Ask Tha Bul Bubak...

Dear Bul Bubak,Suddenly, the only thing that gets me off are MILF videos. Am I a deviant, or am I well prepared for the thrills of middle age partner swapping?
Yours,
Waiting for Erotic Intercourse Regarding Dirty Oldies

Dear WEIRDO,

Watching porn is disgusting and vulgar.(Coincidentally, I am pretty sure that I am addicted to porn, I have trouble stopping myself from looking anytime I have a minute. Well, those and these.) You know it has gotten bad when you step back from yourself for a second and realize that on the screen in front of you is an amputee donkey having intercourse with mute grandma in a wheelchair. I guess I am saying to you WEIRDO keep yourself in check and don't let the porn take control of you. There is nothing wrong with being "into" a certain type of porn, or only jerking it to one kind. Be weary though, if this creeps into your personal life and you are unable to seal the deal with say a taught 19 year old like this, you my friend are in big trouble (in little China)

Dear Bul Bubak,

Everywhere I turn my head, I am surrounded by beards. Short beards, long beards, nappy beards, combed beards. I feel like I am in an al queda barbershop, and I don't like it. The moment when the beard craze infiltrated into my own family, I knew I'd had enough. What should I do to get rid of these facial furs?

-Hirsute Assholes Take Exception

Dear HATE,

This question hits near and dear to my heart. I have been rocking a beard for a decade+ now and the influx of beards in the recent weeks/months has bothered me as well. I am even a member of the National Beard Registry. What irks me is not the beards themselves, as I have one myself, but it's being grouped in with these crazy fad following motherfuckers who show no respect for THE BEARD. If you're gonna have a beard, take care of that shit! Long beard, short beard, combed beard, whatever beard type you chose, please please please treat it with respect it deserves. Beards are NOT a toy to be played with however the wearer sees fit. Beards are not a right, but a privilege. As far as getting the beards out of your house HATE, you have two avenues to choose between: Option 1 - Get yourself some clippers, wait until El Diablo Grande falls asleep and go to town. Option 2 - Sneak attack. Get yourself some gloves and a good handful of Nair and go to town on his face. For Society at large, we have little to no chance of changing anything...For some reason I think it might be somewhat dangerous to run up to random Muslims on the Philly streets and hit em up with a little clipper action.(I know, I know call me crazy) Lets just hope that by some miracle TDR gets some readership and people read my column and realize that the beard deserves respect.

Dear Bul Bubak,

I have a problem with my roommate. He is a nice guy and all, but a terrible living companion. He is one of these environmentally sensitive California types, all about recycling and stuff, so he never throws out any newspapers or plastic bottles even though he uses about 20 of each a day. He is all about conserving water which means he leaves his shits in the toilet for others to discover. Finally, he never cleans or does the dishes; once he used 14 glasses, 7 forks, 3 plates, 3 bowls, and 4 spoons in one day (yes I counted). However, he is also a very depressed and miserable human being, so I am hesitant to speak out in rage against him for fear that he would crack completely. Bul Bubak, I know these are trivial concerns in the grand scheme of things, but they are slowly driving me to loathe a soul I should pity. Should I come clean and risk a suicide, or keep it bottled up and risk a homicide? Help me Bul Bubak, before it's too late!!!

-Putting Up with Shitty Sacramento Yalies

Dear PUSSY,
I pity you I really do. Like you I have had bad roommates in my day.(Eventually, I found a good one: clean, considerate, we have sex...now we're getting married.) Back to you PUSSY, it's a thin line between confrontation and biting your tongue. When making a decision involving a conflict with ones roommate we must take into account the steeper consequences that follow as a result of...you got it, living together! Ding Ding Ding what do you win? That's right, a shitty situation almost every time. Living with a depressed and miserable human can be very hard. I should know as I am one, and have trouble living with myself all the time. The way I see it you can either confront this hippie commie fuck like you were owned by one Mr. Vick, or you can just let it all slide. Judging from you name alone I think you will try to avoid confrontation at all costs. The problem with "letting it slide" is that eventually, you will be full and unable to stuff the bullshit down anymore and you just might explode. This explosion will be just like the confrontation except much more vicious. PUSSY, you should sit down think about the top 5 things your rooomie does to annoy you and confront him on these matters in a calm manner. Using that many dishes and flatware in a day is utterly ridiculous and should not be tolerated. Not cleaning up after himself should not be tolerated. Leaving the Cosby kids in the shitter WILL not be tolerated. Make sure you are calm, but at the same time stern. Do not waiver PUSSY, stay strong, keep the faith, black power! I have faith in you PUSSY...do not disappoint me.

Big Firm or Little Limp?

The sixers played an important game last night. Though I have devoted some previous posts to larger social issues, such as love, community service, and the ordeal known as aging, it's time we returned to what's important: The sixers are the #6 seed if the playoffs started today. We had three twenty point scorers last night and held an impressive Magic team down, quite convincingly I might add. But perhaps more important than anything, the highlights I reviewed revealed one thing: Stan Van Gundy is one ugly mug. But sheer ugliness aside, what I find most amazing about Stan Van Gundy is that he actually looks like his name should be STAN VAN GUNDY. There are just certain people whose name matches the person they have become. Let me illustrate this point with a few examples:

Natural Congruence:
Mickey Morandini. For some reason this guy looks like a Mickey. He's squirmy, pale, possibly cross-eyed and has long hair. Though wikipedia tells me his middle name is Robert, I'm guessing it once was Marvin, or something along those lines. I think we can all agree that if Mickey Morandini looked like this, it just wouldn't make sense.

Shaquille O'Neal. The diesel is a significantly sized human being. A scorer, rebounder, dancer, actor, rapping genie, heavy sweater...he does it all. Now just think, if a man of his size and stature was named "Ryan O'Neal" the whole world would be out of wack. Kudos to mama O'neal who capitalized on what was otherwise a grotesque and oversized baby.

Boris Yeltsin: Boris means "fight and fame." Maybe I am victim to some circular reasoning, but again, if Boris was named Valery, or something to that end, he wouldn't be the same man in my eyes. This is a random selection, but Boris Yeltsin has stellar hair and impressive dance moves.

Ron Rollerson. This is an obvious choice. You try being 6'10" and way north of 320lbs and have a name that isn't rollerson. Rumor has it John Chaney found big Ron snacking at a Broad Street food truck and urged him to try out for the basketball team. It would only make sense...

Kyle Korver. He could be a NASCAR driver, but he chose basketball instead. Either way, this whitey of all whiteys looks like a Kyle Korver.

Those Who Cheat to Achieve Name-Persona Symmetry:
Kevin Ferguson aka Kimbo Slice. The man made a living filming bootleg back alley videos of himself beating up others. He's about to be a national phenomenon once CBS starts airing his fights on national tv. Once married to Britney Spears, the father of two soon to be drug addicted kids and a dancing machine, Kevin did what we would all expect him to do: change his name to Kimbo Slice. His MMA career depended on it.

Connie Mack. I guess "Cornelius McGillicudd Stadium" didn't have the same ring to it. Another Cornelius gone bad is Chevy Chase. Cornelius Crane Chase had great potential!

Amhad Rashad: For years I looked up to you because you were married to Claire Huxtable and gave me NBA Rewind. Yet I come to find out that your real name is as fucking Bobby Moore. BOBBY MOORE! How did you come up with Amhad friggin Rashad? Disappointing stuff to say the least.

