Fair Warning

Everyone's been there. Everyone knows what it's like to want something so bad your better judgment takes the first bus out of town; when your stomach churns in anticipation, your eyes widen in excitement, and you sink yourself into a warm, moist nest of regret. And while the immediate satisfaction of the decision is clouded by the bitter aftertaste of Kentucky bourbon and a lack of patience, the consequences of those five seconds are truly felt the next morning when you stare the signs of your shortcoming square in the face.



I learned in law school that you can have a slippery floor in a supermarket that lends itself to the humorous downfall of clumsy, and likely elderly individuals... but Acme's liability is relieved so long as a yellow warning cone with that universal sign for "slip n kill yourself" is promptly placed at the site of the potential hilarity. So where is my warning? Absent the equivalent of a yellow sign hanging on my doorstep, how is a mere man, overwhelmed by his instincts at those late hours, when human nature dictates his subjection to his most immediate desires, supposed to channel the reason and brain power of his sober alter-ego? Let me tell you, people, it's an impossibility. Not even Bear Grylls has the willpower and self-imposed diligence to exercise the caution society thrusts upon us and expects us to demonstrate each and every time we, as humans with penises, confront the growling belly of temptation.


In fact, there is no two ways about it: those demonic creations that ooze with tastiness and seduce us with an adorable presence should be outlawed! Yeah, I said it, I think Hot Pockets deserve to die, and I hope they burn in hell!



They seem harmless enough. Wrapped nicely in plastic, with clear and concise directions, the picture on the box invites the drunkest individual to the freezer. The box practically whispers from the freezer... "oh, hey there hungry guy, why don't you indulge in some pepperoni, maybe even some processed cheese. Feeling dangerous? Throw me and my partner in a microwave for 3 minutes and 15 seconds and let's make a threesome out of it. Don't worry, the roof of your mouth won't burn into smithereens like a Move townhouse. I promise your tongue won't break into blisters like a Show N' Tel dancer's vagina. Go ahead, take a chance."



Well enough! I'm putting my foot down, throwing Hot Pockets in the room, and drawing a line in the sand. Never again will I be forced to scrub the solidified cheese/sauce off of a plate the following morning. Never again will I find myself digesting the skin on the top of my mouth for days to come. Never again, will I try to stick my penis in that warm cocoon. I mean, eat a hot pocket. Good riddance to you and your deliciousness.

And the critics say we only discuss sports on this esteemed blogsphere.

It Would Be So Nice

Lately the blogosphere and the tweetosphere (not to mention the atmosphere, stratosphere and biosphere) has been awash with rumblings and grumblings regarding the imminent trade of one Harry LeRoy Halladay III to the ol' Phirries. While we can only hope with crossed fingers that these rumors prove true, and that the Phils are in the process of building a Yankees-like dynasty that will rule over the lesser peons of the National League for years to come, we are more excited that the arrival of Halladay could be something of a boon to our fearless leader. Our inside sources say that Sammy D is thrilled with the prospect of having another Canada refugee in the 215th, as he would finally have someone with whom to crack open an ice-cold Labatt and discuss Les Assassins des Fauteuils Roulants and the relative merits of various poutine joints in the Maritime Provinces. (Of late we hear Sammy had been trying to school Jrue Holiday in the ways of Labour politics and Celine Dion records but since the arrival of AI has seen his sphere of influence significantly eroded as young Jrue slowly falls victim to the dark arts practiced in back rooms of certain Main Line TGI Fridays.)

In other news Stand Watie proposed the following logic puzzle:

1) Sammy D is from Haiti, Tony Parker from France

2) SD has lived in Canada/US since 14

3) TP has american father

Q: What language do you they speak when they hang out together?

I think they probably speak some variant of Esperanto mixed with Jive but I leave it up to the wise commentariat to answer this conundrum. A wonderful weekend to all, and happy Hanukkah to all our Jewish readers!

The New Guy

Being the new guy in the office is never fun. Between orientation, trainings, meet and greets and frequently getting lost trying to find the bathroom things can be a bit overwhelming. While Allen Iverson has worked in this factory before, a lot has changed since those days and he may as well be starting back on the ground floor. Luckily for the Answer, he is not alone. In the wake of Comcast acquiring the majority of NBC AI has found himself amongst many other new hires. In my experience, the quickest way to fit in as the new guy is to make allegiances with the other newbies. In honor of the official return of AI tonight, our crack staff at the DR has come up with the best of the bunch for AI to bro-down with. Feel free to add more in the comments section.

Tracy Morgan

This is clearly the most obvious pairing, but also the one with the most potentially hilarious consequences. Tracy Morgan is essentially a crazier version of his character on 30 Rock, allegedly does a whole lot of yay and is ace-rollies with Ghostface Killah. This is basically the posse that Iverson has been looking for his whole life, and even though it is obvious rolling with him will end his attempts to resurrect his career, the stories alone will be worth it. Add Mike Vick to the crew and you have the greatest prison sports comedy film with an even better soundtrack than Above the Rim unfolding before your eyes.

Matt Lauer

Undoubtedly, M to the Izzel has been feeling a little shook ever since Ron Artest aired him out on his 2006 My World album, sending such Ether-esque disses his way such as “you look like a girl” in reaction to Lauer’s interview of Artest after the infamous crowd beat down in Detroit. Iverson, still searching for redemption after the shelving of his own rap album in 2000 is looking for MC rebirth, and this odd couple of epic proportions could benefit from becoming ace-rollies. The Answer gets unlimited promotional push and the backing of the liberal media who once got all uppity over AI suggesting that certain people would end up sleeping where the maggots be, and Lauer gets all of Bad Newz, VA as a personal bodyguard.

Chris Matthews

While AI hasn’t been gone for too long, he’s been gone long enough that he may have lost a little street cred and has almost certainly seen his various weed suppliers get locked up, find real jobs or found God/Allah. Nicetown native Matthews understands that real recognize real and can probably help. He can take AI on a tour of Nicetown’s finest convenience stores, and in turn AI can help Matthews’ show appeal to thus far unclaimed demographics. With a sliiiight name change of course, as exhibited above.

Lorne Michaels

No one has really laughed at or cared about Saturday Night Live for years. Short of Andy Samberg, I’m not sure I can tell any of you the names of any cast members, and I only know his because he stuck his junk in a box with Justin Timberlake. Lorne Michaels won’t admit this, but he knows it too. The obvious answer, short of permanent host, is to make AI the new Eddie Murphy, and send the fat guy from Good Burger back from whence he came.

