November 30, 2007
This Is The End for the Knicks. Last night’s stomping by the Celts showed them up for what they are, a Coney Island sideshow of fruits and nuts.
Nothing against Isiah Thomas. He had a great record as a player, but as a manager he reeks like a barrel of rotten fish heads. He has put together a Dirty Dozen of spoiled misfits, only he doesn’t have the ability to mold them into a fighting force. The played like a schoolyard pickup-up team, and they were mowed down by Boston’s well-oiled professionals, who played like a coordinated team with a purpose.
The Celts had a comprehensive defense that didn’t let the Knicks even get near enough to the basket to set anything up. The Knicks were reduced to taking all their shots from the outside and were only able to score 25%. The Celts had a passing game that kept the Knicks running around like a Keystone Kops Komedy movie. The Celts were well-drilled in the fundamentals. Ray Allen shows up three hours before each game to practice all his moves, like a professional who takes his job seriously, while the Knicks are mugging to gangsta rap on their freakin’ iPods.
The Celts dug deep and broke up everything that the Knicks tried to put together, which wasn’t hard since the Knicks get their playbook out of the funny papers. They are not a team but a collection of mama’s boys. They are a reeking Porto-San that needs to get flushed out.
Isiah Thomas gets such a lack of respect that the Boston hotel where he was staying locked him out of his room for a joke. Wotta moron! He put together a team of retards and now he hasn’t got the slightest idea what to do with these tomato cans. He’s too soft to handle this gang of reform school class clowns
Meantime, Dolan is away on vacation, like he really gives a freak! He is too stoopid to replace Thomas because he wouldn’t know what to do and he doesn’t have the mental capacity to figure it out.
The Knicks looked OK against the Bulls because they are also a gang of 2-8 losers, but when our boys came up against a real team with values they collapsed like one of those imploded Atlantic City casinos.
Demolished, that’s the word. It was like the Polish cavalry going up against the German Panzer tanks, a comedy of terrors.
Oh, it’s going to be a looong winter of derision and humiliation for New York as this gang of retards presents us as a doormat for the rest of the country! Thanks for nothing, you freaks!
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Posted on 11/30/2007
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November 29, 2007
Thank you, Mutt Romney, the king of Massachusetts! I promised the administration of Fan Nation that I would not write any more rude things about Boston, but what am I supposed to do when Massachusetts' favorite son goes on national television and says, "All of America hates the Yankees"?Romney calls himself a Mormon but he's really a Moron. He looks like a freakin' Barbie Doll with that haircut. Whaddaya want, he passed a law that men can marry each other, and now he's for Family Values. What family, Larry Craig's? Wotta froot! No wonder Giuliani went over to the Red Sox, he feels right at home wearing his dresses up in Cape Cod.Do me a big favor - leave the Yankees out of Republican politics, OK? New York doesn't care about Belichek's cheating, and we don't care about Boston blowing gas out of their butts from eating all the beans. We got bigger fish to fry.Boston has got some good teams right now, and that's very nice for them since they don't have anything else. But that too shall pass, and Boston will go back to being a flyspeck on the map, while New York will always be New York and the Yanks will always be the Yanks. Long Live The Yankees Forever. Amen!
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Posted on 11/29/2007
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November 28, 2007
“You’re a loser!” “Why don’t you pull yourself up by your bootstraps?” “You’re weird! You don’t smile enough. That’s why you can’t keep a job, with that face!” “You drank all the vodka yesterday. That’s why you couldn’t do the laundry.” “Why can’t you do what I tell you?” “You smoke so much, you’re going to ruin your health!”
Geez, no wonder I smoke so much! Life is tough enough right now, with jobs drying up because of Bush’s brilliant economy and thousands of people being dumped onto the labor force, competing for the meager crumbs of work that are left, but I also have to deal with a hostile home environment as well.
“Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose.” My life with women resembles nothing so much as an old W.C. Fields movie, wherein he is hounded and terrorized to the brink of insanity by lunatic, loudmouth women, spoiled kids and biting dogs. I managed to avoid ratty children demanding $200 sneakers and iPhones. Happily, no woman ever considered me a decent sucker for a paternity scam, as happened numerous times to my father and uncle. I’m just too nasty. But, unfortunately, I am ensnarled by what is laughingly referred to as “the weaker sex.”
My mother once advised me, “Women feel overpowered by men, so they respond with the one weapon left to them, language.” Amen to that! The only problem is that the women’s liberation movement, instead of empowering them toward equality and self-reliance, has just devolved into a kind of institutional nagging marathon. It’s just old wine in new bottles.
Here’s an example: a European female blogger who is enormously popular over there has just published a book entitled “How To Live With A Twat,” the “twat” being her boyfriend, naturally. The book is so well regarded that a European bureaucrat in charge of promoting The New Europe chose to honor its launching party with her presence.
Now ask yourself this question: if I published a book called “My Girlfriend is a Cunt,” do you think a member of government would come around to congratulate me, or would I be honored with chanting demonstrations and book burnings?
Anyway, if she hates the guy so much, how come she compares him with that defining aspect of her own physiognomy? The actual equivalent of this is if I were to call my book “My Girlfriend is a Dick.” This misnaming of her book only serves to illuminate the central complaint of men, that women are dizzy.
Who am I to argue with no less an authority than Chairman Mao, who philosophized that “women hold up half the sky”. Fine, only why can’t they hold up their half in a more stoic, silent manner so that our half can watch the game?
Most men are intimidated into silence, at first because of the threat of no more sex, and then later because all the assets are in her name. Fortunately, I have had sex with my girlfriend so much over the years that it has now become meaningless and I don’t have any assets, so what have I got left to use? Let me be the spokesman for all the men who have been cowed into silence.
This is not to say that I don’t support Hillary Clinton. She seems sensible enough. Angela Merkel hasn’t destroyed Germany. Yet. And Hillary’s opponents are not that manly anyway. In fact, Giuliani loves wearing dresses.
The only problem is, what if Clinton turns out to be a confused mess like Israel’s only female prime minister, the beloved Golda Meir, who left that country vulnerable to an unsuspected sneak attack in 1973 that cost the lives of thousands of Israeli soldiers; or Indira Gandhi, who was finally assassinated by her own Sikh bodyguards?
