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!!