I Can't Think of a Funny Title

I had every intention if sitting down, concocting a believable fallacy, and then taking credit for a wonderfully-conceived April's Fool joke. Fact is, however, I am not that creative. And more to the point, I am nowhere near that driven. So, alas, you are stuck with the uninspiring nonsense that clutters my this mind Wednesday evening.

Saturday I am faced with a bit of a dilemma. My Carolina Tar Heels (and I emphasize "my" only to piss Stand Watie off, which is a common theme of my posts) face off against the pride of Rosemont, the monsters of the Main Line, THE Villanova Wildcats. I grew up supporting Villanova, if only because our high school's most esteemed graduate starred on their basketball team in the mid-90s. And I attended basketball camp there. In fact, one fine summer, I rolled off the top bunk of my Villanova dorm room bunk-bed, had a minor collision with the tile floor, and spent a concussed afternoon in Rollie Massimino's office waiting for my parents to pick me up. Ahhhh, memories. But Saturday presents an interesting proposition. Root for Carolina and celebrate ostensibly by myself? Present an outward face of indifference and support the winner against the Big African or Big Marf's key to the big bucks? Root for Nova and, in essence, lie to myself? Well, I've come to terms with a happy approach somewhere in the middle. Let it be known, besides being black and proud, I am also rooting for UNC. However, if Novvvva scraps out a W, I will channel my inner Chuck Kornegay, contemplate naming my next pet Rafal or Bigus, and whip out the Doug West T'wolves jersey for Monday night's likely clash with my third favorite african basketball player.

Besides basketball this weekend, Sunday night ushers in another fabulous spring ritual: baseball season. Amazing that the new year is upon us, but I guess that's what happens when your season ends in November! Although my off-season is easily satisfied keeping up with J Roll's social agenda, Brett Myers' weight loss, and Chase Utley's hip rotation, the real deal is upon us and I'm feeling pretty damn good about it. I had an interesting conversation with a Mets fan over the phone the other day. He started talking shit, in his crafty, Jewy lawyer language, and I simply reminded him: we got rings, player. We got everything your bullpen shit down the drain last year. See, the Phils have had swagger for a number of years. We got confidence oozing all the way up to Flushing. And while that's been a great source of comfort and pride, it's even better knowing that our swagger is deserved, pronounced, and growing by the minute. And frankly, I expect nothing less than a championship AGAIN this year. For god's sake we have a Korean pitching every 5th day. Life can't get much better for this guy.

I also want to report something causing me significant bewilderment. It would appear that - and this might surprise many of you, but in all likelihood, has the entire DR staff shaking their heads in sarcastic agreement - I, well, how do I say this... well, I infuriate people. Something about yours truly compels others into violence, and more specifically, violence directed at me. In the last three weeks, I have been sucker punched by a mohawk sporting, lip ring having "tough" guy from the Chicago suburbs (who hits a guy with glasses anyway?), and victimized by an angry, angry, 6'4'' man intent on destroying my nose with his forehead during a recent YMCA basketball game. Hmmm. I would invite commentary on this issue, but something tells me the Bul Bubak would destroy my sense of self.

Little people have been on my mind recently as well. As a preliminary matter, I'd like to note my minor obsession with a recent, and somewhat disturbing Burger King commercial starring a wee little farmer driving a tractor, hawking adorable little cheeseburgers. Thanks to the NCAA tournament, I've seen this commercial at least fifty times in the last few weeks. Really, it all makes perfect sense. If there is one thing more loveable than a little person, it's cheeseburgers. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to realize that little cheeseburgers are, therefore, the wave of the future. And a quick youtube search later, I'm convinced that Burger King's CEO might be little himself. The King has an inordinate number of little people commercials, strongly indicating a unique solidarity, or a fetish worthy of our collective applause. How often can you watch in horror as a small person is ruthlessly squashed by a falling flame-broiled patty? Not very, Mr., not very.


But my appreciation for little people can't hold a candle to this guy's. Never have I considered driving to Oregon, kidnapping Matt Roloff, his wife, or his little person son (who by the way, must be incredibly bitter). Rarely do I go anywhere with duct tape, a loaded pistol, a shotgun, and a box full of love letters... well not anywhere without a Delaware Avenue address at least. But Shawn Johnson's stalker takes no chances with his affection. Some people might consider him crazzzy. Like a fox, maybe.

God bless you all. GO PHILS! And oh yeah, according to the Philadelphia Inquirer Bernard Hopkins, the executioner himself, went to the Henry School for a year. I'm guessing he robbed the COOP for every fruit leather in the joint at least a handful of times. I like boisonberry, I wonder if he did too.