Or what about France’s attempt at a female prime minister, Edith Cresson, who was sacked immediately after confiding to a journalist that 25% of British males were homosexual? All people entertain these kinds of outrageous notions, but it takes a particularly female mentality to share them with a working journalist. The new French president, Sarkozy, just scored a big win over his opponent, who happened to be female.
What is remarkable, however, is the total lack of interest in any prospective female leadership in Britain, a country that not too long ago suffered eight years of Margaret Thatcher’s hectoring, this in a country where the men are no slouches at tedious moralizing themselves. If you think about it, England has had exactly four queens, one of whom inflicted a monstrous sexual inhibition that still bears her name on the world; and another whose most notable achievement was to execute her own cousin and the mother to her successor.
When I was totally hormone-driven I put up with a lot from women. Now, less so. I have found that the best way to drive them nuts is to tell them a joke. They mostly have no sense of humor whatever, especially about themselves. Another way to drive them bonkers is to say these four little words: “Mind your own business.” That is sure to get the fur flying.
But just be careful. After hundreds and thousands of years of complaining about violence against women, they are striking back in increasingly gruesome ways: the woman who strangled her sleeping husband, who had just bought her a new house in Long Island, and then tearfully cried to the jury that he had abused her, moving that body to refuse to indict her; or the woman who beat another woman to death with a club for telling her “black women don’t have any money” (she says), and now her attorney is claiming that the cops coerced the confession out of her.
Anyway, even if the victim did say that, should Condoleeza Rice have suffered a similar fate for telling the jewelry shop assistant “I have money and you don’t.”
They look cute, but so do female wolverines.
I believe that the way to counter the almost-complete female domination of society has to evolve into the political arena, and that’s why I am starting a movement called “SHUT THE %$#@ UP!”
Check it out! www.200motels.net
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Posted on 11/28/2007
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November 24, 2007
Sports betting is like playing the stock market. In order to be successful at it you have to be comfortable with its inherently corrupt nature. Most betters do not possess the inside information necessary to make an informed decision. Some of the most brilliant financial geniuses in this country are people you never heard of because they have names like Vito and Sal. They perfected the techniques of hedging and risk management when the concepts of derivatives and options were just a twinkle in Morgan Stanley's mother's eye. With all the chaos in the banking industry and the stock market, you don't hear of any problems in sports betting, except for maybe fewer suckers due to a general economic slowdown.One characteristic trait sports betting shares with the stock market is "pump and dump", which is setting up marks to take unwise positions by generating false publicity. Companies that want to unload worthless stock frequently bribe analysts and financial writers to generate favorable publicity to lure unwary investors. Bookmakers will pay sportswriters to intentionally mislead suckers to place unbelievably poor bets.A blatant example of this is an unbelievably sickening headline in Thursday's New York Post, "Jets Will Be ‘Boy Busters", favoring the Jets to beat the Cowboys by a point spread of 14 points. Now you would have to be the world's biggest moron to bet the 2-8 Jets over the 9-1 Cowboys at a 14-point spread, but there are probably enough big morons to make it profitable for the betting syndicates to shoot a few bucks to hungry Post writers for them to plant such a juicy piece of bulls** *.That Post writers accept bribes to write lies and false news is an established fact, as The Post itself was forced to admit earlier this year in response to a lawsuit brought against them by a fired journalist. The Post admitted that accepting bribes and gratuities in return for publishing favorable stories was not only accepted, but encouraged by News Corp. as a way to keep salaries low.The Post is not alone in this Porto-San of constitutionally protected expression, but leading with an item of blatant nonsense giving the Jets a 14 point edge over the Cowboys, by whom they were run over, trampled, crushed, flattened and pulverized as though by a steamroller, is the most outrageous example of journalistic abuse this side of communist Pravda.
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Posted on 11/24/2007
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November 22, 2007
When Isiah Thomas finally walks out the door of Madison Square Garden, directly behind him should walk James Dolan, who is the sorriest excuse for a team owner that ever existed.When asked about his son's disastrous administration of that misbegotten franchise, Big Boss Charles Dolan, was reported to have replied, "I'm too busy to worry about the Knicks."Sports is part of culture and history, and the Knicks are a cornerstone of the edifice of New York civilization. They were here before anybody ever heard of the Dolan family, and they'll be here long after that family is forgotten. The idea that they can be used as a plaything for a useless fatman is enough to inflame even the most sedate sports fan. You want to find something to amuse useless freakin' James Dolan? Buy him an erection set!There is a by-law that says that if a team is mismanaged to the extent of chaos and disintegration by a useless fatman, the NBA can appoint a trusteeship to take over management until stability is restored. Naturally, the Dolan family would instruct their idiot attorneys, who mismanaged the Anucha Browne-Sanders lawsuit, to file a motion in court to block such a move, so the only thing for scandalized New Yorkers is to wait until the team is such a pathetic joke that the Dolan family eventually loses interest in being portrayed as buffoons and decide to sell. But by then the rest of us will be in Bellevue psycho ward, having been driven crazy from watching the Titanic crash over and over again, a basketball version of "Groundhog Day" that re-runs endlessly until we repent for our sins.New York is the story of the blind men and the elephant. Depending what part you are touching, that is what the animal resembles. For me the Knicks is America on a small scale. In New York you got the Knicks and in the U.S. you got the disastrous economy; in New York you got spoiled, lazy fatman James Dolan, and in the U.S. you got spoiled lazy idiot rich kid Bush; James Dolan hires Isiah Thomas because nobody likes to hire somebody smarter than he is; Bush got a whole gang of losers and dummies."Groundhog Day," that's what life is right now. Fall on your knees and repent!