Jay Leno

You know the guy in the office that no one really likes, but has been there so long and has been promoted high enough that no one can actually do anything or say what they really want to because of it? Clearly that is Jay. They managed to bring in a replacement for him, and yet still couldn’t get rid of him. This does not bother AI. Understanding the frustration of all of his new coworkers about the lingering office problem, the Answer will live up to his moniker by pretending to befriend the ousted late night host, and begin taking him to TGI Friday’s with him nightly, until the excess causes his work attendance and performance to suffer, finally resulting in a forced retirement after a particularly bad morning which finds Leno arriving with a half cornrowed head, a fresh dookie chain, a shirt covered in regurgitated ultimate mudlides and pants covered in blunt filling. The NBC world will rejoice accordingly.

Bonus buddy: Michael Vick

The last time AI and MV were publicly seen together was during a post prison release strip club visit, in which it was alleged that AI didn’t spend a single dollar the entire evening (there’s a dog joke here somewhere, but we’re above that). On the road to Philly riches and non guaranteed contracts at the veteran minimum, these two will now meet again, and for both of their sakes as mentioned above, hopefully Tracy Morgan is not involved. My close proximity to many of the area's most noteworthy gentlemen's clubs almost ensure that I will get to witness this travelling circus firsthand. The only thing I ask, nay, beg of these two is to leave any Phillies out of it. We need them on the field, not waiting on phone time.

He's Baaaaaaaaaack

Ours and yours favorite weed-smoking, taco-eating, practice-skipping, Bentley-driving, TGI Fridays-lurking, Main Line-dwelling, bowling alley brawl-starting face of the franchise makes his prodigal return to the Wachovia Center tonight. It may be awesome, it may be awful, but it will almost certainly involve an ill-conceived alley-oop attempt to Sammy D. Let's hope our fearless leader is awaiting it with hands of glue.

I'm Guilty, In a Sense

As most of you know, I can't be trusted when the moon rises past the horizon. Miss Jones, aka Jonesy was made very aware of this within the past hour. Join me in my most recent of regrets, especially at the .29 second mark:



In hindsight, I regret nothing.

Can't Kick

I, unlike many of my peers and comrades at DR headquarters, am not addicted to brown liquor, prescription pills, or the trusty services of women-for-hire. I don't take spontaneous trips to Atlantic City for the rush of losing my meager fortune to a dealer named Gary, a waitress named Loretta, and a pile of shitty cards. I've never had the pleasure of gushing rivers of crackhead sweat in nervous anticipation of my next trip to planet crackrock. As a teenager I watched a movie about heroin addiction and decided then and there to sidestep the tempting yet ultimately unfulfilling life of a scary ghost carcass. I hear working out with large ropes, kettle balls, and private trainers can be euphoric, but that too is another one of life's addictive joys I have stupidly not fallen prey to. Sometimes this despicable wholesomeness keeps me up at night and nearly pushes me into the arms of a crushed up percocet and a small bucket of whiskey, but DAMMIT, I have neither the emotional nor psychological wherewithal to make that beautiful dream a reality. Which is why today was such a wonderful day for me. I realized, around 10:30 pm, that I too am burdened with an affliction that does me more harm than good and threatens my sanity. Quite simply, I am addicted to Allen Iverson.

I never thought I'd have an epiphany about my own addiction while watching a skinny black man wearing a v-neck undershirt cry his eyes out with a chubby and bald white man beside him. But this, folks, is the unique process of enlightenment. Sure enough, there sat Allen Iverson, a grown man crying little boy tears, triggering all manner of flashbacks and feelings of old. See I had forgotten what the Iverson addiction was like, because I had kicked it years ago. At least I thought I did.

But watching him cry and listening to his raspy eloquence brought the AI addiction back into my life with force. I know he's made more poor decisions than Cuba Gooding Jr. I understand that the likelihood of his shooting many shots, hogging many basketballs, and avoiding many if not damn near all of Sammy D's post-up efforts will be, to borrow a well-worn word and picture, high. But I don't care. I have sampled this man's basketball offerings, the game, the wardrobe, the press conferences, the drama, and I decided long ago that his product was the best on the block. For a while his product disappeared and I had to rely a cornucopia of crap to get by, but now that the good shit is back this is a no-brainer. Some things in this world aren't right. And some things make sense. AI is back in a Sixers uni and for today, all is right with the world.

Haters speak up, I wanna know what the hell is wrong with you.

Big Head Todd...I Mean Placido

What a glorious week in Philly sports this has been...and it's only Thursday! First, the stock of all local TGI Fridays has skyrocketed with the news of A.I.'s return, and now Placido Polanco is back. We all know that since the Phils jettisoned Pete Happy they had a gaping hole bigger than Firm's butthole at third. This signing plugs said hole like Stand Watie alone in a room with a plastic vagina. Let us examine why this signing is a good one for our beloved Phillies.

• Feliz's career batting average is .254, Polanco's is .303
• Pedro had a better than average year at the plate last year hitting .266 while Placido was below average and still bettered Pedro by almost 20 points at .285
• Spillz's authentic Phils Polanco jersey is in vogue again.
• Pedro, considered by many a great defensive third baseman, has a career fielding percentage at third of .964. Polanco, who has played mostly second, has a career fielding percentage at third of .982. (Full disclosure, Polanco has only 36.2% of the total chances at third that Pedro does).
• New Era will finally have something to do with all those size 12 3/4 Phillies hats that they have made.
• As far as the power numbers go, they are closer than you may think. Feliz: 135HR & 558 RBI, Placido: 90HR 579 RBI. (Polanco does have roughly 1700 more ABs)
• Big Head has a career OPS of .762, Feliz .715
• Pedro has 622 career Ks compared to Placido's 391(in 1700 more ABs)

There you have it folks, the numbers don't lie, and neither do huge heads. It surely seems like Polanco is the better choice and we're only paying him 1 million more than Petey was scheduled to make this year. And anyone who says different is dumb.

The Criminal Mind

Police get report of bank robbery.

Police engage in racial profiling. Police race after their man. Police pull their man over, threaten him, believe he has a demand note on his person, and otherwise feel good about themselves. Black man wins again:

Pushing Pencils

As someone who celebrates Arnold Schwarzenegger's entire body of work including Conan the Monkey Trainer and Jingle All the Way, I couldn't help but be excited to share this fantastical piece of you-tubery that I've been watching pretty much constantly for the past 3 days.

