Mama There Goes that Man Again

The African Bull tells me I can't dish on Boston anymore. That it's, as he put it, "passe." Not unwarranted, as one of our esteemed editors contends, but perhaps not worth my valuable time. At the very least, I respect the African Bull. One, because he is my brother. Two, because he is a Dr. And finally, because he in all likelihood constitutes one-third of our regular non-editor readership. And who am I to not at least consider the preferences of my audience.

Here I sit. The Lakers are down by 24 points at halftime, and KG looks unstoppable. The Lakers look helpless. The one thought running through my mind? MJ would never go out like this. Neva eva eva eva eva. Comparing Kobe to Jordan is like comparing cheesesteaks to a steak n cheese; Mayor Goode to Mayor Rizzo; Rizzo's in Glenside to Lazaros. Simply put, KOBE IS A POUTY LITTLE BABY - a terrible teammate with miserable body language when losing, chronic fake sincerity, and a tiny penis.

So with basketball behind us, I feel compelled to at least discuss something new, something fresh, something never before even mentioned on this website: GOLF.

I sat down and watched most of Sunday's U.S. Open and most of Monday's playoff. Long story short, the inevitable happened and Tiger took home the trophy. That half asian, half black man is a force, to say the least. But domination aside, he annoys me. A lot. He has absolutely NO personality. I dare you to find me a more stoic black athlete. Sure, it's golf, his serious demeanor is appropriate to some degree. But would it kill him to smile? Would it kill him to acknowledge his competition, engage in some playful exchanges, unleash his hatred of the more typical white country club member? I appreciate what you're doing, Tiger, I do. I can't imagine doing ANYTHING with that much composure. I would say his veins are filled with ice water, but I'm thinking they are filled with something even more powerful. And his wifey is undeniably fine. So I applaud you politely, though certainly only after you swing.

As for Rocco, you were an inspiration for two days. And now you will fade into oblivion, more likely to be seen on the Walnut Lane Golf Course then at another U.S. Open playoff. He has anything but a par 5 on the 18th and a par 4 on the first playoff hole and he kisses the cup. Instead, he will wear his "peace" sign belt buckle somewhere away from the spotlight from here on out.

Some observations about other golfers: Ernie Els is the biggest S. African white man on earth. He looks like he could peel trees. Mickelson seemed all too content shooting a Big Firm-like 9 on one hole. And everyone should be forced to dress like Payne Stewart.

The golf broadcast is something to behold too. What I don't get and I'm not sure I will ever get is why the broadcasters who are in an enclosed studio overlooking a green with no one on it have to whisper when describing what is happening 1/2 a mile away. Someone enlighten me. I also won't ever be able to embrace golf talk. Dog legs, lips, up and down yada yada yada...alls I know is that it's bad to be in the sand, worse to be in the deep rough, and downright unfortunate to be in the drink.

The lead commentator, Johnny Miller, spends the better part of the day absolutely SHITTING on everyone. The man questions every decision, every result, and even the fashion judgment of these athletes. It's almost comical, even if tiresome. That's all I have to say on that matter.

So, my people, we turn away from basketball in these remaining summer months. Great things await us. Great things. Let's pause, collect our thoughts, and celebrate finally putting to rest our concern for Boston or Los Angeles. If anything these playoffs have taught me that rooting for something to happen makes it not happen. Not a single solitary series went as I had hoped. So I'm going to stop rooting against teams and starting rooting for my teams...until my teams are out of it and I have to root against other teams. But alas, I plot forward, for you African Bull, for you.