Zsa Zsa Gabor. No one would give two shits about you if her name had stayed "Sari." In fact, no one would even be able to pronounce it. But regardless, homegirl looks like a Zsa Zsa. prrrrr.

Name is Misleading:
I truly love young Thaddeus Young, but he doesn't look like a Thaddeus. He looks more like a Terrence or Tyrone. Thaddeus would imply that he can read, and even write at an 8th grade level. This guy would be a true Thaddeus in my book.

Sam Slaughter. Again, love Sam Slaughter, but truthfully, does THIS MAN look like a Sam Slaughter? I think not. On the other hand, this guy does.

That is all.

A Silver Lining In Every Turnover

A sad thing happened the other day. And no, I'm not talking genocide in Darfur sad, or even the death of Tanya Harding's bodyguard sad. I'm talking FO REAL SAD: I realized I am old. And on top of that, I realized I suck at basketball. I mean truly suck, like mac marston suck. So in this my 27th year, with 28 only a few months away, I've officially become the guy I laughed at merely a decade ago, winded by a simple jog, self-satisfied with a made layup. In what perhaps might be my last venture into competitive sports, my intramural team, the Young Brothers, took an ungodly L to a bunch of acne faced college freshman. Yet while my athleticism has gone down the shitter, my propensity to start fights has only improved with age. What better way to compensate for repeated airballs then call an overweight teenager a fat fuck, a tall/skinny man a piece of shit, or an under-armour clad hebrew a bunch of inflamed sticks. I'm so ashamed. What's worse, I'm a knee brace away from calling every stare a foul and walking the ball up the court for a top of the key check-ball. My vertical might as well be my ten inch penis - simply nonexistent. If I so much as get off the floor on my jump shot it's an accomplishment of epic proportions.

So where do I go from here? Give up playing a game I very much enjoy? Stop looking up to teenagers who weren't even out of diapers when I was being Bar Mitzvah'd? Buy a glove, polish my ball, and turn my attention to official old man sports where bald is cool, fat is expected, and glasses are encouraged? In some respects, I've embraced this whole aging process. I mean by default I have a built-in reason for being out of shape, forgetful, and constantly in need of taking naps. On the other hand, I'M FUCKIN 27. True, if I was a tennis player I'd be washed up. But if I was an incredible basketball player, I'd be entering free agency for the first time (or be an Israeli freshman on UCONN), ready to collect on a serious pay-day, or trying my hand at a second career in rap. The fact remains, this is no time to feel sorry for myself, but it's also not a time to hop on the treadmill and work towards getting fit. So, if those are my options, I'm choosing whatever is behind door number three. And door number three reveals taking count of everything I have to look forward to while making up stories of past athletic success.

In no time I will be a law school graduate, which means I have wasted both years of my life and plenty of money...all at the same time. It means I have also achieved commendable levels of confusion, and had the opportunity to make fun of people to their face who otherwise I likely only would have teased behind their backs. So with a law degree, a new love for Carolina bar-b-que, and a new team to root against, things are looking up. Fast forward a few years, and I might even get married to one of heaven's angels, have sexual intercourse, and produce a few kids of my own . 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.

With my early 30s behind me, surely, mid-30s will bring even greater pleasures. By then I should have adequate reserves to waste in depressing/thrilling places like casinos and strip joints, all the while managing to piss my wife off and offend my relatives. In no time my obligatory midlife crisis will be upon me and I will have a reason to buy a fancy car, throw on a hair piece, and start wearing Hawaiian shirts to work. You think being able to hit a jump shot at 27 or tap the backboard on a made layup is worth more than cashing in on my right to live vicariously through my child's domination of 7 year old soccer? If so, you crazy like a muh'fucker. Wait to my kid is being written up by Tom Amodie in the Chestnut Hill Local for scoring 8 goals all while wearing shinguards over his jeans. You just wait.

So I guess this is my form of therapy. Let this serve as a reminder to the collective reader. When the passage of time has you down, and you find yourself thinking about shit that you could do ten years ago that you can't even stay awake long enough to consider now, remind yourself what the next ten or fifteen years will potentially provide. And I'm not one to assume a sunny disposition on my future, but a brother can dream...even if that brother is creeping on thirty and feeling like sixty. When your look down and your balls have apparently dropped almost six inches below your shaft, don't cry! think about celebrating a Sixers championship in ten years, and the election of our fair city's new mayor. When you start feeling ashamed that your favorite college basketball player is the son of your once favorite R&B singer, shun that shame and start telling your kids and their friends lies to make you look cool. And when things are really looking down, smoke some weed with your cleaning people and pretend you are black.

Ask Tha Bul Bubak...

Dear Bul Bubak,

I am afraid that my fiancée has multiple personality disorder. Now he thinks he is an advice columnist. I really love him, and I put up with lots of his social issues, but I'm not sure if I can deal with Multiple Personality Disorder. What should I do?

Scared It's For Life.

Dear SIFL,

I would not be too worried about your fiancee, I have a funny feeling that he is: 1) A great advice columnist, and 2) An amazing lover/caregiver/cook. As far as these "social issues" you mention, I say take a really good look at this man and ask yourself, NO, TELL YOURSELF "This is truly a great Jew I got here, and whatever issues he has do not even compare to all the wonderful things he has and will do for/with me in the future." My answer to you is don't be scared, be happy and thankful; that you could find a man that seems eerily similar to Tha Bul Bubak.

Dear Bul Bubak,

If you hear you neighbors having sex, is it ok to get a glass and place it against the adjoining wall and jerk off to the sweet serenade of their fuck?

Curious Regarding Eerily Erotic Panting

Dear CREEP,

YES. ALWAYS and FOREVER this will be an acceptable and encouraged act.

P.S. Send me the audio.

Dear Bul Bubak,

This guy at work is an asshole with sociopathic tendencies. He's always talking about slicing off people's heads and then sticking his genitals in their orifices. He sleeps wrapped in aluminum foil because he believes other people send brain waves that disturb his sleep. But he's also sexy and I'd like to have intercourse with him. Even though I don't want to date him, is it okay to send him random text-message booty calls? What if he is bad in the sack? Is it okay if I never call him again?

-Searching for Lust for the Umpteenth Time

Dear SLUT,

Let me begin by saying that slicing of peoples head and fucking their esophagus is something that this sociopath stole from me! I came up with it, and even invented a term for this act – Decopulation. I will try to put my anger of being ripped off aside and answer this question in an unbiased manner.

I had to take a brief tying break there to let my anger subside. OK. You SLUT are a breath of fresh air to all men…Of course it is ok, even encouraged, to send sexy texts to any man for a booty call. The (semi) regular booty call is the ultimate goal of all men. I attained it once…now we are getting married. So what I am saying is BE CAREFUL! As an unnamed source told me -

"The booty date is incredible. I've found that you only get about 3-4 calls made or accepted before it either has to die a fiery death or ceases being a booty call and assumes the title of dating." Be afraid, be very afraid.

