

You know what else carries a universal appeal? This guy:


Many thanks and props to our kindred spirits over at The Fightins for procuring this inspiring photograph.

Pic of the Day

It's not time to push the panic button yet people, but last nights debacle in Minneapolis was far from the Sixers proudest moment. I had a hard time watching the game, in part because of how poorly the Sixers played defense, in part because certain unnamed bloggers wanted to watch a different channel, and in part because looking at Mike Miller's face is terrifying. Mike Miller is so ugly, Halloween should be on his birthday. He's so ugly, that if bricks were ugly he'd be a housing project. He's so ugly, even Ted Danson wouldn't date him. He's so ugly, he makes Shawn Marion's jump shot look like Petra Nemcova. I mean, yeah, I'm bitter about the game but you get the point: Mike Miller is unnatractive. In fact, if Mike Miller and Tyrone Hill had a baby, it would probably look like this..

Anyway, on to the (real) Pic of the Day. If this image doesn't terrify you, you are either blind or your name is Big Firm, in which case you can begin masturbating... now.

Just to Piss Stand Watie Off...

and get the girls all fired up:

It's college basketball season people!

Staying Vigilant

Rarely do I feel like the whitest guy in the room. In fact, quite the opposite, I often feel like the blackest. But yesterday was a rare exception. With the African Bull in town for a little "work", I capitalized on an opportunity to mingle with my people under the shelter of the Chicago Sheraton. And mingle I did. The only thing more prevalent than the snow flurries littering Michigan Avenue were the dashikis colorfully occupying the lobby. And where Africans congregate, so too do those who love studying Africans and their history. It's as if bald jewish graduate students are magnetically attracted to two things in life: Africa and corduroy pants. I'm thinking its our collective appreciation for flattering headgear.

So there I sat, intrigued by my Cameroonian associates, yet disturbingly out of place without facial hair, my nalgene bottle or a Mac computer. I didn't even have one of the fancy tote bags they gave to each conference attendee. But something about me must have made it clear that I was down. Perhaps it was my savvy use of urban slang. Or my draft day suit. Maybe it was even my Marcus Garvey shirt. One way or another, my African connection was quite clear, and my jaunt downtown proved well worthwhile when on the way out of the lobby one of my brother's colleagues did the unthinkable and dropped the N bomb on me! I felt so honored, like I had finally arrived in this world. He wasn't calling me the N word, but he felt quite comfortable using it in my presence. Actually, on second thought, I'm pretty sure he directed it at me. Regardless, being accepted is a beautiful thing.

Last night I went out with a couple brrrrroads who I hadn't seen since I was in Australia. But first I went to some meat market bar in Wrigleyville to link up with an old chap from college. I waited in line. I rolled my eyes at my surroundings. I stared at the tiny skirt directly in front of me, and I took out my ID and showed it to the surly bouncer bursting with authority. Then to my dismay, he pointed at my feet, pointed at a conspicuous sign on the door, and yelled "No Timberlands in the Club!" This is pretty much my biggest pet peeve out there in the world of socializing. That and when every white person in the spot joins voices and sings "living on a prayer" or "pour some sugar on me." That video is inspiring. Why the fuck can some little shit in beat up Chucks get into the club but my crisp Timbos get me not so politely booted out of the line, so to speak. I even have glasses on for God's sake! There is but one explanation. So I cursed at the bouncer, and may have called both him and his policy retarded. But when he began to indicate a willingness to physically remove me, admittedly...I stepped to the side. Point being, I don't want to be in some shit bar that doesn't allow Timbos anyway, so ultimately, my best interests were served. And that's why from here on out, I'm hanging out here, and not here.

And yes, I fully intend to link to an Eddie Murphy movie in every post.

Weekend Fun: Airborne Meat

A rare weekend treat folks, both entertaining and educational. If you've ever wondered about the origins of that nifty hot dog bazooka the Phanatic breaks out on occasion, I am happy to report that today is your lucky day. Best documentary ever? Best documentary ever.

Pic of the Day

Sammy D had an amazing line last night of 20 minutes, 2 points, 2 rebounds and 6 fouls. But as we all know, using statistics to measure Sammy's performance is like trying to count raindrops or quantify the shapes of individual snowflakes. What's important is that the Sixies last night ran out a front court of Sammy, 'Reese and Young Thad, which is like the basketball equivalent of hiring Latarian Milton to be your chaffeur.

Anyways, here is your Pic of the Day. I hope it captures the mood out there on this rain-soaked Thursday in Philly:

Rappinin is Whats Happenin

Loyalist of DR loyalists Jake Lefco has a new video, which I present for your viewing pleasure. No more commentary, I just felt left out of the posting explosion that happened today. Enjoy.