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Posted on 11/22/2007
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November 22, 2007
I admit that I don't know shit about point spreads. I couldn't give you the odds on the NFL if my life depended on it. I once had a boss who knew all that stuff. He knew football, basketball and horseracing. He knew so much that one time his bookmaker sent a couple of goons up to our company to hang him out the window by his heels until the Big Boss opened the safe and paid them to let him live. When he retired they gave him his retirement pay in one lump sum, which he had to turn the whole amount over to his bookie.Another sports expert I knew blows so much money betting football that he can't even keep a telephone in his house. His wife left him even though she still loved him.What qualifies me to write about sports is that I work out more in one week than most Americans work out in a year. I haven't let my gym membership expire in 25 years. Everybody I know I met in gyms. I run, lift weights, box, practice Tae Kwon Do and kickboxing, you name it - anything to move and sweat. Arnold Schwartznegger is my supreme hero and "Muscle And Fitness" is my bible.Oh, I follow the New York teams, but it's hard for me to sit still and watch unless I'm drinking. Like a lot of hard-core gym rats, I would rather be working out than watching somebody else play.Every friend I've got I met in a gym. If you don't play sports, fuck off. I don't like fat people and I don't like skinny people. Athletes have got the best values and they are the only people to have for friends. Look at Greg Anderson. He trained Barry Bonds, and Bonds is such a prick that it can't have been that memorable of an experience. But it was a professional relationship, and when the feds started crawling all over Anderson about what he knew about Bonds, Anderson clammed up.A personal trainer working in Greg Anderson's capacity for a professional athlete like Barry Bonds doesn't just stand there and count repetitions while Bonds does ab twists with a medicine ball. He is fully engaged in designing a nutrition and training program for his client to get results. Anderson intimately understood every muscle group in Bonds' body and how it got that way. Greg Anderson knew more about Barry Bonds than Bonds' girlfriend or his mother. But it was a confidential professional relationship that you don't discuss with anybody. Just because some flatfoot investigator comes into the gym and demands that you spill your guts out or some venal, ambitious assistant U.S. Attorney drags you before a federal grand jury to betray your client's confidence does not mean that it is the right thing to do.As far as I know, Anderson himself is not accused of doing anything illegal or unethical. He simply is not willing to say what he knows about Bonds' behavior, which he feels is information imparted to him under terms of confidentiality.Strictly speaking, under the law Anderson is not protected by the same guarantees of confidentiality that cover licensed attorneys or physicians. But he is unwilling to betray that confidence and he has suffered immeasurably, spending years in jail for refusing to rat Bonds out. Susan MacDougall also suffered the same way when the Republican congressional committees trying to dig up dirt on Clinton locked her up for years in solitary confinement, kept her in chains and let her sick husband die in jail, all because she refused to spill her guts to them about what she knew about the Clintons (not that she knew anything, but she refused to tell them anything). So don't ask me why I hate Republicans, OK?What do I care about Barry Bonds? Quite aside from the fact that he stinks as a human being and that he ingested poison to enhance his athletic performance, he cheated other ball players and brought misery onto baseball. Fuck the asterisk, I'd like to see the stupid ball pulverized by a steamroller.But the feds don't have the physical evidence that is needed to convict Bonds in a court of law on drugs, only on supposed perjury. And lacking that they are cheating the same way Bonds cheated, by bringing destruction upon innocent people who are only incidentally involved to try to get them to roll over on him. If they can wring an admission out of Bonds that he cheated like they did with Marion Jones and strip him of his records so much the better, but not at the expense of honest people who work for a living.If they can do this to Anderson and Susan Macdougall, they can do anything to anybody. That's why we have constitutional guarantees in place, to protect us from tyrannical authority. That's what America is supposed to be all about.All I know is, if I find myself in a problematic situation, I hope I have a decent guy like Greg Anderson around to watch my back.
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Posted on 11/22/2007
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November 19, 2007
Sorry, but there's nothing more revolting than sanctimony in the service of social conformity. I'm not in favor of steroids. I never took them and I'm sure I saved myself a lot of grief, particularly when I see some of Vince Macmahon's former trained seals on TV, who no longer have the use of their legs, or are even dead.But if you're going to indict Barry Bonds for lying to a grand jury four years ago about doing something that wasn't even illegal seven years ago, then I think the witch trials are going too far.This situation of making people testify under oath about their private business, even when no laws have been broken, has its modern origins in the anticommunist witch hunts of the 1950's, where they went after artists for things they ostensibly did in the 1930's. It was the same garbage:"I didn't attend this meeting in 1935.""Well, we say you did, and we have this witness, Joe Schmucko, who saw you there. So we're going to indict you for lying about being a commie twenty years ago."Same shit. Only now nobody cares about commies, but everybody loves sports. So in order to distract the public from the huge Republican blunders concerning Iraq, the economy, the dollar, the housing scandal, torture, Katrina, gas prices and all the other multifarious fuck-ups of the Bush administration they're trying to skin Barry Bonds alive in a Star Chamber proceeding (look it up).
If they want to ban steroids, fine. Let them do it according to procedure, which is that you first pass a law and you then try to enforce it, not retroactively targeting unpopular public figures for something they did when it wasn't even illegal
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Posted on 11/19/2007
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November 18, 2007
Political Correctness has a new class of victims to protect – pigeons! Urban Wildlife Coalition founder Johana Clearfield wrote a letter to City Council speaker Christine Quinn, castigating her for referring to the little darlings as “flying rats.”
Hey, pigeons got feelings too. But like every other New Yorker, they don’t mind dishing it out. They don’t mind defecating all over the place, including on your head. They don’t mind infesting people’s balconies and driving them to drink. They don’t mind flying or creeping into food processing areas and contaminating victuals.
That’s what they are, rats. They spread filth and disease, the same as rats. New York pigeons are worse than rats because, unlike rats, they’re not intimidated by people. They’ll fly right into your head. They’ll fly into airplane engines and cause planes to crash. If you leave your window open, they’ll fly right into your house looking for food.
Pigeons are nauseating, filthy, disgusting creatures that eat garbage and contaminate the environment.I have a lot of pigeon experience. When I was a manager at P&K Bagels (“A Puke In Every Bite”) one of my jobs was to keep freakin’ pigeons from flying in through the loading dock and shitting all over the bagels in the packing area, I kid you not. On the ground I had to worry about the rats and roaches, and in the air I had to worry about the flies and the pigeons.
Nothing could deter the pigeons. They are really smart when it comes to food, and a bakery, with all its grains and seeds, is a pigeon’s target of preference. The little buggers used to roost on trucks in the street and wait for something to happen. In the process of unloading pallets of baking materials from delivery trucks, the forklift drivers would inevitably cause a bag to rip, spilling sesame or poppy seeds all over the street, which the pigeons would zoom in on.