I do realize that your question is a conglomerate of many smaller questions, they are all tied together and shall be answered now. Everything I have told you so far IS the gospel. Read it, know it, believe it, do it. As far as the aluminum foil and never calling him again, well that is up to how you feel about him in the sack. Assuming that sociopathic tendencies and copulation are not the only things your man and Tha Bul Bubak have in common, I bet he is wondrous in said sack. I guess what I am trying to say is real good sex is at a premium these days: If he delights, ignore the foil and go about frolicking in the meadow that is his loins, who knows maybe you'll like it and end up like this. If he sucks(and not in the good way) in bed feel free to never call him again and think he is a weirdo for the whole foil thing.

I hope this helps you out SLUT.

- Who knew it felt so good to help people and call them slut at the same time? Not me.

People I am running out of questions to answer, please please please send in your questions to thabulbubak@gmail.com .

Silly Mets, Bens In Flight and DJ LW3

Carlos Beltran lacks originality. Which is unsurprising for many reasons, but most notably because he is a member of the New York Mets, and as such has already sacrificed his soul, dignity and independent thought to become part of such a heinous, heinous organization. In this instance, Beltran decided to tell Jimmy Rollins, via the national media, that the Mets were the team to beat this year. Those who were not in a coma or in the grips of a hazy heroin binge (Big Firm, who thankfully is finally getting the help he so desperately needed) this time last year will remember that Cousin Jimmy said, well, the exact same thing about the Phils. We can only assume that this “prophecy” is the result of the Mets picking up two-time Cy Young winner Johan Santana from the Minnesota Twins for a few dollars more than a completely irrational, utterly insane amount of money, and despite that I didn’t even know the Twins existed since Kirby Puckett (RIP) retired, the guy appears to know how to throw a ball slightly better than Ryan Rossito. That being said, one Venezuelan pitcher an unstoppable juggernaut of team does not make. Just ask Oogie Urbina. The Gooch aside, the Phils haven’t lost any of the kings and cuzzes that were responsible for our ascent to greatness within the NL East last season, and in that same vein, the Mets haven’t gotten rid of any of the key contributors (no, famed pederast Paul Lo Duca does not count) to their awe-inspiring spiraling of the toilet bowl which led to them sacrificing a seven game division lead at the end of last season. J-Roll has yet to respond, but when he does chances are it will be more than slightly hurtful, possibly anti-Puerto Rican and certainly 100% true. We’ll keep you updated.



Moving on, the NBA All-Star game allegedly happened yesterday. As of press time I still have no idea who won, and frankly I don’t give half of a shit. Not only because Sammy D was criminally absent from the event, but simply because I refuse to watch all-star games in any of their various manifestations. If I wanted to see a lot of tall, black, athletic dudes score excessively with little to no competition or contention, I’d have a party for my friends and all the white girls I know, and invite the Temple and Villanova basketball teams. At least that way I’m not drinking by myself staring at a TV. Anti-all-star (should there really be that many hyphens?) game sentiment aside, some spectacular shit did manage to go down at the dunk contest. A black superman, pastries, a St. Joes alum…it actually was worth watching and not describing. Thanks to the wonders of youtube, you can do that here:



Speaking of the NBA, our own LW3 wrapped week two of his radio show on 100.3 The Beat yesterday. Being the dedicated DR Editorial Staff member that I am, I have yet to actually listen to it. If anyone has and can offer playlist selections or a review of some manner, feel free to comment below, or e-mail to thedalembertreport@gmail.com.

Finally, I want to take a moment to give a big fuck you to the writers and producers of The Wire. After 4 and ¾ seasons worth of frightening dedication on my part, doing what they’ve done to me is unconscionable. Since many fans may not have OnDemand and are therefore unable to watch the episodes a week in advance, I won’t go into specifics, but those that do and have watched the episode can probably guess what I’m talking about. So, to Ed Burns, David Simon and co-writer of the episode Dennis Lehane, I put you all on official warning that should I see you walking down the street between now and the time I inevitably stop caring, you’re going to have some shit thrown at you. Literally. I’m not above that.

Brett Myers, Multi-Talented

Spring training is officially underway, and the Mets are already talking shit. But Brett Myers ain't never scurred. Apparently dude can do more than just beat his wife and threaten to eat Sam Carchidi's children: he can play pranks as well.

Take it away, Leslie Gudel:

We In Here Talkin' Bout...

The Sixers stunning and brutal decimation of Memphis last night gave them 5 wins in a row, and more importantly, means we can all start talkin' bout:

I Choo Choo Choose You

Ah, Valentines Day. Has me reminiscing for the days when girls sent themselves (or their fat friends) carnations in high school to feel loved. I feel like 7-8 carnations made you fly back then, whereas one just made you look like you sent it to yourself. Of course being an over-zealous boyfriend, I might have spent a whole ten dollars to make my lady feel important, and an additional five to stalk someone else (if there was a picture of the one, the only Jen Fields out there...I would have linked to it here). Valentines day meant candy too, tons of that shit. Whoever created those candy hearts with not so clever messages written on them was a a modern-day genius. Well today Valentines Day means something quite different. I have a question for the collective lady out there (do we have any female readers?): if I bought an engagement ring - or pretty much anything - from Zales, Kay Jewelers, or Jareds Galleria of Jewelry, would I even make it to second base that night? I'm no expert, but I'd rather have a life size wall magnet of Triple H than a journey pendant. But I don't want to put a damper on an otherwise festive/depressing time. So during this time of worldwide love, I ask myself: Big Firm, what makes a casanova a casanova? Well I've been around the same girl since I had braces and thought it was cool to let my boxer shorts hang below my umbros, so the fact is I have no idea. But having no idea never stopped me before, and it won't stop me now.

Confidence. Even if it's false confidence, confidence is the name of the game. There's always that guy out there w/ the stank breath, fucked up teeth, scrawny arms, and terrible threads that holds his own w/ the ladies. And why? b/c he has confidence, however misplaced it may be. For the record i'm watching a commercial for something called ibot. It's some sort of five foot tall wheelchair that allows the handicapped to play basketball w/ middle schoolers. I'm very confused. In any event, back to confidence: if there's one thing I'm confident about it, it's that confidence can't be sacrificed.

Style. Black dudes got all the style in my book, especially tall black guys. They get away w/ anything! Black guys pull of the short sleeved button down like its nobody's business, while white guys only catch wreck for the same conduct. Even orange jumpsuits look better on a black man. Ok, that was below the belt, but you get my point. You tell ME how one guy can look so damn smoooove rockin the oversized white tee and the other guy so damn hopeless. Style is hard to pin down, but some of the fellas just got it, and most of us don't. Either way, if you can wear a jacket that has more buttons than you have pairs of socks, do that thang, and do it proudly. Style is about taking risks, but doing it w/ confidence. See that's where these categories start to merge together. One can't come w/o the other. Casanovas know this. Casanovas live this.

Hair. There was a day about 5 years ago that I looked in the mirror and noticed that my hair was falling out. I like to call that day "the day of black death." But hair is of the utmost importance, and again, I must draw the distinction b/w the black folk and the white folk. God is punishing us white people by making it so much harder to go bald than it is for our darker brethren. Why does a black guy with a shiny dome look like the man while a white guy rockin a horseshoe just looks more jewish? There are of course the rare exceptions to this rule, but honestly, hair is huggggggggge. Fabio became a fuckin icon on the strength of his hair. That nerdy Indian kid from American Idol who couldn't sing for shit even made a name for himself b/c of his hair. Point being that a true player has quality hair, or in the alternative, is black and makes having no hair look good. You think Six liked Joey Lawrence b/c he wrapped flannel shirts around his waist? Or David Silver could climb the social latter and start dating Donna Martin b/c he wore hammer pants in ninth grade? Nah, homey, it's was the hair.

