"Somebody's gotta feel this!"
No, someone has to chop Kid Rock into a million pieces and dump the remains into the ocean! Oh my God, did I just type that?
Err ... let's move on.
It finally happened.
My intramural basketball team FINALLY won a game after a two year, 20-plus game losing streak.
Granted, we faced our mirror images, a bunch of chuckers that just heave up 3-pointers all night long and can't rebound, but hey, a win is a win is a win.
The best part is that you can call them our mirror images, but I like to think of the team we beat as our bizarros. And you know what, it's a great feeling being able to beat the bizarro version of yourself, because if you didn't then you are the bizarro. Now that's a scary thought.
So I stand here today a proud man, a defeater of my bizarro. If I don't accomplish anything else with the rest of my life, I will be content. There is something magical about knocking off your mirror image; I suppose it's a right of passage. After all, what kind of pathetic loser loses to their bizarro?
Jerry, George and Kramer won Elaine back from Kevin, Gene and Feldman. Link beats his shadow in "The Legend of Zelda II," and I'm pretty positive that Ivan Drago, Bridgette Nielsen and "Comrade Bigmouth (you know the guy, "anything he touches, he destroiys!)" will knock off SA's George Pape, Erin Biba and Josh Korman one day.
I love the expression that the Phoenix Suns' Stephon Marbury has on his face after Amare Stoudemire or Shawn Marion viciously dunk the ball. They're priceless. If I had to paint a picture for you, in case you have never seen him make the face, I'd say it's similar to the expression that someone makes when they accidentally drink sour milk.
Marbury isn't disgusted with what his teammates are doing, on the contrary actually, but the fun part is that you can hear what he's thinking. "God d*** motherf******, that s*** is crazy," must be what's going through his head when he witnesses the "disregard for humanity (thanks Kevin Harlan)," and puts on the sour puss.
Oh wait! I just thought of a better analogy than the sour milk one. Marbury makes the same exact face that I do when I smell the awful stench coming from the television whenever one of those commercials for "The New Man Show" comes on with their new hosts, Fear Factor guy and that other reject. And yes, I can literally smell the stank that is coming from that atrocity.
Tonan Edgy would have been the best coach to ever grace the sidelines of the National Football League. It's a shame that he was just too good, because now we're left with two coaches who really cannot survive without the other half.
Tony Dungy and Herman Edwards apart are just about as capable of bringing their respective teams a Super Bowl championship as I am of ever pulling off a scam as glorious as the one I pulled off when I sold Jesse Enever my copy of the Chumbawumba CD for eleven bucks back in tenth grade.
Dungy is as lifeless as you can get as a coach. Sure, he knows his X's and O's, but the guy has the personality of a mossy log. He's like Bruce Banner, the mild-mannered football scientist. Edwards, on the other hand, is his polar opposite. He's the Incredible Hulk superfreak of the two. Herm may not be the brightest coach around, but his motivational skills are second to none. Edwards was even able to motivate Vinny Testaverde to extinguish his quest of reaching the pinnacle in the field of sucking. That takes skill.
You have to believe that if Tonan Edgy were allowed to coach in the NFL, the results would be staggering. His team, even if it were composed of Rob Johnson, Omar Gooding (of "Playmakers" and "Wild and Crazy Kids" (you thought you could slip that past my radar, didn't you Omar) fame), "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan and Steve Sanders, would compete for the Super Bowl every single year.
I made the mistake of referring to Hugh Grant as Hugh Douglas the other day when begging my girlfriend not to rent whatever movie Grant was flopping around in, but little did I know how much that would serve me in the future after my attempts at getting her to rent "Surf Ninjas" failed.
And boy, did I give it my all to sway her into renting the Ernie Reyes Jr./Rob Schneider vehicle. All the stops were pulled out, but to no avail.
Even during the first five minutes of the Grant film I dropped a line like, "I haven't seen this type of cinematic genius since Matthew LeBlanc and a chimpanzee combined their talents to bring us the riveting baseball film 'Ed,'" in a vain attempt to get the abomination turned off.
But nothing worked, so I was forced to sit through the (SPOILER!!!) romantic comedy. Luckily for me, my mind must have gone into some sort of primitive self-defense mode because I actually started to picture Hugh Douglas in place of Hugh Grant in the film.
It was bizarre and hilarious at the same time. Sort of like Dave Wannstedt's mustache. Of course my girlfriend thought I was laughing at the witty Englishman, when in reality I was losing it because I actually thought I saw Hugh Douglas, the Jacksonville Jaguar, getting kissed on the cheek by James Caan and Jeanne Tripplehorne on the cover of "Mickey Blue Eyes."
Maybe I'm just stating the obvious, but I think that LeBron James is a robot. He's too young and too perfect. NBA commish David Stern has to be grinning like an idiot up in his office wherever he is right now, but that's the thing. I haven't heard a peep from Stern all season long.
He knows something. He has to. Stern must be like Mega Man's Dr. Wily behind the scenes, creating robots and what not. Michael Jordan, the Robocop of basketball (half human/half cyborg) did Stern a favor by coming back with the Wizards so that Stern had time to construct his latest basketball machine, LeBron James.
And now here we have it, LeBron the god of basketball. Isn't it too hard to believe though? Whatever, maybe nobody will back me on this one, but you just wait and see when LeBron and the Hilton sisters, Paris and Zsa Zsa (his other robots), start malfunctioning with sparks flying and heads spinning.