The morning was the best time for the pigeons because that was when the garbage trucks came to pick up tons of the unbelievably rancid bakery waste that is necessarily a by-product of the industrial baking process. Hundreds of garbage bags of corn meal, vegetable oil mixed with filthy bagel fragments that had fallen through the conveyor, huge fermented clumps of rotten dough oozing grease, flour swept up from the floor, petrified pieces of bread dislodged from in between the moving parts of the machinery, crates of product that had been soaked by leaking pipes in the walk-in freezer and then left to re-freeze all over again, the whole mess dislodged at great effort with axes and crowbars and torn out of the caked ice by use of a mechanically powered jack, the whole stinking mess being loaded into two yard dumpsters and picked up at dawn in a not-too-delicate process that left the street in front of the factory with a gooey film of filth looking like a huge diseased carcass that the vultures had abandoned to the smaller scavengers. The pigeons, just waking up, would dig into this mess with the gusto of a Hollywood cocktail party, and this was the scene that confronted me as I arrived to begin my day.
I would organize a clean-up crew and have the place in order in an hour’s time, before the city inspectors came around.The pigeons, meanwhile, would retreat to the tops of parked trucks to await another target of opportunity. This wasn’t a flock of birds, it was a gang. If the loading dock was left unattended, a line of them would stealthily creep in. When they were approached, they would casually stroll back out and go back to the truck to bide their time.
This cat-and-mouse went on incessantly, eternally. As long as the bakery was there, the pigeons would be there. One time I bought an ultrasonic device on the Internet for $500 that was guaranteed to drive the pigeons nuts. After I had built a little shelf for it and installed it at the front of the loading dock, I walked away. When I returned later, the thing was humming away – with a pigeon sitting atop it!
Nothing stops these birds, not machines, not inflatable owls or scarecrows. The only thing that works is to pay a Mexican to chase them with a broom all day long, like vegetable stores pay guys to watch the fruit displayed outside.
The most horrible thing is to see somebody actually feeding the little buggers. Crowds of them eating and defecating and feathers flying all over the place, and some retard giving them food.Yuck!A monetary fine is too good for these weirdos. They ought to be made to live in a cage with the vermin, but that would be cruel and unusual punishment, because these birds spread encephalitis.
Feeding them birth control sounds like a good solution. Anyway a lot of those birds are perverts. One time I was watching a pigeon on top of another pigeon, doing the nasty thing. After they finished, to my absolute astonishment, the pigeon that had been on the bottom jumped on the one that had been on top and started doing it to him! A third pigeon, who had been watching the scene along with me, became offended and walked over and broke the whole thing up.
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Posted on 11/18/2007
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November 18, 2007
The Rats and the Roaches ran amokWith a meatball that fell out of the pizza delivery truckThey decided to hold their championship gameIn the alley underneath the elevated train
The Roaches kicked off and sent the ball
To Frankie The Rat who had just broke out of the Rikers Island jailThe Rats' quarterback was sackedBy a gang of waterbugs that jumped on his backHe fumbled the ball to the dismay of the coachAnd it was recovered by Norman The RoachThe Roaches had the advantage in running the ballBecause they had more legs and could run up the wall
At half-time the score was Roaches 6, Rats zero
The Rats decided to send in their heroJake was the toughest rat on the streetHe wore little cleats that fit on his rat feetHe said ‘Freddie you go short and Joe you go long‘I'll break through the line because I am so strong'
When the meatball was snapped the Roaches piled in
And swarmed all over Jake like a jungle, JimA hundred roaches gathered roundBut still they could not bring him downJake The Rat crushed them under his feetAnd cracked their bodies with his cleats
Jake scored the touchdown and kicked the conversion
The Rats won by a whisker and that's the official versionAfter the game was the victory paradeWhere The Rats ate the meatball and drank Gatorade
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Posted on 11/18/2007
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November 17, 2007
The Knicks looked so fantastic against the Nuggets last week that I thought it was the Second Coming. Now I feel like the guy who bends down to pick up a dollar only to discover that it is tied to a string and is being pulled away in a cruel joke.This week they are back to their old form, which is a group of nut cases so pathetic that even a grasping, scheming Anucha Browne Sanders can make a monkey out of them in a phony civil suit.Even as she is off in some balmy, tropical clime with $11million to keep her warm, the Knicks are working overtime to ensure that no edifice will be left standing in their little empire of knuckleheads. Marbury is hardly part of the team anymore, Collins and Balkman are literally on crutches, Eddy Curry seems to be sleepwalking, Isiah Thomas is in a catatonic state from which he is only aroused by the hysterical screaming and threats directed at him in post-game meetings with James Dolan (I am not present at those meetings, but I have worked for guys like Dolan. How could it be otherwise?).New York sports is at its all-time historic low, made all the worse by the triumphalist bleatings of our erstwhile suckers, Boston, who now beat us with a triumvirate of championship clubs: the Celts, the Patriots and the Red Sox.Certainly we are not losing out for lack of wealth spent to attract sports talent. New York is prepared to spend vast sums to lure the highest quality of stars. Part of our decline as an empire might be environmental, and I don't mean pollution, but a poorly designed physical environment which has been constructed without consideration being given to the metaphysical spiritual laws of feng shui. In spite of the vast sums being consecrated to new constructions I have often felt that we are living in a world out of balance.My opinion is that the City is being punished for worshipping false gods. New York was built on manufacturing and transportation. We have lost our manufacturing capacity and our transportation infrastructure and replaced them with shylocking and communications. People only dream of getting rich without working, by living off interest or clicking a computer mouse. This general slackness and loss of resolve translates into a public atmosphere of unreal expectations, which permeates sports management. If you think that this is illusory, think about the Knicks for a minute. The Knicks should have been back on their feet years ago, and not a load of garbage smooth-talked by Isiah Thomas. They should have beaten Anucha Browne Sanders in her phony lawsuit, but nobody in the front office or among their high-priced team of attorneys took a leadership role in controlling the case and coaching stoopid freakin' Marbury and Thomas in how to comport themselves on the courthouse steps or in the courtroom. The Knicks ended up getting their butts handed to them by an ignorant, greedy, grasping idiot of a woman.By the same token, James Dolan should have gotten rid of Isiah Thomas and read the riot act to the players years ago, but Dolan himself, a product of nepotism, is, aside from hysterical behavior, quite unqualified to administer even a hot dog stand.There is obviously a paralyzing dysfunction at the Knicks management level. Nobody is in charge. Nobody wants to work. The players are the Designated Suckers. It's not because of their lack of talent. It's because they are not being managed intelligently. A very smart guy once counseled me, "There are no bad workers, only bad supervisors."Why does Isiah Thomas still have a job? Steinbrenner got rid of Joe Torre, despite his having a very distinguished record, when the Yanks flunked out of the playoffs. How long would he have lasted if the Yanks had spent year after year in the cellar, like the Knicks?The Knicks is not a player problem. It is a management problem. But the managerial class as it's now presently constituted is not up to world-class standards. Maybe the Knicks should bring in a manager who knows nothing about basketball. Top managers move from industry to industry all the time. If you can manage one business successfully you can manage another.But as long as Charles Dolan owns the Knicks this is unlikely to happen. The Dolans make their real money from Cablevision. The Knicks are just the toy for Charles Dolan's fat, useless son, James, and the fans are just the suckers.Part of the problem is the players' union. Now that the players have so much power, the way the contracts are written makes it impossible to control them with the threat of dismissal for non-performance. And since most of the players are young persons with little or no work experience, they are very difficult to manage.Every year Isiah Thomas comes back with the same lame excuse, "It is a young team that needs time to develop." Blah blah blah. Maybe next year. Mañana. Those are the shopworn bleatings of a turkey who is trying to hold onto his job. Only, even the stupidest boss in the world is not going to buy a bill of goods like that. Unless, of course, the boss is the Big Boss' idiot son with a pineapple for a head. I wouldn't trust James Dolan to feed the birds in my pet store.Even the most stultified sports team eventually divests itself of its expired talent, as the moribund Jets proved when the finally jettisoned Chad Pennington after a disastrous start. Only Isiah Thomas seems to be immune to this fundamental law of nature.