Alcohol Consumption. A true casanova knows the fine balance b/w losing inhibitions and offending the women he seeks to sleep w/. That's one of the reasons why this guy isn't a ladies man in my book, and this guy is. Think of the guy by the window of the bar, toothpick in the corner of his mount, pointing and winking at the ladies at the bar, lightly drinking those vodka tonics and keeping it light but fluid. Little do they know he's been popping pharmeceuticals all night and plans to take it out on some unsuspecting coed, but he looks cool, and by the time the ladies figure it out, he will be out the door and telling his friends all about it. Ok maybe thats my own personal dream, but i still think finding that balance is an essential element of player status.

The intangibles: is there anything more important than a sense of humor? Funny men pull chicks they have absolutely no business even being allowed to stalk, even when said funny man looks like a 7th grader. So do magicians, which gives me hope b/c im repeatedly told I look like David Blaine. Which is better than looking like Andy Pettite right now, but I digress. A fella who can make the ladies laugh and otherwise forget his many shortcomings is sure to come out on top. Carrot Top finds his way to the Playboy mansion on a regular basis, and even fat comedians make the ladies swoon. If you can't turn them on, you my as well make them laugh as they walk away. Other intangibles: teeth. You simply got very little chance w/o them...even if they are a disgrace to orthodontics; Composure: If you are the man, chances are everyone else hates you. It's only natural for jealousy to manifest itself in this manner. But if there's one thing the ladies don't like, it's a hot-head. So just when you are about to lose your cool, deep breaths, punch your own hand, and walk away. That or drop the motherfucker Kimbo Slice style.

Car. Hard to be the man without one, at least in most places. Hard to be the man in a shitty one everywhere. SEPTA is cool, but public transportation is no place to get your swerve on. Well maybe the R8, but not in the depths of Olney. I rolled in a 1989 Ford Taurus and it was hardly player-prolific. But when I upgraded to my mom's 95 camry-station wagon....wooooooo-eeeeeeee, that electric seatbelt, a more natural panty dropper there has never been.

Linen collection. Gots to have that bathrobe w/ the initials on it. A true casanova rolls out of bed, throws on the B/F terrycloath, grabs the newspaper, slippers, and starts making breakfast while his jawn stays submerged in his smooth silk linens. Let me be clear: I have never done this, nor do I have silk linens, but it's what I imagine someone w/ class and money would do. And I bet that person has great hair too.

Hotel Selection: It's easy to fake the funk like you are the man when staying in a hotel. not so easy when you take your lady back to the apartment and it's a real shithole. I learned this lesson way back when Semi had the dope jacuzzi going and the florescent empire state building wall decoration and that alone got him a lady even though he's all gummy and shit. So clearly, apartments help...but fuck an apartment, the hotel is where you can look impressive. Take a lady to a fancy hotel that you got a good deal on, pretend it cost 450/night, pick up the phone and place a few complaints to look assertive and you are in like flynn.

On a completely unrelated note, I think it's time we all applauded Peter from the Cosby Show. From riding Cliff's knee in a completely inappropriate manner to playing backup center for the Virginia Cavaliers, all while first becoming Lithuanian, Peter never disappoints. You, my friend, are an inspiration to all child stars.

Ask Tha Bul Bubak...

Dear Bul Bubak,

Is it ok to despise a person because they have a skin affliction which turns them into a dry, flaky monster that itches and scratches itself all day? I have to watch and be grossed out. Is it out of line to ask them what the hell is wrong with them? and tell them about the wonders of moisturizer?

- Fed up with Looking At Killer Eczema

Dear FLAKE,

It is ok to despise a man for absolutely no good reason at all. I could name at least three people off the top of my head who fall into that category, throw in some untreated skin affliction and bang! Hate Hate Hate! One thing we can all agree on is that working stinks. We would all rather be filthy rich on a beach somewhere nice and topless. Why at work should you be forced to hear the sound of fingernails scratching dry skin all day? You should not! Nor should you or anyone have to stare at arm dandruff or inflamed skin during that most harrowing eight plus hours of the day. Flake, you should bring your own moisturizer to work, use some, and ask this walking ointment commercial if he would like some. Eventually this will do the trick. (If not, tell him to buy his own tube. Cheap bastard.) If he refuses your offer of skin lube, ask him if he realizes he is the driest thing this side of the Mohave and the mere site of him makes you want to castrate yourself with a butter knife. I am pretty sure this one will get through to him.

Dear Bul Bubak,

I wanna "do" my good buddy's fiancée. Is that wrong? Should I refrain from acting on these feelings?

-Just Mulling Over Sex

Dear JMOS,

As I went over in last week’s column, there is nothing wrong with having sexual thoughts and fantasies about any women. NOTHING! To answer the first part of your inquiry: No it’s not wrong to want to “do” what I can only assume is an incredibly hot piece of ass. I am sure this woman you speak of is gorgeous, smart and can dance like nobody’s business. That being the case I can only imagine how hard it must be to not jump on her every time you see her. Should you act on these feelings? Do you still want to be friends with your “good buddy”? For some reason I am picturing this buddy as a bearded male that outweighs you by about 65 pounds and has some mental problems that might make him “snap”. So I would advise against buggering his fiancée…he might eat you if you do. (Not a pleasant way to go, trust me, I’ve been there.) In closing, if she is totally wasted and coming on to you and I…I mean he is out of town or passed out, GO FOR IT!

This has nothing to do with anything, but I find it to be uproarious! Just for good measure.

Once again, I encourage one and all to send me your moral and ethical dilemmas, problems, queries, if your unsure of of what to eat, watch, do or say. I can be reached at thabulbubak@gmail.com.

Moving Forward

A couple of weeks ago, Chief Naka and myself were fortunate enough to attend a summit with Ed Stefanski where he held forth on his upcoming plans to surround Sammy D with enough talent to reach the finals. Essentially, he told us that they key to the Sixers success next year was getting Willie Green and Reggie Evans out of the starting lineup, which he proposed to do by moving Iguodala to the 2, Young Thad to the 3, and using our cap space to acquire, if not a superstar, at least a studly power forward who can run the floor, bung many a dunk, play d, and provide a low post threat in a half court offense.

Since the Sixers were, at the time of our meeting, the only team projected to have significant cap room, Stefanski's logic was to put pressure on teams to match the Sixers' qualifying offers to their restricted free agents.

There are a few players out there that fit this criteria in various ways:

Josh Smith – This dude is at the top of the list. Like Wesley Snipes in Future Sport, he is unstoppable physical force when combined with a skateboard and hockey stick. And like Wesley, he would wreak much havoc in a starting 5 of Sammy, Smith/Snipes, Young Thad, Iggy and Andre Miller. It would be a 48 minute dunk and blockathon. Fuck and yes.

Tyrus Thomas – this nuh is athletic and was a super high pick last year, but apparently he has an attitude problem and isn’t actually a free agent this year anyway. So fuck him sideways.

Ron Artest – Stefanksi: "The problem with Artest is that he is bipolar and doesn’t take his medicine. I’m not sure he is the type of guy we want around our young players."

