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.