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Posted on 11/17/2007
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November 15, 2007
This lady told me, “Anybody who says ‘good morning’ is not a real New Yorker.
I’ll drink to that.This ‘good morning’, Happy Face garbage is rotting my mind. Give me a good-natured grouch anytime! New Yorkers these days are expected to walk around mellowed-out on Prozac, smiling like freakin’ bobble heads.
Under the old New York rules you had an absolute duty to ignore other people because anybody who spoke to strangers was a nut-job and a criminal who meant to do you harm.
Now, with Political Correctness, you’re obliged to defer to any weirdo who elects to waste your time like he was royalty or the pope.
I have never even gotten to know any of my neighbors. Neighbors are evil things. They spy on you and keep tabs on you like secret police. They rat you out to the cops and talk about you to the newspapers. My girlfriend, Magpie, who believes in smiling, saying hello to people who don’t count for shit and being a good neighbor, lives in mortal fear that the neighbors will figure out that all the liquor bottles we throw out belong to us and start to gossip that we are alcoholics (hic!).
style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: #ffd700; "> This whole trend of neighborliness goes back to that prick Giuliani, who was determined to make New York into a sanitized Disneyland so that people from the suburbs would be happy. So now they’re happy and New Yorkers are miserable. Giuliani reduced crime and murder, and that’s good, but he tried to shut down the Brooklyn Museum because his white bread sensibilities were offended by the modern art, and he was determined to remold the city in the image of a working-class, ethnic suburban rube, which is what he is.
How Giuliani has gotten as far as he has is beyond my comprehension, except for an axiom developed by political analyst H.L. Mencken that “Nobody ever lost money underestimating the intelligence of the American public.”
Anyway, the closer we get to election day, the more clearly the map of Giuliani’s little world will come clear, revealing him to be a hybrid orchid consisting of one part J. Edgar Hoover, one part Larry Craig with a few dashes of Bernard Kerik, Jeanine Pirro, The Vagina Monologues and Judith Regan thrown in for garish display. If Rudolph Giuliani is an example of the clear-headedness of drug-free America, pass me that joint over here!
But I salute that lady in Long Island who, when somebody who happened to be bicycling through her neighborhood smiled at her and told her “Good Morning!” assaulted him with a rake, pistol-whipped him with a gun she happened to be carrying and ran over him with her SUV. I say, right on lady! We have to get back to get back to traditional values.
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Posted on 11/15/2007
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November 15, 2007
Can you spare a few bucks to help out A-ROD? He needs the money now that he's taking a pay cut to go back to work for Steinbrenner for a lousy $275mil. If he would have kept his mouth shut and just played baseball, the Yanks would have signed him for $300million. But OH NO! he had to listen to his genius agent, Boras, who told him to play hard-to-get. Now the $20 million the Yankees were supposed to get from the Texas Rangers as part of A-ROD's original deal has to come out of A-ROD's end.Not only that, but as part of the new contract A-ROD has to participate in a special ceremony on the pitcher's mound at Yankee Stadium next year. According to the agreement A-ROD will say "Forgive me, boss, for I have sinned," and will plant a big smootcheroo on Steinbrenner's patriarchical posterior as thousands of fans cheer.A-ROD may soon be joined at the Millionaires' Soup Kitchen by Knicks' super foul-up, Stephon Marbury. Whereas A-ROD plays like a professional athlete and had a legitimate contract issue, Marbury, with his sneakers and his ho's and his personality issues, behaves as though playing basketball is the last thing on his mind. With all his flying around on airplanes, leaving the team, joining the team etc., the odds are that he's going to eventually run into his spiritual godfather, OJ, who is also a frequent flier, and who will give him some tips on how to become a major league idiot.Marbury's stupid, all right. He's squandering all the gifts God gave him. It's only a matter of time before he ends up in the Foul-Ups Hall of Fame with Rodman and Tyson, wrestling a tag-team of pygmy dwarfs in a Slobovian circus ring, and he will have ample time to reflect at his leisure how he should have kept his mouth shut and just took the money.Even James Dolan, who has got to be one of the biggest morons who ever existed, who is not even capable of managing a hot dog stand or feeding fish to the seals in the Central Park Zoo, is eventually going to figure out that Marbury is doing the Knicks more harm than good and is then going to shovel him into the rubbish bin along with Isiah Thomas.