Emeka Okafor – definitely an intriguing proposition to pair up front with Sammy. Problem is, he turned down a big contract extension last summer, and he tends to get injured. Also, he isn’t that good. I hereby move that we start calling him ‘Enema Fuckafor’.

Charlie Villanueva – He’s not a free agent, but has been mentioned as a trade possibility that could be got for a relatively small cost. He is undoubtedly a funny looking dude, but is ‘nuff versatile and a pretty good rebounder. Not a free agent, but if the price is right (ie, some Willie Green/Carney basket o’ cheer) I for one would welcome his alien-looking self to the frontcourt. He gets a tentative seal of approval.

Drew Gooden – Don’t want him, and we would only get him with some type of Andre Miller-led deal, which the DR editorial staff is uncategorically opposed to (today at least). Though his beard would fit in mad well in Philly.

Jermaine O'Neal – "O’Neal and AJ with the counterattack!" Dude makes too much dough.

Udonis Haslem – Would Haslem and Jason Williams’ 7 million expiring deal be enough to trade Andre Miller? According to Chief Naka, Haslem is a poor man’s Halloween Hill. Which makes him Reggie Evans, who we already have. So fuck him too.

We're Back Baby!!!!!!!!!

Behold, the imfamous and rarely spotted white dunker. Apparently, dude is also a Canadian...Double Whammy!

See You at Your Birthday Pahty Richter!

The DR would like to take a moment to wish a happy birthday to a man who really needs no introduction. It was 58 years today, in an igloo in a remote province of Canadia (OK so it was Toronto), that the world witnessed the birth of one Fred "Michael" Ironside".

Aside from Samuel Dalembert and the genius who invented Yvengling, Fred Michael is probably the guy from whom this site draws the most inspiration. It would be a waste of time to describe all the things we love about Michael Ironside (we could write 5,000 words on his name alone), suffice to say that anyone who can pull off the Top Gun/Total Recall/Free Willy trifecta is a man for whom written tributes hold no meaning. So here's our visual tribute to one of the great scowls to ever grace the silver screen:

Pic of the Day

The Sixers 2001 draft class. Wherefore art thou, Damone Brown? First person to guess the other dude (no google allowed) wins a lap dance from The Bul Bubak.

A New Era Begins

The Dalembert Report would like to once again welcome to its already illustrious fold of commentators the well-known internet superstar and part time English person Arnold T. Pants. He's here to write about soccer, people. Get over it.

Friendly matches are supposed to be for tuning up, testing compatibility, and amiably hosting some foreigners for 90 minutes. They can also be used for healing. Thanks to Steve McClaren, most English folks are now either huge rugby fans (thanks Wales, you fucked that up for us to!) or pretend to like cricket. Having sacked Steve after his failure to take the Three Lions into the European Cup this summer, the FA decided on Fabio Capello, an Italian bloke that doesn't speak English.

Despite that minor issue and some apparent tax problems, people like Marcel Desailly and Sir Alex Fergusson (who it must be noted are not English) believe Capello a sound choice. David Beckham, left out of the squad, and also previously dropped by the Italian when at Real Madrid, also offers his backing. Will this experiment work? Will he be like the last foreign manager, Sven Goran Eriksson, and be just a little too casual?

Some answers remained unanswered as England took the field on Wednesday. Switzerland, having not played a true competitive match in time, were the guests at Wembley. England, with new shirts, new manager, and new interim captain, Steven Gerrard, played a decidedly nervous match.

In the ninth minute, a great run of play lead to a charging Wayne Rooney. His strike was narrowly saved, and from there the tone was set. A missed opportunity would be the most exciting moment of the game.

Yes, there were goals. With five minutes to go in the first half, Jermain Jenas (who my little cousin says is gay) tapped in a cross from Joe Cole. Cole was a bright point for England, offering a few promising crosses that failed to be controlled by their recipients.

The first 45 minutes were played with a disappointing lack of control, but at least we were up. There was hope (sadly, a single half is enough to fill me with this emotion). That all dissipated when Switzerland leveled the game one all. A sound goal, to be fair, yet still enough to rouse my suspicions about the manager. Why is David "Calamity" James still a fair choice in goal? Would concentration again be an issue?

In answer to the second question, yes it will continue to plague. A goal by Wright-Phillips in the 62nd proved the winner. Thank god. He's a good lad, his step-father the great Ian Wright, and beyond he deserves recognition as one of England's young stars. If only he was not a Chelsea boy. His goal was a highlight in an otherwise lackluster performance.

My mother joined me to watch the second half. I said, "This is rather tedious." She said, "They are still complete crap." Such is the English belief in our side. Short of winning the world cup, and regardless of whom we field, they will always be shit; a mere blip on sporting memory among stalwarts like Prince Nassem, Tim Henman and Eddie the Eagle.

A first match victory should not cloud expectations (remember McClaren's troops were four goals to nil winners in his first campaign). Capello has much to do. But, so does the English public who rather than birthing expert drinkers and rabble rousers should begin to concentrate on popping out footballers.

News and Notes

Last week was a busy week. Super Bowl Sunday bled into the Super Tuesday primary elections, which handed off to the shocking trade of Shaq-Fu to Phoenix, and wrapped up nicely with a third consecutive victory by the Sixers on Saturday night. No matter what butters your bread, be it sports, politics, sports, or sports, you are in the right place now my friend. Here now is a Monday Morning Week in Review.

The Super Bowl:

We sports fans occasionally make a deal with the devil. Sometimes it involves praying to a god we don't believe in in search of a victory he/she never delivers, probably because we don't believe in him/her in the first place, but which forever ruins our credibility with said god in case we truly needed help. Often we beg and plead with upper management to spend money and sign big name player X, only to have big name player X be overrated, injury-prone, or flat-out nuts. And sometimes we are put in a tight spot which calls upon us to root for a team we hate in order for a team we hate even more to lose. Such was last week's Super Bowl. Seeing the Patriots near-perfect season crash into a fiery ditch was a 9 on a satisfaction scale, and the reason it wasn't a 10 is simple: for the rest of time we have to live with this inconceivable fact: Eli Manning, Super Bowl MVP.

Rooting for the Giants was painful but necessary, like crunching your nose back into place after breaking it, or sprinting to catch the last bus home and leaving your girlfriend in the street. I don't feel good about it. But living with Eli Manning as a redeemed figure is more acceptable to me than a lifetime of New England being referred to as the greatest team of all-time, so I have to find solace in that. As for the game, it was thrilling to watch. It ended up being the most watched Super Bowl ever, and the second most matched television program behind the final episode of M.A.S.H., which made me wonder: why did so many damn people watched the final episode of M.A.S.H? Did somebody shoot Hawkeye?

One last note about the Super Bowl, I think it's way past time to drop the roman numerals from the official logo. It gives me a headache looking at all those x's and l's. Is Wrestlemania still using roman numerals??!! I doubt it.

Super Tuesday:

John McCain whooped that ass last Tuesday and has essentially secured the Republican nomination. Only a Mike Huckabee comeback reminiscent of LL Cool J circa 1990 can prevent what appears to be the inevitable McCain train from leaving the station. McCain strikes mild fear into the hearts of Democrats largely because of his continued ability to be white and male, which will come in handy when he is opposing a half-Black man and a half-female woman. Hillary lovers relax, I was kidding. I'll vote for her if I need to.