Is it a music video? A farcical parody of a great film? Or is it, as I believe, a Gandhi-like piece of multimedia genius? Or perhaps... Brad Lidge's new intro music?

As it always is here in DR Land: We Report; You Decide.

Very Large Mason Jars

I know what you are all thinking: Who knew the Bul Bubak drank tea? I too thought he was more of a coffee man, myself. But then I remembered the picture of Bubak swimming, and realized that although his abs are equally as fit, he is far harrier than this iphone loving gentleman.


If you don't live in Cleveland, chances are you don't know who that is. But it's the centerfielder for the Cleveland Indians. I guess when your team stinks and no one knows whether you are black or white, one must take pleasure in the little things in life: oneself.

Would Shane do this? Would Aaron Rowand, Doug Glanville, Nails or Sarge ever do this, let alone let this leak to the public? Well clearly Aaron Rowand would, so I remove him from the equation.

While I sat down simply to post this picture, I have had the misfortune of stewing in a Sixers slump since early last week. I thought -- we ALL thought -- that the DR Awards alone would propel our team to a single solitary victory. And truth be told, Sammy has played better, putting aside one misconceived attempt to block a game-winning shot... by his own teammate. But no, all the Branzino in the world couldn't save this squad. I won't even touch on the AI dilemma, since the outcome is almost preordained at this point. But I WILL issue a threat of sincere variety:


To you, Mr. floppy javelin thrower: No one, and I mean NO ONE walks into Big Firm's house and drinks his brown liquor.



And thank you to the rest of youz for getting me my first note in the mailbox from a cranky neighbor. It would appear A) I have a lot of friends who smoke cigarettes; B) those friends respected my crib enough not to leave their cigarette buts on my balcony; C) those same friends exercised poor judgment and left a bevy of butts cluttering my neighbors driveway. The more I think about it, the more Giul's move to Jamaica makes sense to me. That is my kind of competition.

You Can't Stop the Prophet

As we all know Samuel Dalembert is a man who's myriad talents can scarcely be described by words. He is a shot-blocking machine, the Goya of goaltending and the Picasso of the personal foul. Not only that but he can tell how fresh a fish is by looking in it's eye! So is it any surprise to find out that Sammy D is a modern day Nostradamus, capable of foretelling the future through his dreams? From the sporadically informative Phil Jasner comes this astounding tale of prophecy:

"I told you about the dream I had before the season," the 76ers' center was saying during a weekend crammed with Allen Iverson-back-to-the-Sixers rumor and speculation. "I dreamed A.I. was coming back."

And then, late last week . . .

"I had the dream again," Dalembert said. "I woke up at 6:30 in the morning in my house, wondering if it could be true."

Could there be any doubt in any of our minds that the return of AI is anything less than guaranteed at this point? All the logical signs point in the direction of an Iversonian redux: the Sixers are a team stuck in perpetual neutral and going nowhere fast, they have the worst attendance in the league, and their point guard options are either A.I. Lite (Lou Williams) or 19 year old Jrue Holiday. They've got somewhere north of $200 million tied up in players who can't or won't take control of the game in crunch time, and the closest thing they have to veteran leadership is a 28-year-old Haitian center who would rather be a computer technician than an NBA player. Signing Iverson solves all those problems in one fell swoop!


(But EDG, you might ask: how does the signing of A.I. eliminate the $200 million that Iggy and Brand are stealing? Simple, I say. One hit of Iversonian weed will send both on a Harold and Kumar mission to the White Castle on North Broad, where they will be robbed of their wallets by a disguised Marreese Speights and Dionte Christmas. Enlisting Sammy D's computer expertise, they will steal Brandguodala's identity, and use the new ID to purchase bootleg DVD's of Rescue Dawn from Chelten Ave, thus violating a contractual clause forbidding the purchase of pirated material and rendering both contracts null and void.)

On the other hand, would the return of A.I. actually be beneficial to the Sixers? After all, do we really need a veteran presence if that veteran is shooting 35 times a game and teaching young and impressionable players how to smoke weed, skip practice, and hang out in TGI Fridays until 5am?

I say yes. And I say that if it's been prophesied by Samuel Dalembert, it's only a matter of time until it becomes reality. Better have the riot gear ready.

Hittin You From Every Angle

Apologies for the redundancy, but an accompaniment to Firm's post, in low quality but non-sideways form. I, for one, don't think it's a coincidence that Sammy D and Timmy D share all but two letters.

UPDATE: Video removed due to sad begging and pleading of the subject, who frankly had nothing to be ashamed of. RIP this awesome video and the dignity of it's subject. (Requests for copy of video via email will be honored)

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!!

Yes all.
It's awards season in La Republique Dalembert. Despite a bit of a sophomore slump, the DR, like our fearless leader himself, has taken a step back only in preparation for a great leap forward. The below nominees, though lesser in number, nonetheless exhibit all of the charm, creativity, and joie de vivre of a goaltend into the third row. I know you are all eager to get to the goods, but first, the rules:

There are 7 categories this year, each with 5 nominees. You may vote for one nominee in each category. Voting will be done via email. Make your selections and email them to thedalembertawards@gmail.com with the subject heading “Awards Ballot”. There is no standard format for the ballot; just make it clear. Anyone is eligible to vote regardless of age, race, sex, intelligence, citizenship, however, you must identify yourself on your ballot by full name or easily identifiable pseudonym (one person one vote people—it’s the law!).

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

Voting will remain open until Friday, November 27th, 12:00am. The winners will be announced at the Second Annual Dalembert Report Awards Dinner and Strip Club Gala on Saturday, November 28th.