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Posted on 11/15/2007
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November 15, 2007
How much of Norman Mailer’s belligerent attitude was formed by growing up in a world where the Jew was the Designated Sucker even unto the point where half the world set on a feeding frenzy of blood-lust against that race while the other half just stood by and mutely observed is an appropriate subject for meditation. Maybe if his formative years had been spent in a world where Israel, with the world’s most accomplished military and intelligence service had already existed; a world where the enemies of the Jewish people tremble at the thought of the Sword of Gideon, where Jewish submarines prowl the seas, where the Jewish Uzi machine gun is the weapon of choice in every corner of the world, Mailer’s mind would not have been twisted into a Gordian Knot of inadequacy, hostility and defensive aggression, and he would have been able to artistically interpret the world from a freer and more universal base of comprehension.
Likewise, if he had been born into a larger and more impressive physique he might not have felt threatened by his women, who, after all, were about the same size he was. The funny thing about Norman Mailer’s antagonism towards women is that he always felt the need to keep them around him. He was married six times. I have also had a life of endless problems with women and girls. If you’re heterosexual and driven by hormones there’s no alternative. But I never felt compelled to marry one. My father and my uncle were each also married five times. I’ve been living with my present woman for five years and, believe me, this will be the last go-round for me. If I am lucky enough to survive this latest disaster I will be very happy to live a bachelor’s life going into my old age.
Mailer had more in common with his female adversaries than he would ever have cared to admit – a sense of physical diminutiveness and powerlessness that propelled him into an attitude of perversity. What kind of man is he who feels the need to take after his wife and puncture her with a ballpoint pen? He employed a lot of female tricks, like verbal aggression against a much larger guy, knowing that the guy would be forced to restrain himself for fear of going to jail.
I read some of his books.The one I liked best was “The Executioner’s Song” about Gary Gilmore, who was executed for murder. Mailer was responsible for springing another murderer, Jack Abbott, from prison once because he could write a little bit, but immediately after being released Abbott stabbed another man to death and was immediately sent back. After that Mailer never again involved himself in social issues.
Mailer and Ernest Hemingway were consumed by the ideal of the writer as a man of action. Hemingway was able to see the world as a traveling correspondent for The Toronto Star. André Malraux was born into an environment of adventurers, his father and grandfather having traveled widely throughout Africa and the Maghreb. This additionally frustrated Mailer who, with the exception of serving in World War II as a cook, hardly ever left New York.
Maybe if he really spent more time in foreign places and prowled the exotic climes of Soviet Samarkand and Ushuaia instead staying ensconced lifelong in the Brooklyn that he both detested and couldn’t tear himself away from (like with his women) he could have become the man of action that he always promoted himself and dreamed of being.Maybe..
Mailer did his best work while he was still young and then lived ever after on his previous accomplishments. Another writer like that who comes to mind is Hunter S. Thompson, who, well into his sixties, had to refer back to “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” which he wrote close to a half-century ago, in order to validate himself. Didn’t these writers learn anything new later in their lives, when they should have known a lot more? Writers are not intellectuals, they’re artists. Tolstoy inspired a whole generation with the beauty of his philosophy, but he died without being able to resolve the contradiction of his own personal unhappiness. (Incidentally, one of the major themes of “War and Peace” was the alacrity with which men went to war to escape their women and live in a masculine environment)
The writers of Mailer’s age were all a psychological mess. Never mind Hunter S. Thompson, he burnt out immediately. Saul Bellow was so emotionally fragile that he couldn’t even be in the room with anybody who was even remotely a threat to him. Once he met Nelson Algren in a Chicago bar for a drink, by pre-arrangement, and he walked out after five minutes.
Algren was another tough guy writer, what with the motorcycle jacket.Hunter S. Thompson liked to shoot off firearms. There used to be a guy named Eric Hoffer who was a philosophical stevedore. Where the tough guy nonsense came from, who knows? But it goes back to my theory that these people started writing at too young an age and later felt the need to authenticate themselves as something other than sterile academics. I don’t include André Malraux in this because he was a rarified species indeed, who pursued his dreams of the queen of Sheba and the volcanoes of Chicastenango many times nearly at the cost of his life. These guys who start writing at age 20, what can they possibly think they have to share with the world? I only properly started writing after I had flunked out of every other earthly pursuit ha-ha! That is not strictly true, but the things I wrote as a young man so distressed people who were invested in their self-image of bourgeois respectability that whatever merit I manifested was buried by their natural human instinct to pretend to ignore the unpleasantness of the realities I ignited.
Mailer is the last of his breed – literary writers who actually had something to say. The modern age is as sterile as “Brave New World.” I’ll use for my example the Frenchman, Houllebecq, who is shallow and narrow as a gutter, an office worker and sex tourist possessing no literary depth whatsoever. The only element that presents even a possibility of literary expression is the Internet, where writers can take their case directly to the reading public without being squeezed through a strainer by the publishing establishment.
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Posted on 11/15/2007
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November 13, 2007
Puerto Rican welterweight boxer Miguel Cotto kept his promise to win the WBA Championship belt from Shane Mosley Saturday night at Madison Square Garden is a unanimous decision after 12 rounds of dynamic boxing. It was a slugfest from the first round to the last, with each fighter landing an astounding 248 punches on his opponent.
Cotto said of Mosley, “He hits hard.It hurt!”For his part, Mosley said of Cotto, “He is a young lion and he will be a great fighter.” It was Cotto’s second victory at the Garden this year and the fourth Garden victory of his career.
The arena was packed to the rafters with raucous fans, mostly Puerto Ricans, who hailed their new national hero, a native of the city of Borinquen.
Cotto immediately flew home and was greeted at San Juan’s Luis Muñoz Marin Airport by Puerto Rican Secretary of State Fernando Bonilla, who hailed him as a “great Puerto Rican who will raise high the flag of Puerto Rico.”
Cotto was then driven in a motorcade to the city of Caguas, where he was celebrated in an exciting rally. He is expected to defend his title against the Mexican fighter Antonio Margarito, who knocked out Texan Golden Johnson in 2 minutes 38 seconds of the first round for the International Welterweight Division title of the WBO.
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Posted on 11/13/2007
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November 13, 2007
I want A-ROD to go to the Dodgers. He’ll be the biggest star in Hollywood.Instead of just hitting the ball over the fence, he’ll hit it over the security fence into Mexico and hit some DP’s in the head ha-ha!