On the Democratic side last Tuesday proved to be much less decisive. The process of accumulating delegates is so confusing it is worthless; I'd rather be one of millions who has no idea what is going on then one of a dozen or so professors who understand it all but only have a dozen people in the world to relate to. Just as I was starting to get a grasp on Iowa and New Hampshire I find out each state has different rules regarding elections and apportioning of delegates. At this rate I will be able to explain all 50 States voting rules when I'm 75, just in time for my memory to hemorrhage all the useful information it owns besides the name of my dog. What I do understand is that Barack vs. Hilary will extend longer, giving Americans even more time to realize that Barack delivers far better speeches, has brown skin, and did far more drugs in college than Hillary, all clear advantages when running for president.

Shaq gets traded:

This trade looks foolish is you are a Phoenix fan. Shaq is old and injured and makes 20 mil a year, three hearty strikes in any book. But wait, let's hold off on panning the trade until we see the big fella in action out in the land of the cacti. Those three strikes explain why he was so burdensome in Miami where he was surrounded by slop; in Phoenix he will only be asked to throw his massive body around, play defense, grab rebounds, and provide the natural charm he conjures so easily. He will keep the locker room loose while commanding respect from the other bigs in the West. In a sport in which chemistry is more important than talent, removing the sulky Shawn Marion and replacing him with a genial giant could be the move that gets them to the Finals. Or it could backfire like a banana in the tailpipe. Either way I'll say I told you so.

Sixers are unstoppable:

Listen up Sixer fans: If you are rooting for the team to lose so they can get a higher draft pick you need to think back a year and remember how that played out. This team is simply not bad enough to have any hope of getting a top 3 pick. So enjoy the wins! Take pleasure in the vision of them playing in the playoffs, maybe even pulling an upset of the Celtics in Round 1. Isn't that worth more than the #12 pick in the draft? Okay, since we drafted Young Thad with the #12 pick last year I'll have to say no, it wouldn't be worth it, but since there is no Young Thad to draft this year I change my answer to yes, it would be worth it. I love Young Thad.

Lost is back:

Last Thursday was the 2nd episode of the new season and I would love to give important information away but in a development as surprising as today's sunrise there were no answers whatsoever, only more characters and confusion. This show is the biggest dick tease ever.

Omar walks with a limp but still packs the shottie:

Omar from The Wire has joined Bud from The Cosby Show and Blanche from The Golden Girls as the TV characters most deserving of a spin-off show. He also is easily the coolest gay in tv history(apologies to Frugal Gourmet and Lavar Burton) and the most interesting story on a show full of them. Fuck an Emmy, this man deserves true respect: his own line of trench coats.

Roger Clemens keeps lying:

This isn't remotely news, but it was also revealed that Roger's wife used steroids before a photo shoot in which she wore a bathing suit. Still barely news but plenty disturbing. About as disturbing as the two of them giving each of their kids a name starting with K, the letter used to represent a strikeout in baseball. And we're supposed to believe anything a man like that says?

Pimp C sipped syrup and died:

It was revealed that Pimp C, half of legendary Houston rap group UGK, died of a overdose of codeine and promethazine, also known as "syrup". Be warned young people: pouring that combination on your pancakes, while allowing you to sell drugs, rap better, and meet exciting new friends, can also end your life. All jokes aside, Pimp C was the man.

Lastly, Sunday, February 10th was Lenny Dykstra's birthday. Happy birthday dude.

Bienvenidos Amigos

Welcome readers, let me formally introduce you to the newest incarnation of my weekly column: Ask Tha Bul Bubak... Think the Ethicist form the New York Times, but much much better. Anyone that knows me knows that I am the be all end all when it comes to lifes questions and answers. Without further ado... let the questions start rolling in.


Dear Bul Bubak,
I am hopelessly in love with a young lady that works in my office. All i can think about all day are bizarre and erotic sex acts I would like to perform on her. Its distracting me from my job and, more importantly, from my blogging. Did I mention that said lady is my 19 year old intern? Please help me Bul Bubak, you're my only hope. Sincerely, Creepy Older Guy(COG)

Hey COG,
Let me start by asking is there a man out there who doesn't fantasize about strange and erotic sex acts with young girls? NO there is not. I am on the verge of being locked down for life with a wonderful women, yet all i can think about all day e'ry day is the strangest and most erotic of sex acts being performed on ladies by Tha Bul Bubak himself. Let me assure you COG that there is nothing, NOTHING wrong with thinking about performing lewd and lascivious acts on taught young jawns. Only when over 18 of course. Do you get a paycheck? Have you been reprimanded for not doing a good job? If the answers to these questions are no, then you my friend are not being that distracted form your job. As far as Blogging goes, you can always find time for that(especially if you have a laptop):
- On the Can
- Right after buggering your intern
- Right after your intern sucks you dry
- When waiting for your intern to get to your desk...or bedroom


Dear Bul Bubak,
I have a dilemma, and it is far worse than the one Nelly and Kelly Rowland had. No, I am not engaged in a wild fling with a married woman (though I know someone that is), instead I have a secret that has been eating away at me since '95. That summer, I dared my brother to shit on the front lawn. He did. As he was completing the bowl movement, the nose of my mother's white dodge caravan appeared in the driveway. My brother bolted. The shit remained. My mother saw this and immediately blamed the dog and smacked his nose. The dog knew it was my brother, and if he could only speak he would have snitched. Now I am left with this secret. Should I hold it til death, or come clean on or near my brothers birthday?
-Anonymous

Well Anonymous,
This reminds me of the time I went to the market with my mom and proceeded to shit myself upon getting out of the car. I had a dilemma of my own that day: Tell mother Bubak that her 19 year old son had just shit himself and as such we had to go home, undoubtedly enraging her... Or don't say a word and go about our business.(Note: not a log in the pants, but more of a shart) Anyway, I decided not to tell her for fear of her wrath...that is until I got tired of being in there with shit in my pants and said loud enough so she and a select others could hear "Hey mom, I think I shit my pants" This worked wonders and we were soon on our way home. Back to you Anonymous: I have two choices for you.

Choice 1: Play the waiting game my friend, play it long and play it hard. Lay back in the cut and just wait for that moment when your mum gets really really pissed at you for something like getting your entire side tattooed and keeping it from her. When she is at her peak of anger and really getting into you good, break out with something along these lines: "Oh yeah, well lil bro was the one who shitted on the lawn back in the summer of '95! How you like them apples? I think you owe a certain K9 an apology." There is no way she will still be mad at you as she will feel awful for the way she treated her pet/family member and immediately shower it with affection.
Choice 2: Next time the family is together, say Christmas, sneak this dog into your moms room and have it shit all over the place. Pillows, floors, toilet, shower etc. When mom finds this and gets ever so angry at the pup, you flip the script and blame little bro.

Please, I encourage one and all to send me your moral and ethical dilemmas, problems, queries, if your unsure of of what to eat watch do or say. I can be reached at thabulbubak@gmail.com. Until next week and I come up with some kind of catch phrase.

Put this one in the Win Column For the Fightin' Phils

First off, I extend my gratitude to editor in chief eldiablogrande for relinquishing his hump-day posting privileges, and secondly, my apologies to the greater public for missing my assigned posting day last week. Rest assured it will not happen again. But now on to what's important.