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

The Bring It Head Award for Best High School Reference

1. "i think he's schemin' on Mrs. Workman. I bet she's a straight cougar these days." Comment to School Days, Eldiablogrande

2. "Barry fucking Bonds had no business breaking Hammerin' Hanks long-standing home run record when he's jacked up on roids like Evan Carr catching wreck in the Little Gym." - Don't Hate the Game, Hate the Players (Association), Trapped Under Rice

3. "Have an amazing time in Cali, Chief. Say what up to the west coast heads for me. Maybe you can catch a Dana Carmel show while you're out there." - Comment to Junk Food for Thought, DVDubs

4. "McNabb is to blame, he doesn't want to take Pam Lutz's or Mr. B's job, he wants to be paid to be the helmsman of a middle/working class town's football team, he therefore is subject to scrutiny and criticism." - Comment to GOD-DOG-IT, Trapped Under Rice

5. "I definitely need to tell Ginnie Lewis to stop running to third instead of first. I need to tell Pete O'Donnell to stop eating his own dandruff. I need to tell Hank Lopez to eat a fucking sandwich. I need to tell Neil to stop getting socked in the face by other players on our team. I need to get a restraining order barring John Tuton from al the games. I need to tell Danny Van Wert to stop sharing private parts with my daughter and Ruth NA under the slide in the playground, to stop wearing brown cordouroys on the field, and to stop wearing his A's T-shirt 24/7 off the field. Oh yeah... And I definitely need to tell that litte douche on the mound to stop crying every inning." - Comment to Burning Questions, Bo Wittles (DVDubs)

The Jerny Firm Award for Picture of the Year

1. Beanie at the Eagles Game - Burn, Meadowlands, Burn, Flintskinz

2. Muggsy & Manute - Of Love & Basketball, Big Firm

3. Need Money for Beer - Recession Update, Eldiablogrande

4. Young Harry the K - R.I.P., Flintskinz

5. Young J. Werth - "Werth" the Stupid "Puns", Eldiablogrande

The Latarian Milton Award for Video of the Year

1. Crying Giants Fan - Love Me Some Sweet Sweet Internets, Tha Bul Bubak

2. Ron Artest: Storyteller - Growing up Hood, Big Firm

3. Daggering - What the Bumbo Claat?, Big Firm

4. Ron Artest MJ Tribute - Michael Michael Michael You My..., Tha Bul Bubak

5. Fantasy Baseball Camp - The Black Abbott & Costello, Flintskinz

The Let’s All Hope Dan Wins So He Doesn’t Hang Himself with an Aged Stripper’s G-String At the Dolphin Tavern After the Awards Dinner Award for Comment of the Year

1. "Fuck Shop-Rite. what gives them the right to judge peoples names. Last time I checked its not illegal to name your kid Adolf. I have been lobbying tyhat it is time to start the healing. fuck shoprite and the liberal elite." - Comment to Mo, or Less?, Tha Bul Bubak

2. "think about it. he is a gorilla. he probably comes from the wild, where there is neither cadbury, drumsets, or phil collins. sad sad life, right? however, when he enters civilization, he tries a cadbury chocolate delight and is struck by the feeling of "a glass and a half full of joy". immediately after his first bite of cadbury, phil collins starts bursting out from over his head, and when he looks down, he finds that he is seated at a grade A top quality drum set. not knowing what else to do, his monkey brain tells him to rely on his instincts and embrace the warm chocolaty feeling that is filling up his heart and telling him "play, monkey, just play." and that is exactly what he does, and what we are all capable of doing, if we simply eat some cadbury chocolate." - Comment to Tryin' to Play Gorilla, Willa

3. "Just for kicks, here are the Phils we most resemble:

Flintskins: Joe Blanton
Big Firm: JC Romero
Chief Naka: Chan Ho Park/ Shane Victorino
DVDUBS: Matt Stairs
EDG: Chris Coste
Stand Watie: Jay Happ/ Peter Happy
Tha Bul Bubak: Mick Billmeyer" - Comment to The Chuck Wagon Never Disappoints, DVDubs

4. "No one told Ron that his friend was a vampire. What happened was no accident. Well played, Van Helsing, well played." - Comment to Growing Up Hood, Flintskinz

5. "What's next? Former NBA'er Sam Mack being arrested for pimping? Stephen Jackson arrested for kidnapping a young boy? Shaquille O'Neal arrested for some manner of alcohol related offense?" - Comment to It was only a matter of time, Flintskinz

The Bloody Fucking Womb Award for Quote of the Year

1. "He's the leader who can lift the rest of the team with his sheer intensity, ginormous heart, and trusty mobile phone that contains only one number in it: God." - A Few Words About Brian, #1 Chief Naka

2. "The game begins and I'm stunned that A)the mohawk indeed belongs to Von Wafer B)Von Wafer starts for Houston and C)Von Wafer is not a vampire from Dusseldorf." - Oh Yeah...the Sixers, #1 Chief Naka

3. "I won't lie, it took a lot of self-restraint to not title this post "He's Outttttttta Heeeerrrrrrrrre" but I thought that it may be viewed by some as callous (no pun intended)." - R.I.P., Flintskinz

4. "I urge you all to close your eyes, throw on your favorite Beenie Man jam, light some incense, and imagine Giul getting dragged onto the dance floor by Hussain Bolt for some good ol' fashion daggering." - What the Bumbo Claat?, Big Firm

5. "I definitely need to tell Ginnie Lewis to stop running to third instead of first. I need to tell Pete O'Donnell to stop eating his own dandruff. I need to tell Hank Lopez to eat a fucking sandwich. I need to tell Neil to stop getting socked in the face by other players on our team. I need to get a restraining order barring John Tuton from al the games. I need to tell Danny Van Wert to stop sharing private parts with my daughter and Ruth NA under the slide in the playground, to stop wearing brown cordouroys on the field, and to stop wearing his A's T-shirt 24/7 off the field. Oh yeah... And I definitely need to tell that litte douche on the mound to stop crying every inning." - Comment to Burning Questions, Bo Wittles (DVDubs)

The Homerun Kim Batiste Award for Best Obscure Philly Athlete Reference

1. Kim Batiste - Comment to A Few Words About Brian, Mike W.

2. Clarence Weatherspoon - Oh Yeah...The Sixers, #1 Chief Naka

3. Donnie Carr - Comment to Don't Hate the Game, Hate the Players (Association), Tim

4. Chuck Kornegay - I Can't Think of a Funny Title, Big Firm

5. A. Chism - Comment to Growing Up Hood, Tha Bul Bubak

The Dalembert Award for Post of the Year

1. Donovan Rides on the Highway of Broken Stars - #1 Chief Naka

2. Unconditional Love - Big Firm

3. Women, Can't Live With 'Em, Already Know Everything About 'Em - Big Firm

4. Act II - Eldiablogrande

5. Rodney Dangerfield Lives! - Flintskinz

6. Burn, Meadowlands, Burn - Flintskinz

Money Be Green

With the exception of our one reader who wouldn't watch the show when season 1 was lent to him, like most rational adults, we can all agree that The Wire was one of, if not the best show ever made. So, on this random Tuesday I am posting this epic video of the top 100 quotes from The Wire, as compiled by some random person with decent knowledge of video editing software. Block out 10 minutes and enjoy, if for no other reason because it's far more entertaining than watching the Sixers.



Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiit.

Fair Eastside

If you need a morning pick-me-up, as I do, this should do the trick.

Moving On

It's early November, and I am hungover. The impetus for my hangover has both immediate and slightly more removed beginnings. On the one hand, I was out with Fine Tone last night. Nuff said. On the other, I've been dating the Phillies since mid-March. Much like a night filled with Jameson served in plastic cups, a season with the Phillies can be bitter, nauseating, yet simultaneously fulfilling. And here I sit, comfortably resting on my overpriced couch, oddly pleased that the Phillies season is over. In recent days, I've had an opportunity (largely because I don't have shit else to do) to recount the wild ride that we all have just endured.

To begin with, let me say this: the Phillies were fuckin great this year. We all must remember that the Phillies--let me reiterate...the PHILLIES-- just played in their second straight world series. And while the season undoubtedly ended in disappointment, and I may or may not have wished horrible pain upon Pedro Feliz due to his awful tendency to leave people on base, the fact of the matter is the Phillies were the second best team in the land. They are the Jason Mann to Peter Rook. They are Fake Dude to Dude. They are Jonah to Leon in a drinking contest! Although none of that makes sense, the point is we had a stupendous year and I am proud to wear copious amounts of red. Next year we will rise again, these are the glory days people!

The playoffs damn near killed me, for the record, and not because there isn't a pill purple enough to cure the heartburn triggered by the sight of Brad Lidge's mole. They damn near killed me because they turned me into an old man, constantly in need of more sleep and frustrated by the slow pace of the game. While Jorge Posada might find it necessary to suck on Any Pettite's earlobe twenty times in the first three innings, I prefer Cliff Lee's brisk pace, 7:05 start times, and national anthems sung by celebrities, not Lower Merion police officers. On a related note, how do the Yankees get John Legend and Mary J Blige to sing the anthem, and we get the fuckin cast of Glee?!? Shiyeeeet, if that doesn't explain our porous showing at the Bank, I don't know what does. Whatever, I mean, I'm not complaining. The Phils added an additional month of anticipation to my life. Very few things get my blood pumpin, and work aint one of em. So thank you Phirries, you make me want to dance.




But now that the love-fest is over, I turn my attention to two teams that, truth be told, underwhelm me. The Eagles, for certain, are a good team, albeit not a great one. We have skinny superstars, worthless superstars, injured superstars, and bipolar fatties who we thought were going to be superstars. We dominate one week, lose to the Raiders the next, and secretly begrudge the more successful team across Pattison Street. Let it be known, I will ride or die with the Birds, but until the playoffs start, I reserve the right to latch onto this train with a rather ambivalent clutch. Safe to say, there will be no pre-game face-painting on Appletree street, bukaki aside.

And then there's the seventy-sixers. Whereas the Phillies inspire, by the look of the crowd at the Wachovia Center, it's apparent that the fans don't realize two important things: (1) Ed Pickney is the new mayor of mixville; and (2) the new Dei Lynam could get the bottom lip. Here's hoping someone pulls an Erin Andrews on her. It would seem, however, that the fans are focused a bit more on the lackluster rotation Coach Eddie is throwing out there on the floor. Without question, I am increasingly frustrated by Sammy's dwindling minutes, Elton Brand's aversion towards scoring in double-digits, and Jrue Holiday not being Ty Lawson. But I want to believe! I want to foresee anything other than a 42-40 season, an early playoff exit, and Giul wasting all his time in those god-forsaken seats! There is no white towel in my linen closet, rest-assured, but the Sixers are dangerously close to being unmistakably insignificant.



And finally, I note that the annual celebration or our existence is creeping up on us. That's right, the annual DR awards -- in the Gianni room --is less than three weeks away. I can't speak for the rest of you, but I intend to shamelessly flirt with the cougar hostess. Get your outfits ready, press your pocket squares, dust off your favorite public league ball-cap, and load up on brown liquor. Remember, if we don't celebrate Sammy, no one will!

Getting That Get Back

There is no need to discuss specifics, we all know what the Phils are facing. We can do this, and not to sound actually serious for once, but we have to do it one game at a time. Find below some needed inspiration. This is not new in any way, but most of the best good luck charms are not.

Going Back to Philly - Always Sunny in Philadelphia from Danny DeVito

Let's hope Mr. Lee brings the gangster tonight. Go Phils, bitches.

Yank Deez

Watching Game 2 last night I was struck by the relative silence of the NYC crowd. The quiet crowd in Game 1 was somewhat understandable: when your team get's shut out for 8 innings and your best player looks like Ali the Prime Minister at the plate and your team loses 6-1, it's kind of difficult to get hype. But Game 2 proved to me what should have been obvious: Yankees supporters are a bunch of corporate suck-off pseudo fans who wouldn't know how to boo if you dressed them up in a ghost costume and stuck them in the middle of an Usher video. But don't take my word for it; even resident Fox corporate stoolie Ken Rosenthal thinks the Yankee fans are soft:

"As a native New Yorker, I never thought I'd say this, but here goes: Thank goodness the World Series is leaving New York so we can get a little atmosphere."

He goes on to ramble over 800 or so words about how Yankees fans are a pathetic mockery of anything approaching true fandom. And this is coming from Fox no less - a network that has very little incentive to piss off the fan base in America's biggest media market. Just another piece of proof that rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for Goldman Sachs, only less fun. I hope we kick their ass.

Tenacious LEE!

Jack Black and Kyle Gass eloquently sum up last night's game.

What is the World Coming To?

First the Mets blow the division leads two years in a row to the Phillies. Then Mike Piazza gets caught canoodling with Lance Bass at a gay bar in Chelsea (pretty sure that happened, even if the internet cannot confirm). Next the Mets finish closer in the standings to the Nationals than they do to the Phillies in 2009. And while all of the above demonstrates the Mets swift and steady decline into being a joke of an organization, the ABOVE represents the lowest moment in recent memory.