Oh, and bonus clip, here is Cedric Ceballos' "Flow On" rap video, because why the fuck not. If you look closely, you can actually see the exact moment when Ced C and Ricky Harris' fame clocks roll over from 14:59 to 15:00.



Don't expect any posting prolificness like this from us ever again.

Happy hump day, bitches.

Ever Wonder...

Ever wonder what would happen if a beer truck flipped on the highway? Me too. Here's your answer.

Ever wonder what it would be like to be a child wizard with the ability to make drunken cuzzes scream by just lifting your arms? Me too.

Ever wonder what it would look like if you happened to combine Billy Crystal's hair and World B. Free's face? ME TOO!

Ever Wonder what it is that the ladies are truly looking for but would never tell us? I have, and I now KNOW the answer.

That is all for now, but as always if you have any questions that need answers Tha Bul Bubak is your man. Hollertron! thabulbubak@gmail.com

Pic of the Day

I've never been to Russia, but a pair of DR readers have. When they got there they sent an email that said: "Greetings from the Russian circus. There are bears riding around on motorcycles shooting dogs and cats out of cannons with parachutes." Amongst the other great things Russia has to offer are vodka, gambling, and drunk Russians. Oh, and the opportunity to look at titties while also watching armed commandos kill shit. Yeah, Russia is awesome.

Andy Reid Farted. Smells Like McNabb.

A slow-developing weather pattern has been building in size and increasing in strength over the greater Philadelphia region. This freakish cloud formation reeks of gaseous Mormon fart and moves with the ferocious hastiness of a shotgun wedding in Utah. It hangs low in the air and curls the nose hairs of every resident who's unlucky enough to be in its path. It grows fatter by the day, redder by the hour, and funkier by the minute. It's Hurricane Andy and it's impervious to levees of common sense or embankments of intelligence. And it's threatening to destroy my enjoyment of Eagles football this year and beyond.

To be honest, this huge Sasquatch turd of coaching has been on my front porch for years now, waiting to be removed. For various reasons I kept believing the emergency hazmat squad would arrive and magically turn this eye-sore into a beautiful fountain of victory. But I'm losing hope these fellas will ever show up. I'm starting to think the only way to get rid of this monstrosity is to set it ablaze and let it burn off into the atmosphere. Only then can I enjoy sitting on my porch again, while drinking lemonade and watching reruns of The Golden Girls.

Why am I so mad? How can the Eagles make me upset so soon after the glorious Phillie championship? Well, life goes on, and even gentle Corky Thacher would have been punching walls in frustration during Sunday's loss to the Giants.

The Phillies championship means I'm willing to give a bit of a pass, TO THE PHILLIES. For a few months. And yes, while it satisfied a very basic hunger that hadn't been satisfied in my lifetime guess what, I'm hungry again!! Is it really realistic to care less about the Eagles, Sixers, and Flyers just because the Phils won? Everybody is entitled to their own opinion on this topic, but I've chosen to continue my existence as an often irrational and always emotional spectator of sports.

So back to the topic, the Andy Reid era and how it should be wrapped up as soon as possible. Let me be clear: Andy Reid did A LOT for this organization. He built a consistent contender after arriving and assuming control of the festering outhouse Ray Rhodes had left. He ignored local pressure to draft Ricky Williams and resisted re-signing various popular veterans, choosing instead to build how he saw fit, which valued cheap youth over expensive experience. He increased cheesesteak consumption 150% during his first 5 years here, basically propelling the local economy forward all by himself. By 2004 he was nearly bulletproof in this town, and while not quite adored he was hard to question when it came to football decisions. He won, a lot, and that's all that matters.

Well here we are in 2008 and the fact is, the Eagles don't win very much anymore. In fact they lose quite a bit. In painful fashion, due to head-scratching methods. With bungled execution by questionable talent, whom Andy drafted I should point out. His clock management causes one to wonder if the clock he uses to dictate the pace and precision of his two-minute drill is the sun. His play-calling would seem absurd if it occurred during a game of Madden'08. And his use of challenges is somewhere between this and this on the stupidity scale. His first challenge on Sunday was the most misguided challenge since Gregory Hines told Sammy Davis Jr. and Sandman they had no legs(please watch at least the first 3 minutes).

I'm tired of losing every time we play a good team. Getting out-coached has gotten old. And this is no longer a coincidence, or bad luck, or simply a weird unexplainable mystery. We are not very good, and haven't been for years. We can't do didly-poo and we suck. This falls to Andy, and to a lesser degree to Don. Whom I will address at a later time.

As for the Sixers, I'm giving them a twenty-game observation period free of serious critique or hand-wringing. I think it's natural for a team with a crucial new piece to take awhile to get going. Remember when we added Glenn Robinson, how it took some time to totally mesh? Oh fuck.