The votes are in, and sammy D is not an all star. At least not according to whoever selects the NBA all stars. But the fact remains, Sammy, in the hearts of your loyal editors, you are an all star of the highest order. Averaging a double-double is no small feat, and you have made it look effortless. Well done, big man. Sammy's absence doesn't mean the sixers wont be represented in N'awlins, however. Young thad should be in the rookie-sophomore game...and if not playing, certainly blogging about it. Sadly no korver = no three point specialist to get Iverson fired up on the sidelines during the 3 point contest, but in my personal opinion, korver isn't even the best three point shooter to ever suit up in a sixers uniform, so I say good riddance.

I live in Tar Heel country, and last I checked, February comes before March...which means that w/ March Madness fast approaching, I've started thinking about what's truly important: the announcers. Fuck the players, I'm pretty much only concerned w/ who is announcing the big games. There are a lot of questionable play-by-play men, and even more suspect in-studio hosts. I've spent the better part of my life wanting to be a sportscaster, and then i turn around and its as though anyone can get a job talking about sports, yet here i sit another cog in the man's machine. But before I loose my cool and have a "watershed moment ," I think now is as good a time as any to consider some of my favorite (and least favorite) sports voices.

The Cream of the Crop
Gus Jonhson: I'm pretty damn certain that everyone on the DR - and our 5 readers - agrees that Gus Johnson is unstoppable. It's a shame he doesn't narrate my everyday existence. "Big firm wakes up, steps out of bed...he's going for the toothpasssssssste... GOT IT! AND ONE!" Well maybe that wouldn't work, but the man has skillz. Hands down the most excited play by play man on the planet, and perhaps the least annoying screamer to ever bless a mic.

Mel Allen. Has there ever been a better show than This Week in Baseball? My memories mostly consist of incredible 80s uniforms, funny mascots, and players sticking bubblegum on other players hats while they aren't looking. For some reason it makes me think of Andres Galarraga in an Expos uniform, which is random, but the Big Cat was a gifted first baseman, and Youppi was a most serious mascot. I got no love for the Yankees (unless they are playing the Red Sox), so Mel Allen isn't an all time favorite, but TWIB gets my baseball juices pumping, and "plaaaaays of the week" was a consistent saturday afternoon pleaser.

"The old white man group...and I like you"
Harry Kalas: I had a discussion w/ a friend recently who couldn't understand why Harry the K was famous. He said he was boring, bland, perhaps even asleep. I tried to identify what was so great about Harry, but struggled to capture his genius in words. There's just SOMETHING in his voice - you might call it cigarettes, I prefer the touch of God - that makes him special. One theory might be that his greatness is excentuated only by the shit the Phillies surround him with, but I'm not hearing any of that conspiracy bull shit. Harry's voice soothes the soul like a Teddy P concert. No man I'd rather hear describe a Pat Burrell shot to left off of Johan Santana than Harry, or threaten Chris Weeler's life. Anyone who is cool w/ Steve Sable is cool w/ me, and Harry the K is a one of a kind. And as a side note, bring back Andy Musser.

Jack Buck: "I don't believe what I just saw" pretty much says it all. Seriously, try to watch this w/o getting chills. Sadly Jack Buck is related to Joe Buck, but notwithstanding that shortcoming, Jack Buck was a great announcer, and gives a damn good post 9/11, post seizure speech. Something about old white guys calling baseball games just seems to make sense, and makes me eager for April.

Vin Scully. Dude was born to call a baseball game. You'd think a nasal voice would almost by necessity point him towards another career path, but instead he has called dodgers games for decades. You might know that he called the Mookie Wilson ball rolling through Bill Buckner's legs, Hank Aarons 715th homer, and Kirk Gibson's homer that is described above. What you might not know is that Scully called "The Catch" by Dwight Clark. Homeboy is a multi-dimensional talent.

Larry Merchant: I don't watch much boxing, but Merchant's post-game interviews are special. Where else does a retarded white man get to confuse a sweating, hulking black man out of his jock strap? Why does HBO keep sending him into the ring just when the most madness is setting off? Either way, Merchant extends pay-per-view events by an average 30 minutes w/ his 17 words/minute insight, which makes 55 bucks to watch a small irishman get his shit beat by PBF not seem like a complete ripoff.

The "Not sure Why I Like You But I Do"
Dick Enberg. "OHHHHH MY." When Malivai Washington hung em up, tennis became for the most part dead to me. I mean Zena Garrison was ok, but a man can tolerate a white sport for only so long. But then there are other reasons to tune into Wimbledon. Dick Enberg brings Ivan Lendl and Goran Isanesovic to life! Forget the lesbian & crazy jew in the booth w/ him, Enberg is unphased by the Jensen brothers, Venus & Serena's father, or crazy Germans stabbing Monica Seles. He's a man of utmost consistency, and therefore I applaud him quite politely.

Whoa Nellie, Keith Jackson makes me think of Big Ten football and ABC generally. Besides sharing the same name w/ an all-time Eagle great, he's been described as folksy, down to earth, and blessed by a shockingly low voice. If nothing else, he looks like he can consume a ton of hard liquor, and drives a huge American car. I bet he also walks really slowly, has fake knees and/or hips, and refuses to get contact lenses or turn on the heat in January. Pure speculation, but the man has got to be a good a good fashion stick in the mud.

Chick Hearn. I am by no means a Lakers fan, but Chick Hearn was the voice of Showtime. One can only imagine how many times he provided play-by-play for Magic, Worthy and Kareem gang-banging Lakers groupies in the locker-room during the 80s. Any chance he didn't do coke off of Kurt Rambus' Rec Specs during that time? I think not...

Phil Simms: I should definitely hate him, but I appreciate Simms in the booth. For one, he might actually know something, which is more than I can say for some others. Between him and Aikman I regretably must acknowledge that enemies from the past are pretty decent and knowledgable football analysts, KKK membership aside.

Clark Kellogg: I like Kellogg for his name alone. What kind of self-respecting black college basketball star is named CLARK??!! He is on the air for three weeks a year, yet came to mind no less. On top of that, he puts up w/ Greg Gumbel and once high-fived me on 6th avenue while telling me Temple had no chance of winning the NIT. He covers it all!

Steve "Snapper" Jones: Is it me or did snapper have strep throat permanently? He also had the misfortune of being placed next to Bill Walton (and his spit) during NBA on NBC games and, as far as I'm concerned, had some weird sexual tension w/ Walton to boot. Or maybe that was racial tension. Regardless, the man had the proverbial frog in his throat AT ALL TIMES. Love that snapper.

Bob Uecker. Great role in Major League makes him loveable. Plus, he's the regular play-by-play man for the Brew Crew, a loveable bunch of losers if there ever was one. Add on to that genius Miller Lite commercials, and a living legend is among us.

Verne Lundquist: Great name, great belly, huge glasses. Verne = NCAA tournament = happy time.

Local Favorites
Mitch Williams: From getting his house TP'd post- Joe Carter debacle to in-studio post-game analyst, Mitch Williams has made a miraculous comeback. At what point did Phillies fans decide it was appropriate to give this man a round of applause everytime we see him, whether it be on the big screen at the Bank or the bar at Chickie and Pete's? He was at one point held solely responsible for plunging millions into a deep depression, yet now he's a city hero? To be honest, I have no problem w/ this recent development. If anything, he met his critics head on and even helped the Atlantic City Surf draw 400 people to their games on a nightly basis. Plus, he wears shorts and a blazer while on camera and has no qualms about making this known to the public. Bring back your soul-glo mullet and you will have realized cult status in my book.