With $350mil in the bank, he can buy Michael Jackson’s old place. Only instead of inviting little kids over he can invite a whole gang of stripper to spend the night. But he better watch out that his wife don’t chase him around the grounds with The A-ROD Miracle Bat. One shot with that baby and he’ll be in orbit with the space shuttle.
He can go surfing in Malibu.Heck, with his money he can buy the Pacific Ocean. When the Yanks come out there to play A-ROD can take them over to Hollywood Boulevard, which he’ll own, and show them his star in the sidewalk. When he gets invited to put his hands in the cement in the Chinese Theater he can put in Steinbrenner’s butt instead.
He can be in the movies.Arnold Schwartznegger, eat your heart out.Tom Cruise can be his batboy. They can change Disneyland to A-RODland and Scott Boras sell tickets. Joe Torre can be the Sphinx of Egypt.OJ can be in charge of security. Fans can throw baseballs at a target and land Derek Jeter in a barrel of water.
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When the pope visits LA next year and says mass in Dodger Stadium, A-ROD can give him a mitt and hit him a few fly balls.
He can produce a Hollywood remake of “The Fly” with Joba Chamberlain crying “Help me! Help me!”
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Posted on 11/13/2007
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November 12, 2007
The Dominican Republic has produced some of the greatest stars in Major League Baseball.
Baseball was brought there by Cuban sailors, who organized a game while their ship was at port in the capitol, Santo Domingo.
The Dominican professional league was formed in 1890 with two teams. In 1907 the Ozama and Nuevo Club teams were founded in the city of Licey. Licey was the unchallenged capital of baseball.Eventually there were three teams, San Carlos, Los Muchachos and Delco Lite. The best players from these teams left and formed Los Escogidos in 1921, which became one of the greatest teams in Dominican baseball history and in Caribbean baseball.
Because of internal political turmoil, that country was occupied by U.S. Marines from 1916-24, who were instrumental in popularizing the sport throughout the country.
Under Dominican dictator Rafael Batista, Licey and Escogido fused into one team, Los Dragones de Ciudad Trujillo, as the capitol was renamed under his dictatorship.Trujillo poured a lot of money into the team and brought in players from Cuba, Puerto Rico and the U.S.
Los Dragones lost money each year because Trujillo paid the players top dollar. In 1955, he built the DR’s first stadium with lights for night games.
In 1964 Trujillo was assasinated by a man wielding a machine gun.
One hundred years after the foundation of Dominican baseball, the league has five teams: Los Tigres de Licey, Los Leones de Escogido, Las Estrellas Orientes in the city of San Pedro de Macorís, Los Aquilas de Santiago and Los Azucareros del Este (the Sugar Cane Cutters) in the resort city of La Romana.
Nobody can deny the fanatical dedication of the Dominican people for baseball. That country has produced some of MLB’s greatest stars, such as Sammy Sosa, Manny Ramirez, Pedro Martinez and many others. The Dominican Republic has become the capital of winter baseball from October to February, during the off-season. Fans bring conga drums to the games and drink piña coladas as well as Presidente Beer.
A nuestros pelateros dominicanos les dicemos con gusto, “¡Saludos, amigos!”
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Posted on 11/12/2007
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November 11, 2007
Nov. 6 – Eye gouging, knees to the groin, kidney punching and biting.These were some of the features that characterized British boxing up to the nineteenth century until a noble sportsman, the Marquess of Queensbury, decided he had seen enough and set about codifying a system of rules to regulate the sport.Boxing was to be brought up to Victorian standards of behavior, exemplifying the standard of gentlemanly comportment appropriate to an Empire upon which the sun never set and the standards of civilized behavior extended even unto the arena.
The impact of these socializing impulses exist right up to the present day, as exemplified by the Olympic Games, which were resuscitated from their ancient origins by the French nobleman, Baron de Coubertin, to become the world’s foremost athletic event.
The spirit of the Marquess of Queensbury must have been smiling at ringside Tuesday night at the Patriot Center in Fairfax, VA, where two extremely rough gentlemen of the Super Middleweight class, Joey Gilbert and Jimmy Lang, both 159 lbs., put on an exemplary performance of pugilism in a scheduled 12 round contest to decide the NABO championship in that division.
These were not poverty-stricken denizens fighting their way out of the inner city.Gilbert, 29, a native of Reno, NV, is an accredited attorney belonging to the Nevada Bar Association.His opponent, Jimmy Lang, also 29, hails from the blue-blood precincts of Northern Virginia, domiciled a scant 15 minutes’ drive from the Patriot Center.
Pierce Brosnan and George Clooney, eat your hearts out!These guys are the real deal: young gentlemen hardened by the best training techniques in the world of sport and thousands of hours of grueling aerobic conditioning and repetitive tightening and hardening of muscle groups.They are at the peak of athletic performance, benefiting from all the material advantages that this Great Nation has to offer.
These old boys were not strangers.In addition to training together in various gyms and participating in numerous sparring sessions against each other, they had even lived together as roommates.Not only that.This fight was a rematch to settle a dispute over a previous contest between the two, wherein Gilbert had been awarded the victory by a unanimous decision of the judges.Since the victory was by decision, Jimmy Lang felt he had a legitimate beef.“This fight is a revenge fight to show [Gilbert] that his victory was a fluke,” he said.
In anticipation of the title bout, the audience was treated to a little bit of a middleweight clown show between Derek Ennis of Philadelphia and Roland Cummings of Youngstown, OH, a city situated near the border between Ohio and West Virginia, a real nasty former coal mining and steel producing city historically overrun by gangsters and possessing a tradition of producing very grisly boxers.
In contrast to the featured attractions on the ticket, these two guys were more in the traditional mode of hardscrabble fighters.Ennis, 22 years old, was looking to make a name for himself in the ‘hood and Cummings, a mature 40, needed the cash.
The fight was a foregone conclusion.Cummings, in lamentable shape, charged out of his corner and, hoping to achieve a miracle, used up his whole pathetic arsenal of resources in the first thirty seconds of the first round, which Ennis cannily avoided by allowing himself to be chased around until his stalker ran out of steam.Then, as Cummings’ legs turned to licorice sticks, Ennis methodically controlled him against the ropes with jabs setting up combinations that knocked Cummings silly.Miraculously, Cummings survived the first round but was heard to reply to his trainer’s question as to how he felt, “Terrible!”
