The Dalembert Report

Reminiscing on Park Jams

2012-01-13T19:33:00.003-05:00

In the spirit of easing back in to barely posting updates, I took a little trip down memory lane within the past hour, and I'm plain befuddled. There once existed a time when we, your mighty DR overlords, were actually funny, dare I say good at this blogging shit. While we wipe away the cobwebs and warm up the writing engines, I urge you all to take this walk with us to a better, more prolific time. With pride, I present to you:

THE GREATEST MONTH OF YOUR LIFE

I even finally opened some of DVDubs youtube links in the comments (not all, I know it's a long weekend but I'd prefer to leave the house at some point). The guy has some serious issues and conditions that clearly need to be addressed, but not bad work at all really. Salute.

Back Like I Left Something

2012-01-10T21:29:00.003-05:00

Without shame, I am admitting that I have made a power jump on to your FIRST PLACE Sixers bandwagon. A first place, I may add, that I solely attribute to the death of the reprehensible Hip-Hop. While I fight my way up to the driver's seat, I assure you that all are welcome and that the water is warm. The real question is, and this is important, as some giveback for flying the flag this late in the game, should the DR be resurrected? The ball is in your proverbial court, DR readership. Do we got next, or do we take this ball and go home. Time is yours folks, comments decide it.

Go Sixers.

??

2011-05-13T13:42:00.000-05:00

He's Gone.

2010-06-17T13:36:00.008-05:00

This admittedely half-assed, sheer reactionary post is brought to you in pure shock. I can't find the words...it's just, I mean, the wound, it's too fresh and raw. There will be plenty of time to regain composure later, and write from the heart, but all I can say now, is that our fearless leader, our hero, Samuel Davis "Slammin Sammy D" Dalembert is no longer a Sixer. He and his severely bloated contract have just been traded to the Kings. For two fucking white people.

More very sure to come, in the meantime, let's all take a moment, pour out some liquor, raise a lighter in the air, and watch the following.

Fuck you, Stefanski.

Africa...soccer..AND KELS?

2010-06-07T12:54:00.003-05:00

If the Phanatic was in this video, it would have absolutely everything I love in the world.

Shut Up, Dan

2010-05-20T16:42:00.003-05:00

DR stalker DVDubs sent the below vid to me this morning, insisting it be posted. While I wanted to spite him, I also don't want him breaking into my house to steal my dirty underpants, so here it is. As this genre of video goes, nothing will ever top Bert and Ernie doing "Ante Up", but this has Jake, so that's cool. Enjoy, and if you don't, tell that to Dan.

Awkward is as Awkward Does

2010-05-04T22:48:00.003-05:00

I was trying to think of the most awkward moment in my life the other day, and struggling to find that one perfect instance of unbelievable discomfort. Few have had the "shit-pants-on-bridge-then-tell-future-wife-about-it" moment to reflect on, laugh about, and ultimately relish. So when a most unremarkable Sunday became, well... remarkable, it provoked some thought. Query: can someone else's most insufferable awkward moment become one's one awkward moment? Quite simply, yes. Yes it can.

Let me set the scene. Eldiablgogrande recently decided to move into a beautiful new home with his lovely wife and two dogs. To execute this task, he collected the finest and strongest, the most diligent and energetic, the best strategic thinkers LWFs can buy -- Mr. Fine Tone and Mr. Juice. And what does one do after they move? One holds a makeshift sidewalk sale to sell one's crap. Well "sell" would be a misnomer. Apparently there isn't a high demand on the streets of Northern Liberties for 5 inch bright colored pumps. Or any of Sayeh's shit.

But what is there a high demand for in what used to be the badlands of our fair city? Gays. Gays, trannies, well-groomed chest hair, super tight shorts (on dudes), and festive people feasting on water ice and enjoying a sunny, humid day in their finest overpriced shades. That's right, NoLibs was having a gay festival of sorts. And we have decided to sell things that don't appeal to anyone other than our favorite new homeowners, a shameful shortcoming to say the least. So there we sit, comfortably reclined in lawn chairs on a very small sidewalk, where winter coats are draped over doors, can openers are offered at discounted prices, pit-stained wifebeaters are practically giving themselves away.

Contemplating leaving because (a) sales are slower than a tased phillies fan, and (b) I don't want to get stuck packing this worthless crap up, I glance to my left and take inventory of the scene. Fast approaching are three gentleman, gliding through the air, chests thrust in the air, chins held high, hands interlocked (ok, maybe I made that up). One white, one black, one presumably latino, it's all a blur at this point. I look to Eldiablo, he glances back...is it? Could it be? No. Is this happening? I feel awkward, awkward for him, awkward for myself, awkward for Campy, wherever he is.