See Steve Phillips did what any man with a full head of perfect silver hair, an appetite for hyperbole, and an impressive baseball resume would do. First, he got a job with ESPN following his run with the Metropolitans. Then he started spending extra time at the workplace, you know, brushing up on his catch phrases, his posture, and his bottom-lipping. Soon enough he wasn't making it home for dinner, failing to keep track of his children's after-school obligations, and spending an inordinate amount of time mentoring the fresh faces filling the EPSN newsroom. No one was shocked to find out that (gasp) a man in his position was having an affair. Not I, not you, not even Endy Chavez. But low and behold, Steve Phillips' conduct is as disappointing as it is predictable.

Not to beat around the bush here, but if I were to, I dunno, risk my job, family, otherwise decent reputation in the public...I would not cheat on my wife with the above. In fact, I wouldn't even glance at the above. I might let the above dome me up while vacationing on some third-world island and tell her my name was Ed Wade, but I most certainly would not conduct an extramarital relationship with her. See Steve, you have a duty to the male population. If we are going to learn of your deplorable behavior, you have to, at the very least, leave the men of the world sympathetic to your plight. Leave us nodding in agreement, muttering to ourselves that we too would leave our significant others for a taste of that apple bottom. Or for pure entertainment, show us that you are a freak like Marv. But to throw it all a way on a girl who may or may not have graduated from the GFS class of 1998, indulged a bit too much on free donut Friday, and stalked your son on facebook? Really? The entire Mets fan base should be disgusted with themselves.

Rodney Dangerfield Lives!

In the aftermath of one of the greatest Phillies wins ever witnessed which catapulted our version of the big red machine further into our second straight Red October, I went to my usual routine of hunting down what I was positive would be a horde of articles praising the Phillies, warning the Dodgers of their imminent hurt, and capitulating who the Phils would face in this years fall classic.

Needless to say it was a fools errand.

I really shouldn't have been surprised, after all I have endured my entire sports life in the city that praise forgot (which I concede was much deserved for the most part, especially if we want to talk about the mid to late 90's with the exception of a few Lindros led Flyers teams which ultimately and familiarly disappointed), but it was going to be different this time, right? We were the defending world f'ing champions, we defied the odds dictated by previous defending National League world champs and not only made it to the playoffs but dramatically dispensed of our first round rivals, so the sports media pundits were finally going to be ready to give us the nod, correct? If Chase Utley was asked that very question, he would be correct in answering "In-fucking-correct".

You can absolutely get your fill of praise, optimism and general good tidings by trolling the local beat writers, columnists and bloggers. You can extend the teasing by reading articles written by local guys on the big media outlets. You can even find yourself confused by an article rife with Dodger praise that somehow ultimately predicts the Phillies winning over at ESPN.

Unfortunately it seems to stop there.

To reiterate, the Phillies have won the NL East three years in a row, won the WORLD SERIES last year, and we are still the red uniformed stepchildren of the playoff teams. The Rodney Dangerfield of the postseason. This is not simply ingrained Philly-negativity rearing it's ugly, predictable head as there is no shortage of easily found examples of articles written over the past few days that prove this developing complex to be firmly rooted in reality, that I assure you. However, what finally set me off was the discovery of William Rhoden's article from this past Sunday's New York Times. The following quotes should appropriately define my rage:

"....what Major League Baseball needs is a great World Series, a Series for the ages. And with all due respect to those two other potential matchups, it’s a Yankees-Dodgers World Series that could take the game back to its roots at a time when baseball desperately needs to recover a portion of the trust, if not the innocence, that it has lost in the steroid era.....

If the Yankees were to face the Dodgers in the World Series, the season would end with two great players who had admitted culpability and moved on. It would represent a line of demarcation, that the game was ready to get past one of the most painful episodes in its history....

Baseball needs a World Series for the ages, one that reinforces its roots and, yes, its relative purity. Granted, this is a lot to ask one World Series matchup to accomplish, but baseball needs an authentic fall classic.

It needs Yankees-Dodgers, for the good of the game."

Sadly, thanks to J.C. Romero's follies last year at "GNC", I can't go on the unbridled, self-righteous attack that is aching to spill onto this page, but due to him not being on this years playoff roster, I can at least ask Mr. Rhoden WHAT IN THE NAME OF JESUS THE PIMP ARE YOU SMOKING?!??!?? The Yankees and Dodgers??!?? Manny Ramirez and Alex Rodriguez, thanks to personally increasing the Dominican Republic's Gross National Product by at least 300% with their steroid usage, are the FACES of today's steroid era. As for the admissions of culpability referenced by Rhoden, I was always raised to believe that vague finger-pointing was not actually an admission to ANYTHING. Let's recap, A-Rod claimed that his cousin stuck needles in his hind-parts, the contents of which he 'never knew'. Admission fail #1. Manny had some time to think about it, and actually landed on saying his doctor just prescribed him some pills and he assumed they were fine. Admission fail #2.


With that in mind, how exactly does the proposed Dodgers-Yankees matchup reinforce any manner of purity? If anything, having two of baseball's biggest stars who were both caught red-handed REINFORCES those disillusioned by the steroid-era. If we're discussing 'purity' the obvious answer is a Phillies-Angels series. Sure, that may not be the most interesting Fall Classic from a media or ratings perspective, but that couldn't have been what Rhoden really meant, right? Nor could it be that he has a great revisionist history and longs for the days of the Yankees and Dodgers being the kings of New York, because nobody over the age of 50 is still irrationally bitter about that at all. Therefore I'll assume this was a simple search and replace accident in MS Word and he actually meant an Angels-Philliesseries.

As usual, I digress.

The Phillies simply have not garnered the respect which has certainly been earned and sure as shit should be acknowledged, and I agree it's something to be upset about, but not for too long. As fans, we should take a cue from the players, who choose not to dwell on the egregious oversights of the national media and know that if they conduct business as usual, they will leave their detractors two options: silence or respect.

Nothing will do that better than rings on two fingers. These next few weeks are going to be awesome.




(NOTE: Apologies for not bringing the usual dick jokes and bad puns I tend to heavily rely upon, just needed to get a few things off my chest. Jester Flintskins will return shortly, I may even bring nudity next time)

Prosthetic Legs and Wiping That Ass

Friends, countrymen, DR community, I am at long last back in the proverbial saddle of posting. Don't lie and say you missed me, but I am back anyway so suck it. Now we cannot be positive of it, but my sources tell me the picture above may be doctored in some way shape or form. It's up to you the reader to make that call. What I can tell you for a fact is that Mr Wallace loves his championship belt, and apparently fake limbs.(look for this heading in the article: "Unlikely Chiefs fan unfazed") What in the hell was Rasheed doing tossing around some dudes fake leg? I have my opinions:

- Smuggling a legs worth of weed into town for a blunt session.
- Somehow trying to pickup a technical foul in the off season.
- Making his own leg lamp a la "A Christmas Story"
Got you own opinions? Send em on in to thabulbubak@gmail.com

Now, on to the Wiping Your Ass section of this post...