Mercifully for all concerned, the ref stopped the fight in the second round, as Ennis, pummeling Cummings into the ropes, prepared to administer the coup de grâce.There certainly exist conditions for 40 year-old boxers to vanquish 22 year-old ones, but not in this case.Anyway, after expenses are deducted Cummings hopefully had bus fare back to Youngstown, where a job probably awaits him at Larry’s Car Wash.
The assembled thousands awaited breathlessly as the darkened arena throbbed with the jungle rhythms of hip-hop music while Lang entered the ring, followed by Gilbert in a black hooded robe reminiscent of the Grim Reaper and accompanied by the apocalyptic shrieking of heavy metal rock.I’m not advocating a return to the old ways, but one of these fighters is going to go down in ignominious defeat made all the more humiliating by his grand theatrical entrance into the arena.Maybe it would be more prudent to save the sound effects, flashing lights and pyrotechnics for after the match, but that’s just one opinion.
At the first bell the boys, who knew very well each other’s fighting style, tentatively felt out each other’s attitude and conditioning.It quickly became apparent that Lang’s strategy would be to stay outside from Gilbert and lead with the left jab in hopes of finding an opening.Gilbert was counting on his superior strength and conditioning to fight at close range.Gilbert boldly stepped inside and overpowered Lang with hard left jabs and combinations, staying on top of Lang until the bell.
Between bells, Lang’s trainer told him to keep moving to his right, but in the second round Lang, immediately under pressure from Gilbert, forgot the advice and circled to the left, which brought him within victim’s range of Gilbert’s right hand.As the round progressed, Lang, overpowered by Gilbert’s poise and conditioning, tried to keep away from Gilbert and let his ring experience and instinct for survival carry him forward until the match would reach a point where Gilbert would tire and Lang could set up some kind of program to dispatch him.Gilbert was not getting tired, however.Seeming to benefit from superior endurance and conditioning, he continually stepped inside and delivered straight punches and hooks, driving Lang onto the ropes and not allowing him to escape.
The crowd was going berserk at all the action and at ringside some of the most beautiful girls you ever saw, all dolled up in cocktail dresses and pearl necklaces, were on their feet punching and shouting their lungs out.Boy, are these guys lucky!
At the bell for the third round, it came clear that Gilbert was totally in control of the match.He immediately moved in close to Lang, forcing him into a corner and bombarding him with heavy artillery.Lang, who was counting on an outside fight, found himself pinned and helpless, unable to escape or fight back.The ref, after waiting a sufficient amount of time to allow Lang to mount a defense, determined that his cause was lost and stopped the punishment before any permanent damage was inflicted on the man.The decision was a TKO in favor of Gilbert in the third round.
Pandemonium erupted in the arena.In a beautiful display of sportsmanship, Gilbert went over to Lang and, putting his arm around Lang’s shoulders, told him something complimentary.Lang, obviously shattered from his second defeat by Gilbert, was morose, but he accepted the consolation without being unpleasant.
At the postfight inverview, Gilbert, elated, credited his victory to his trainers whom, he said, had gotten him in the best shape of his life.He declared himself to be only now warmed up and said he was ready to fight another opponent then and there.Asked about his future plans, this 29 year-old replied, endearingly, “Whatever [my handlers] tell me.”
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November 09, 2007
Hi folks, this is FORMER Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez for The Baseball Channel. Y'know, a lot of fans ask me, "A-ROD, after a hard night of chasing blondes in the strip clubs, how do you find the energy to hit so many home runs and RBI's?"Well, the answer is: I don't. This isn't my real body at all. It's an inflatable Spiderman suit. My real body looks like Pee-Wee Herman. The real secret of my slugging success is in this little beauty - The A-ROD Miracle Bat!That's right, folks, The A-ROD Miracle Bat eliminates the need for messy steroid injections and uncomfortable grand jury interrogations. All you need are three easy credit card payments of $49.95 and home run batting records are yours for the breaking.The startling new technology in composite materials has permitted our technicians to produce a bat composed entirely of compressed coconut shell fragments from Dominican palm trees specially selected from the beach of Punta Cana. The bats are then lovingly polished by our beautiful team of bikini-clad bat polishers using chicken fat consecrated by a certified Santeria witch doctor. The result is a light, durable hitting machine of unparalleled hardness. Here, I'll just try it out on Derek Jeter's head."Oww, that hurts!"See what I mean, folks? In addition, if you turn the bat up towards the sky and look through the small end it doubles as a telescope, so that after you knock the ball into outer space you can track it as it revolves in orbit around the earth. Oops, it looks like one of my shots knocked some insulation off the Space Shuttle. Sorry about that!And it's convenient. As you can see here it fits into small spaces like George Steinbrenner's butt.So don't delay. Get out your credit card and call today. To the first hundred callers we will include absolutely free of charge a digital recording of Joda Chamberlain and the Cleveland Indians Choir singing their heartfelt rendition of the old romantic classic "Flies Gets In Your Eyes".
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Posted on 11/9/2007
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November 08, 2007
Giuliani demonstrates his fellatio technique before admirers
New York’s war on sex continues apace as the National Organization For Women announced new successes in their campaign to drive commercial sex underground with the suppression of sex ads in 15 publications this year.
Bravo, ladies, but what are guys supposed to do who can’t get women by normal means? No matter how you look at it, sex is an economic activity, only “honest” women expect a bigger pay-off in terms of engagement rings, vacation trips, theater dates, etc. All NOW is doing is eliminating the lower-price competition. The real bad actors, the Mexican whorehouses that line Roosevelt Avenue in Queens, or the oriental brothels in Chinatown, don’t advertise in New York Magazine and are not going to be driven out by marauding society ladies waving umbrellas. All that NOW is doing is enforcing an environment of Victorian priggishness to keep the Anglo-Saxon world in chains.
What about guys with physical deformities? How are they supposed to get sex in the “normal” sexual marketplace? I know a guy 5’2” who is fat, bald, stone-deaf and speaks with such a speech impediment that he is impossible to understand. This guy is no ball of fire in a pick-up bar. Fortunately for him he is able to send out to Asian Escorts for a really fine orien |