Like any mature soon-to-be thirty year old man, I hide behind a newspaper, blushing like a 7th grader walking back to the Wissahickon Skating Rink from the Chestnut Hill Academy fields, praying the discomfort passes like a fart in the wind. What does our fearless editor-in-chief do? He stares the feared enemy down, cracks a sly smile, and utters "Hey, howwwwwyaaaadoing"? To which he gets nothing. Perhaps some meat gazing, a rise out of the other man's loins, but nothing more. No hello, no "go phillies," no "i hate you, you ruined my life." Nothing.

And seeing as there are only a select few who frequent this here blogesphere, and one of them witnessed the crime itself, dare I challenge our readers: NAME THE CULPRIT IN QUESTION, he who momentarily redefined the term "awkward." Who floated by our stoop wearing a safari hat? Who you all know? The floor is yours...

Locked Down

2010-04-26T16:37:00.008-05:00

Attempting to have a debate about Philadelphia sports with a fan of Philadelphia sports is without fail a maddening experience. While it has been well documented that these debates tend to turn violent if you are taking a stance against Philadelphia sports teams, trust me when I say that it is FAR worse and frustrating when both sides of the argument are Philly fans. As a prime personal example, for the past year or so, I have been in many frustrating arguments with Phillies fans regarding the future of Ryan Howard. There are MANY among us who already had him wearing that disgusting looking navy-pinstrip adorned uniform, some who assumed he'd be pahkin his fahkin cah nea Harhvad and playing in Fenway and many making assumptions that he would be Albert Pujols slightly cheaper replacment in Howard's hometown St. Louis. Any suggestion that he may actually stay here was met with stares of both incredulity and sheer anger, accusations of mental illness/developmental disabilities were hurled wilder than anything in Kyle Kendrick's repertoire. Yet, I carried through, staying firm in my position that unless Pujols made it very clear that he would not return to St. Louis and a spot was open for RyHow to take center stage in his hometown, it was supremely beneficial for him to remain a Phillie.

Why any of the above is relevant, is as you most likely have heard already (we're not freakin insiders, we find out when you do, many times LONG after), Ryan Howard, aka Big Brown, has agreed to a 5-year, $125 million extension that keeps him here through 2016. This is not only the third richest contract in the history of baseball, but is amazing news, and the perfect situation for the Phillies, RyHow and us fans. I understand that there are some RyHow haters out there, and some of you have some valid points - be it his tendency to slump, his long-standing inability to hit a left-handed breaking ball, impatience at the plate, large amounts of strikeouts are the most commonly used - but I will happily take some of the bad because his upside is GAME CHANGING. What he offers to the Phils with his bat (and now, shockingly also his glove) is a player that can singlehandedly win games, and his history down the stretch of the season has been nothing short of jaw dropping. For Howard, playing in the cozy confines of Citizens Bank Park in the lineup where it doesn't necessarily benefit a team having him pitched around, against National League pitching greatly increases his chances at attaching his name to some hitting records and helping pave a path to Cooperstown. Finally, for us, the fans, we get the pleasure of being part of the excitement the big guy brings every time he puts on the red and white. Also, it can't be discounted that potential free agent signees like to see a team that has locked up guys like Halladay, Howard, Utley, etc., as not only does it show them that they will be joining a team with proven winners locked in, but proves that they are considering a team that will take care of their biggest performers. Considering how our pitching is looking these days, I am happy for anything that could persuade any top notch hurlers. But that is a different column for a different day.

One final thing that needs to be addressed about this signing is that lost in the outcry over the Cliff Lee trade was that signing him to a long term deal after doing the same with Roy Halladay would have tied up the Phillies' hands and not allowed them to make a move like this. Hidden between the lines of the head-scratching move that was the Cliff Lee/Mariners deal was something big, and many of us were too shocked to see it, but as I see it today proved that even when they seem to be making business decisions while concussed, we may very well have found ourselves in an era where the Phillies are doing their best to think ahead and always have something up their sleeve. Something like this creates enough good will for me to not question the next seemingly boneheaded move of the front office, and I suggest maybe we all give them some slack for the time being.

But only if Kendrick gets sent down to the Iron Pigs. Oh, and fuck it, sign Pedro again. I'm not joking.

Another reason to love Chop

2010-04-13T10:38:00.001-05:00

Getting His Unemployment On

2010-03-18T00:01:00.002-05:00

The Shawn Andrews Era has finally ended and what is there to say? The dude shoulda coulda woulda. In the end I feel justified for my initial feeling when we drafted him: "Wait, we drafted a dude who had to lose 50 pounds to get down to 350?!?!" It seemed like a bad idea then, and it turned out that certain large men have delicate psyche's and bad backs. In general I think it's bad business taking on talent that weighs over 400 lbs, unless it's a talented actor, dancer, or both. So goodbye Big Kid, and good luck, and may you're convergence of twitter and god bring you a life of happiness.