You, as I did, might be asking yourself why in the fuck is Terrance Howard so serious about hand washing? Is he a germaphobe? Does he hate H1N1 as much as my wife? Or, is it something way deeper...something like the way in which he expects his ladies to keep their derrieres clean? Surprisingly it's actually the latter. Check out what Mr. Howard has to say about how he expects the upkeep to go down:

"Toilet paper - and no baby wipes - in the bathroom. If they're using dry paper, they aren't washing all of themselves. It's just unclean. So if I go in a woman's house and see the toilet paper there, I'll explain this. And if she doesn't make the adjustment to baby wipes, I'll know she's not completely clean."

Damn, dude is dropping bombs of wisdom on the world and doesn't get so much as a Peoples Choice Award for it. For shame world, for shame....

The Tao of Pedro

What can one say about Pedro Martinez? He's pitched like a Cy Young winner, he's brought occasional hilarity to postgame press conferences, and he's done more in the service of the jheri curl than anyone since Eriq LaSalle let his soul glo. He's been such a positive presence that I've been lately inclined even to forgive his many years as a member of the Red Sox. Though it's been a slow process due do his Boston pedigree, embracing Pedro has become a gradually pleasant experience for me. I often imagine him in the Phillies clubhouse, doling out hilarious Dominican nicknames (Ryan Howard as "Barrio Sin Luces" anyone?) and organizing midget wrestling tournaments during rain delays. Oh, and attending cock fights in North Philly. What, you don't remember this amazing piece of youtubery?

Pedro Martinez Cockfight Video - kewego
Pedro Martinez Cockfight Video

That's right - between Mike Vick and Pedro, South Philly is now home to professional sports' most notorious animal rights offenders. Which as far as I'm concerned, is awesome. Sorry Dan. That is all.

My Neck, My Back...

This week has not been generous in the free time department, but I have been on the map enough to learn that Shawn Andrews, our favorite frosted tips having overweight black man has done hurt his back. And likely his neck, crack, and power U to boot. And hurt 'em bad. The takeaway? He won't be thrusting his large paws into the armpits of other seriously large humans anytime soon. At least not during game time. And while it makes sense that a man of his substance would have a bad back, there are all sorts of alternative explanations for his injury that flutter around in the ether. For one, his mental fortitude has certainly come into question in recent years. But regardless, I have a viable theory of my own. Sportsnet put me on to the fact that S.Andrews, aka S dot Mandrews, has an affinity for the youtube. And not like you or I favor hilarious videos, but rather, the man likes to post. A lot. In this gem, he proves he is an ass clown in his basement, has no future in the music industry, and smokes as much weed as Michael Phelps. Enjoy:

"Werth" the Stupid "Puns"

Back when I was living in a Ford Explorer at various points south of the border, Campbell and I made up a little jingle in homage to our morning beverage of choice. It went a little something like this:

"Yo no soy maricon
Pero yo amo Ron"

For those of you not conversant in Spanish, that translates to:

I'm not a faggot
But I love Ron

BUT while the name "Ron" to most of you may conjure up images of this, in Spanish "Ron" means this. See what I did there? I'm not "gay", but I love someone named "Ron" - in this case a bottle of "alcohol." I know, I know - hold your applause.

I tell this story in order to establish my heterosexual bonafides so that when I say that I love Jayson Werth you understand that I mean "I admire Jayson Werth in an entirely platonic fashion and have no desire to engage in hot steamy man-love with him." Because that would be an exaggeration.

Lately J Werth has been hitting monstrous home runs as far as the eye can see, home runs so titanic that they've led meteor sightings and blimp accidents. Now, I don't know if Sergeant Elias is one the juice or if he's just on a hot streak, and to be frank I don't much care. I do know that his hitting of late is the only thing that's kept me out of the Jed Foundation.

Which is all just a roundabout way to bring up a feature from back in the salad days of the the DR (you know, when we used to post more that twice a month). It was called "Photo of the Day" and it was totally awesome, except that no one but me liked it so I bowed to public opinion and consigned it to a quick and painless death not unlike Flintskins' grandfather when he was at Auschwitz. But, for one day only, in honor of J Werth, I present you with a Photo of the Day redux:

It's Lonely at the Top

What with Brad Lidge doing his best impersonation of Geoff Geary, we've been loath to address another worrisome mound-based development which is that Cole Hamels is pitching less like the World Series MVP and more like Eddie Harris after he ran out of Vagisil. It's true, there have been signs of life lately, but the fact is we have yet to see an extended stretch of Old Cole and it's slightly disturbing. Now, the reasons for this could be myriad: Cole was injured to start the season and is just now rounding into form; Cole is saving his best for the postseason; Cole has an undisclosed STD that is affecting his release point - all these theories hold credence. The there's this:

My powers of language are limited, so I can only go so far in assessing this indelibly retarded image.

1) This makes me want to never ever buy an apartment in 2 Liberty and in reality make me never even want to walk past the building anymore.

2) I am worried about the effect of all the spray-tanner on the baby.

3) Who are Cole Hamels' friends and why is there not one of them that told him that this was not OK? Like, at all.

4) I love a white tux as much as the next guy, but the popped collar seems a bit extreme.

5) Couldn't they have just got to the point and advertised using this? I for one would be much more likely to spend 7 million bucks on an apartment in a building full of mud-covered naked women than in one where I have to see my creepy white-clad neighbors fondly fondling the fetus of their future demon spawn.

Oh, and in the interest of full disclosure, there's also this creepy photoshop job involving Cole in bed with a weird bevy of multiracial children who don't look like they belong to him:

Coming Full Circle

I came ready to post about Brad Lidge, Mad Dog Madsen, five solo homers, and my return to Philly... only to realize that my homecoming was grossly out-shadowed by that of another high flying athletic black man: Rodney Carney. That's right, people, the Sixers, in their enduring pursuit of the 4th seed in the playoffs have signed a non-SAT taking Memphis alum (of sorts)...again! This is the most positron thing to happen to me since Reconstruction. With Rodney Carney throwing down from the free throw line, wearing high socks, and making it rain Arash style, the Sixers are assured no worse than a disappointing round 1 loss come 2010.