Merril Reese: Another local great who I fear the rest of the world knows little about. But god forbid you are in the car while the Eagles are driving down the field, Merril Reese makes you feel as though you are riding shotgun w/ Fred Barnett. Plus, there's Sterril Reese, who might be even better than Chef Raul...

The "you all seem the same to me" group
Al Michaels, Brent Musberger, Bob Costas, Frank Gifford. None of you have distinguished yourselves by say, biting a stripper whore...and for that, shame on you. Musberger has definitely lost his touch and is two, maybe three years away from saying something he will regret. Intervention is required before he gets himself hurt and sets the country back years. Costas should follow Pat O'Brien into entertainment shows, & Gifford is better know for his wife than for his voice. Michaels, I don't mind. Not only is there a great diner named after you near Cheltenham High School, but you've held your own over a sustained period, and you called the miracle on ice which is worth something in this cold-blooded American's heart. Outside of Rocky IV's fallout, that day in Lake Placid almost single handedly won the Cold War.

The "Who the fuck decided to hire you" group/ NBA mistakes
Tim Legler. From Avalon to Ogontz, to our nation's capital...to the television studio. You have the thickest cuz accent I've ever heard from someone who grew up closer to the ocean than Veterans Stadium. On top of that, you have frosted tips. I realize you could shoot, but does that alone warrant a primetime slot discussing the sport I love? I'd rather hear you describe Wildwood boardwalk crime than the ins and outs of the matchup zone.

Jalen Rose. You bring nothing to the table. Ray Jackson would do a better job. Stick to being pigeon-toed, my brother.

Sal Masekala. Why it was ok for you to be hired: You are a black man. Why it was NOT ok for you to be hired: You call X games sports and you are a skater/snow-boarder. Plus, you apparently know nothing about basketball. Hmmm...time to give you a sideline reporting job talking in hip urban venacular? That's how I see that meeting going in the ESPN studios. It was either him or the fat dude from American Idol. In retrospect, the logic was lacking in this hiring decision, and its an experiment that plainly did not work out. Dare I say there has never been a worse sideline reporter?

Tim Hardaway. Pros: Killer crossover, well thought out and reasoned feelings about homosexuals, high pitched voice. Cons: inability to speak english. Someone should be testing these ex-players before they are thrown in front of a camera. On the flip side, Greg Anthony is a pleasant surprise. A few years at UNLV can get you places, it would seem. Marked improvement since he first was placed in studio. Something tells me he will be in a front office in short time, at which point Anderson Hunt will become a head scout.

The "can't decide how I feel about you" Group
Bill Rafferty. "A little kiss!" I can feel the tension b/w him and Jay Bilas when discussing college hoops on the sidelines. I get the impression that the people working games w/ him want to hurt him badly, and at the least, not talk to him outside of the arena. I also feel like he spend a lot of time on the road ordering whores and drinking expensive scotch. But he has cotton-like hair and sent jerome in, and for that, you are not completely worthless.

Peter Vescey. Everyone seems to hate you, which makes me sort of like you. I also imagine you hate yourself, and have a lot in common w/ Howard Eskin. But you always have the inside scoop, and you have a great beard. You are Steven A w/o the big words. You also seem to be nowhere near a tv camera these days, which is admirable. Fade quietly, my good man.

Tom Tolbert. I should respect you since you have a lisp and have made a career from talking. You also are bald, huge, and I think at one point had braces. But you annoy me and sucked as a player. I guess I should take you out of the "cant decide how i feel" group and place you in the "shoot me or shoot him group."

Johnny Most. Havlicek stole the ball, and therefore you are famous. Being a Boston man makes me want to hurt you, but you are old and feeble (if not dead, im not sure), and again, just seem so damn ahead of your time. Such anger in that voice, such resentment when shit went bad and genuine happiness when shit went well.

Hubie Brown: you look like someone right out of Star Wars. Youre face is completely plastic, your hair completely metallic. You might be Charlton Heston, I'm not sure. You are a coach, an announcer, a perverted old man...you do it all. Plus, youre name is Hubie, presumably short for Hubert. HUBERT! great stuff.


The "ladies"
I got a thing for the oldies who are the goodies. Suzie Kolber, Joe Namath was far from confused. Drunk, but not confused. He said what we all think. Michelle Tafoya, your haircut is suspect, but your intellect on point; but my all time favorite is Andrea Kramer. I remember when you told me as a youth that Hank Gathers had passed away. And recently I have seen you and learned that the only thing that has aged on you is the bags below your eyes. You even used to work for WIP and share the same birthday as the African Bull and one Willa Slaughter. Don't let these new upstart bitches dethrone you. Pam Oliver/ Erin Andrews/ chick who does the weather on Fox NFL SUnday...they can't barely survive in your 94 lb shadow. Cocaine has served you well over time...as has black penis.
Melissa Stark Long lost sister or wife of Jayson Stark? Football hottie w/ an above average grasp on special teams success? I actually think you were too smart for the assigned role you received, so I'm glad you apparently moved on to other things.

"Shoot me or Shoot Him Group"
Skip Bayless is nothing more than a makeshift Sam Donnellon w/ a funny accent. Yet he finds himself regularly on national tv making an ass of himself. Yeah, he doesn't call games, and yeah, he's not a sideline reporter. But I included him on this list b/c I hate him, mostly due to his uncanny ability to make it damn near impossible for me to watch television at times, and television is my best buddy. I don't want to turn my back on my best buddy, I want to embrace him.

Dei Lynam. I'm not even giving you the benefit of the doubt, regardless of these rumors I hear that you just recently birthed a child: You are a man. Sure, I acknowledge that there is very little chance that you haven't had relations w/ various Sixers over time, but I'm certain they were of questionable sexuality to begin w/. It bothers me that you were hired b/c of your father, and it bothers me more that you don't even dine at Chung Hing w/ the rest of the Philadelphia sports tv celebrities. Take your classless clothes and growing FUPA elsewhere.

Tim McCarver. Has an Atlanta Brave ever done anything more worthy of our collective applause?? Seriously, type in McCarver's name on google and ALL you will find is people complaining about him. Tim, must the player really hit the ball for the team to win? Do they really need to score? Wow.

Tommy Heihnson. The only person who likes you is Walter McCarty. You don't have an objective bone in your body, and you smoke more cigarettes than Aunt Lee. Next time I see you, I'm gonna kick your ass.

Shannon Sharpe: A huge tie knot and broad shoulders can only get you so far. You are the missing link if the original link was a horse. You seemingly crack yourself up and ignore the simple fact that brother Sterling was better in all respects. Plus, you have a woman's name and Drago's workout. If you weren't on steroids, I'm not losing my hair.

Compiling this list made me realize A) if i spent this much time doing my homework and not thinking up senseless shit, I'd be a lot better off; B) there are a shit load of announcers/sideline reporters out there, and way too many I have strong feelings about one way or another; and C) I watch too much tv. That being said, this is the tip of the iceberg, so please...expose the iceberg some more.