Vanilla Sky Has Fallen

2010-03-05T00:07:00.002-05:00

Two years ago The DR draft coverage spotlighted a white boy of considerable intrigue: Joe Alexander, a kid who's combination of size and athleticism was surpassed only by his memorable nickname, Vanilla Sky. Turns out, two years later, that his size was irrelevant, his athleticism underwhelming, and his overall potential vastly inferior to his epic nickname. This season brought about a new low for the Vanilla One: a demotion to the NBA's D-League, a development farm for wannabes and busts. Turns out white guys can jump. To the minors. And then I remembered something important: Vanilla Sky was an atrocious movie starring an atrocious crazyman(long, only need to watch a minute to get the gist). Poor Joe never had a shot with a nickname like that.

But as I thought more about it I became fixated on the reality that in fact white men cannot play basketball very well. I began to scour NBA rosters to find American-born white folk with skills. And what I found was, frankly, gross and pathetic. The best white players aren't very good in the macro view, and they tend to be big ugly ogres who get by on heinous looks and technically perfect box-out techniques. Men like Chris Andersen, Kevin Love, Chris Kaman, Spencer Hawes, Troy Murphy, David Lee, and Brook Lopez. Then there's a whole crop of absurdly mediocre whitebreads who play further away from the hoop, with no increase in success, dudes like Mike Miller, Kirk Hinrich, Mike Dunleavy Jr., Kyle Korver, Luke Walton, Luke Ridnour, Jason Williams, Chase Buddinger, and the Matt's, Harpring, Carrol, and Bonner. Yes I left out some people, but does it matter? You know the state of the white-man has really hit a low point when Louis Amundson might be one of the top 15 caucasoids in the league. Truly, what would you trust any of these men to do well, other than pick out a polo shirt to match their khakis?

But I don't give up hope. Someday there will another white player with serious game, a man who can combine the game of Chris Paul with the skin of Ron Paul. Until then I will yearn for the days of Tom Chambers and Jack Sikma, Rex Chapman, and even the poster boy, for being posterized, Shawn Bradley.

I want to end on a sad note, the end of AI's marriage. How the hell a women stayed with this fella since high school without being accidentally shot by his posse amazes me, but something must have finally pushed her over the edge because she filed for divorce. Seriously, I'm full of sadness for the Iversons. This year has been a string of disappointments and disasters. No attempts at humor here, just saying I think it's sad. Like Vanilla Sky's career.

Hate Hurts

2010-03-04T23:31:00.005-05:00

Can any of us really understand Fine Tone's dilemma at a deli counter, when he has only enough scratch to get extra cheese OR extra meat? Can we really relate to the unenviable position Jayson Werth is placed in when he must decide between the asian stripper and the czech one? For all the horrible things that happen in this world, man is too often forced to pick favorites as between two things he really loves. It's a modern day tragedy of the commons, really.

Well tonight is no different. There is no hiding it, the Big Firm loves dogs. Even little shit ones who look like little shits.

Yet as much as I got love for dogs, I have as much, if not MORE love for black people.

So when this video came to my attention tonight, I felt torn. A dog...born and bred to hate black people? A canine white supremacist? A living creature that could hate a black astronaut?

Behold the horror: White Dog

Joy to the World

2010-03-04T10:58:00.003-05:00

Could there be any more auspicious portent of spring than a photograph of Charlie Manuel blowing a bubble while cramming his hands down his pants? I didn't think so.

Sporty Thieves

2010-03-02T15:47:00.012-05:00

It's not often that a well-known political figure starts beef with a member of the DR editorial staff. Sure, there was that time that Rick Santorum accused Bubak of bestiality, and that other occasion where Big Firm got punched in the face by Frank Rizzo Jr. for wearing his lime-green NAACP Legal Defense fund hoodie in the line at Geno's, but generally elected leaders know better than to tangle with us and our new-found appreciation for libel law.

That all changed this week though, when former Phillie hall-of-famer Jim Bunning basically shit in the eye of our man Flintskins by refusing to sign an extension of jobless benefits, thus single-handedly depriving millions of Americans (including but not exclusive to the entirety of Northern Liberties stripper population), with their means of sustenance.

Now, Bunning's turn in the news got me thinking about other athletes-turned-politicians, and these thoughts turned out to be fairly unpleasant. Sure, there are some great success stories, but for every Bill Bradley there are at least a dozen Lynn Swanns. The problem, I reasoned, is that that only the most narcissistic and self-aggrandizing athletes decide to go into politics when their playing days are done (think Curt Schilling). Most of the athletes we love would rather spend their time running a car wash or cooking up delectable pork sandwiches, which is part of why we loved them in the first place.

