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.