But back to my intended subject matter. Mr. Fine Tone promised me a post about Brad Garb-Lidge, but instead, he has presumably slept all week. That being so, it's time I vent. I will forever hold Brad Lidge in high regard. After all, he did give me the most wonderful moment in my life, Bar Mitzvah night aside. However, even my utmost gratitude does not justify the huge black penis he has been sucking this year. 0-7? Ten blown saves? An ERA hovering around the number of hairs on African Bull's head? I'm even getting sick of the mole on the right side of his face. Eldiablo and I think we discovered the remedy for your shittiness, Mr. Lidge: change your fuckin song. Last I checked, the soldiers have left Iraq, headed for Camp Pendleton, and soon will be harassing honeys in Old City. Forget the soldiers, this is for the cuzzes. New song, new slider, new result... I think it makes perfect sense.

All our closer's mental retardation aside, the Phillies, my friends, are steadying themselves for another October run. I see very little that potentially stops our train. For one, Burrell is in Tampa and Giul is married, so the potential homosexual distraction no longer presents itself. Moreover, Kyle Kendrick has as much chance of toeing the rubber as I have of tackling Devin Hester. Time to do work, see you Gs on Broad Street.

Burning Questions

Why is the sky blue? How many monkeys locked in a room of typewriters would it take to create the past 3 months worth of Dalembert Report output? If a lonely, bored man with a weiner dog fetish repeatedly makes comments into the ether and there's no one there to read them, did they really happen?

More pressingly: where is Sammy D, and is he available to close for the Phillies?

As the dog days of summer fade into autumn and as our Fightin's careen haphazardly towards the postseason, it seems as though the time is ripe for a DR resurgence. After all, there's much to be discussed. And it will be discussed, at length, and soon. But to try and tackle everything at once is to risk ending up like Mr. Creosote, with our tuxedo in tatters and the contents of our stomach splattered far and wide. So instead, let's focus on a bit of news that's both alarming and exciting: Sammy D's Center City condo is up for sale!?

Before we get to the possible ramifications of this development, I think it's important that we recognize that Sammy chose to buy his condo in a building that is not only across the street from Central Bookings but also from the city's largest sand castle. Was Sammy fearing that the Sixers might frame him for heinous crimes crime so as to get out from under his contract, or did he just want access to a very big sand box? I'm guessing the latter, but as always with Sammy the reasoning behind his actions remains inscrutable.

In any case, since this huge story has been ignored by the mainstream media, it falls to us to parse through the clues it affords us. Could it be that Sammy is on his way out of town? There have certainly been rumors of a possible move, and the Haitian one himself even requested a trade earlier in the summer. It's a terrifying thing to contemplate, this potential Dalembert-less existence. If a 7-foot Haitian center goal-tends a shot for another team, do the points even count?

But no; I can't keep asking myself these existential questions. Things fall apart in universe without Dalembert; the Center cannot hold. And so we're forced to consider alternate theories. It falls to you, dear Dalembert readers, to make sense of this news.

- Is Center City too un-hip, and he's trading in his Franklin Square pad for a No-Libs condo?
- Is he worried about housing prices, and simply moving his investments into safer commodities like pork bellies and Florida oranges?
- Was the apartment too small, and the condo rules too stiff to accommodate the menagerie of exotic pets he's brought back from his summer in Haiti?
-Was his internet connection too slow?

I've got no answers my loyal DR friends, all I have are theories and conjectures. But together we can get to the bottom of this mystery. Please enlighten me with your ideas in the comments, and let's never ever break up again.

The Black Abbot & Costello

Let's be honest. On their own, Ryan Howard and Jimmy Rollins are not the most inspired thespians/spokespeople. Try as you may to block it out, RyHow's abomination of a Subway cheesesteak commercial will never be forgotten, and J-Roll's good deed commercial for Reviving Baseball in Innercities (aka RBI...see what they did there?) actually makes me want kids to join gangs and stab things. But, put them together and the results are always AMAZING. First we had their righteous remix of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame", and now we have this gem embedded below. For once, Funny or Die has posted something that doesn't actually fall into the 'die' category. Enjoy.

Baseball Fantasy Camp with Ryan Howard and Jimmy Rollins - watch more funny videos

Lee Elia ain't got shit on Cliff Lee

There is no denying it, the DR is on life support. We are Terry Schiavo, 1990-2005. Our collective contribution to the world wide web has rarely been so insignificant. Yet as our esteemed staff has hibernated in air conditioned rooms up and down the east coast -- all due respect to Eldiablogrande and his affinity for fans during the hot summer months -- rest assured, three readers, we will return triumphant, stronger, and more offensive!

The big news in my life (my imminent move back east) is a mere blip on the radar of truly important developments that I think we can all embrace. Our beloved Phillies have made their power move, telling J.P Ricciardi to eat the proverbial penis and scooped up Cliff Lee in exchange for a bounty of promising prospects we will all soon forget. I, for one, have no beef with this trade. Despite sharing an unfortunate common last name with one of the all-time pieces of shit ever to adorn Phils pinstripes, he also shares a first name with an all-time Phillies great. Someone needs to buy me that poster, pronto. The more crafty lefties the better in my book. If Hamels can drag himself away from his wife and get his shit together, October might bleed into November and we will all have reason to celebrate yet again. Until then, props to Ruben Amaro, ain't a soul in Phillies nation who can complain about our commitment to winning.


With August comes the end of my time here in the Windy City. The year has disappeared faster than a Jake Schultz consumed 40. Yesterday was yet ANOTHER gay festival in my soon-to-be old neighborhood. And what did I learn upon my return home last night at 11:00 PM? Put simply, gay men love tank tops. Beefy gay men, skinny gay men, gay men who now fancy themselves as women... they all love tank tops. Outside of that, my tutorial has been rather limited. But a lesson learned is a lesson learned.

There has also been a massive amount of death in the news this past month. Thoughts of my own demise put me on to this cheery website, which might very well make its way into my daily routine, somewhere between the Inquirer sports page, the New York Times Business page, and starbury tv. I have long since wished death upon the Red Sox, only to have the sanctity of their championships dealt a fatal blow in the alternative. At least when the Phillies did steroids, we continued to suck, thus avoiding the public shame that now falls upon our neighbors to the north. That's no coincidence as I see it.