Word on Everybody's Mind: Douchebag
Has anybody else noticed how douchebag has become the pejorative de jour among young peoples these days? I was reminded via Big Firm's last post featuring the photo of Revenge of The Nerds, simple one of the greatest movies of all-time, and the movie that introduced me to the word douchebag. It also introduced me to frontal female nudity, the awesomeness of Booger, and the potential for excitement when Asian men drink heavily.
This movie should be required viewing for all seven year-old boys. Anyway, how has douche re-appeared so prominently and will it last through the Obama administration? Regardless, Andy Reid is a huge fucking douche.

Some People Call Him Marreese

Lost in the momentous events of the past week, the NuhBuh debut of a young man named Marreese aka the Speights Cowboy has received little attention in this space or elsewhere. But people, ignore him at your own risk! I say it is time we refocus our attention and efforts on that black-clad squadron of rebels and ne'er-do-wells that ply their trade at the former FU Center. Basketball season hath begun, and it is time we stopped wallowing in our own glory and got back to doing what we do best, which is pointing out the bright spots on our possibly fatally flawed basketball team!

The season has begun in disappointing fashion, with the squad looking rudderless and lost without the leadership of the great K.O. Iguodala has been looking like an $85 million version of Rodney Buford, while E. Brand cries out not only for a better nickname but also for some consistent half court sets and the possibility of a Sixer who can knock down an open J. But fear not; I have confidence that by the end of this campaign it will be Louwill and Young Thad leading the squad to glory, with the brothers 'Dre reduced to supporting roles and the Speights Cowboy abusing the C's frontline like the bich nga's we all know them to be.

Changing sports gears is a slower process when you've just won the World Series, but now that we can officially write off the Eagles season and Obama has been set on his quest for world domination, it's time we refocused our energies. The Sixies need us, and, despite public opinion to the contrary, we need them too.

Veterans...So Much More than A Stadium.

Tomorrow is a great day. Tomorrow I celebrate America's great veterans. Those that have put their lives on the line in the name of preserving democracy, all so we here at home can elect a black president and upset them all. And perhaps most importantly, tomorrow I don't have to go to work. So while the rest of you slave for the corporate man, I will be doing what I do best: sleeping. Maybe even with my hands down my pants. Why? Because in case you haven't heard, it's freezing here in Chicago, and I challenge you to locate a warmer place than down my pants. So to you, noble veterans, thank you for this Tuesday off, we in the judiciary appreciate all that you do for our country.


I haven't even touched on my new status as a champion. Let me tell you, I was a bit excited. Three great games in the Bank, a grip of rain, admittedly scary trips to the pisser, almost frozen Bud Light out the wazoo...I even managed to squeeze in offending two surly old people behind me who insisted the entire stadium stay seated. But the real madness ensued on the streets, where cuzzes embraced, black people pretended to like baseball, and luggage stores were looted. If I were going to loot, I'm prety damn certain Robinson Luggage would not be my first choice. Perhaps not my last choice, but definitely not my first. But why inject any notion of logic into such a happy moment? That would only clutter what was otherwise quite possibly the best moment of my life. Either way, I always wanted the Phillies to be my first. Leaving CBP I felt like a 6th grader heading back to the Wissahickon Skating Rink from the CHA fields. What did it all mean? Am I a different person? Will my parents notice that I have what I think may very-well be a boner in my Girbauds? Truly glorious, I tell you, the feeling will not soon be matched. I am a fuckin champion, people. We all are. No one - not even you Andy Reid, try as you may - can undermine that sense of pride.


Back in the real world, I am also undergoing a dramatic change. The long and the short of it: I can see! I have legs! Well I've always had legs, but now I have glasses. And glasses fuckin rule. HD TV has taken on an entirely new meaning. Right now I can actually see all the grey hairs on Kurt Warner's head. Shit, I can practically see the God he so often thanks to the point of nauseam. So if I made fun of you at any point in your life for having glasses, I rescind my shallow ridicule with all sincerity.



Soon enough, I imagine we at the DR will actually pursue what is, indeed, our purpose on this vast planet -- we will actually discuss the Sixers. The early results are not all that positive. Iggy can't get comfortable, E Brand hasn't hit his stride, and I don't think we even have Kevin Ollie anymore. But Young Thad is asserting himself as the next "I don't know how he does it, but the man does it" star in this league (and yes, I just compared our beloved Thad to Psycho T, if only to piss Stand Whitie off). Long like Sam Pinkston, smooth like an 8 year old Chief Naka gliding through the Water Tower lane, and determined like Mary Kay Laterneau to have a baby by that mysteriously mustached 8th grader... Young Thad has all the tools. God willing, together with Sammy, he will lead us to greatness. Dare we be as good as people think we should be by years end? I'm feeling saucy, so why the fuck not?!! At the very least, let's be better than the Mavs.