The current crop of Philly sports stars is notable for it's lack of pomposity. Sure, Donovan can be annoying and DeSean Jackson's cockiness could get old, but by and large this town is patrolled by a group that's self-effacing and likable - hardly the types to run for office. All that aside, if I was Karl Rove, here's who I would nominate, ranked from least electable to most:

10 - Jose Contreras: His experience growing up in a socialist dictatorship could really endear him to the Tea Party crowd. However his lack of English potentially limits his broad appeal. I see him as a city councilman representing the area around K & A, with Garrett Reid serving as his chief of staff.

9 - Andy Reid: Sky-high name recognition. Extensive executive experience. Mormon. Andy is essentially a fat, wheezy, ugly version of Mitt Romney, and Mitt will most likely be the Republican nominee for President, paving the way for Reid's appointment as Surgeon General.

8 - Allen Iverson: In the right district, AI could be an unstoppable candidate. Unfortunately it would have to be populated entirely by felons, and last time I checked Graterford was not allotted a government representative.

7 - Riley Cote: I felt obligated to include a Flyer on this list, and Riley Cote seems like kind of a badass. He could definitely garner some votes in South Philly and Fishtown.

6 - Jason Smith: Tall, white, and handsome, J Suave would be irresistible on the campaign trail, at least until his rookie fling with a porn star came to light.

5 - Greg Dobbs: Has the sartorial chops and wholesome appeal of a Senate candidate, and as a benchwarmer has plenty of time to campaign. Also would benefit from right-wingers who thought they were voting for former CNN personality Lou Dobbs.

4 - Kareem Townes: The ultimate long-shot candidate. Townes candidacy could harness the twin themes of "redemption" and "local boy makes good" after his arrest in 2002 for selling a half kilo of crack to an undercover. After all, Marion Barry got reelected after getting videotaped smoking crack with hookers in a motel room, and who in Philly hasn't had a couple ounces of crack on them at one time or another? Townes is an early release away from being mayor of this town.

3 - Carlos Ruiz: Charming. Bilingual. Experienced with running a large organization (the Phils pitching staff).

2 - Charlie Manuel: Uncle Cholly's got the down-home style that appeals to the Joe the Plumbers of the world, but beneath his folksy manner lies the mind of a Rhodes scholar and the heart of a Kenyan marathon runner. He's already the honorary mayor of Philadelphia.

1 - Aaron McKie: Could get elected to any office in the land on the strength of his beard alone.

Chopped and Screwed

2010-03-01T19:38:00.004-05:00

With spring training underway and the Phillies juggernaut busy limbering up for another deep playoff run, I'm bothered by one thing and one thing only. No it's not Cole Hamels and his My Little Pony voice and attitude. Nor is it concern with Brad Lidge's ability to close games; as I see it he had the worst year any human being could have and we still made the World Series. I'm not even worried about Charlie Manuel dying, which was a huge concern last year before he lost 100 pounds and resembled a large, half-deflated balloon.

No no no, our problems are more serious than that. Our biggest weakness, our main susceptibility, the chink in our armor, if you will, is this: NO ASIANS!!(Note: yes that was a horrible joke. Yes I offended myself and my family by writing it. And yes I attended a roast this past weekend which made that joke and others like it seem perfectly acceptable, which they aren't. But to hell with it) Not a single Asian brother. What makes it even worse is that our superb Asian from last year, Chan Ho Park, turned down a contract to play here, watched helplessly as the market for him dried up, and ended up signing with the deviant mothership of unholiness the Yankees. This story nearly broke my heart. Sure, we replaced one old Asian with two old (and if what I've come to expect from Cuban "birth certificates" is true, presumably much much older) Cubans and that could be a fair trade, on the baseball field. But this isn't abut baseball. This is about karma, superstition, and wa. Fact is, this current team has never appeared in the playoffs, won a playoff series, World Series, nothing, without an Asian on the roster. From Tad Iguchi to So Taguchi to Chan Ho last year, this most excellent stretch of success can be traced directly to the acquisition of our friends from the far East. How will this play out? I'm not sure, but come trade-deadline time I will be willing to give away the rest of our farm system, current stars even, for any brotherman if we're still bereft of Asians by then. Ryan Howard straight-up for Kenshin Kawakami? Yes, sure, do it. Chase Utley for Shin Soo-Choo? Pull the trigger. Hell, find Hideo Nomo and offer him a spot in the rotation. He's older than Mr. Miyagi but I bet he can still get a guy out here and there. And catch a fly with chopsticks. I think you get the point.

In closing, being of Asian descent means I'm obviously exempt from accusations of racism and cultural insensitivity towards my own people. However, if any of my fellow DR colleagues or loyal readers say something out of line, you are most definitely a racist piece of shit.

Sammy's Trade Value

2010-02-08T23:34:00.007-05:00

Another ten days and twenty inches of snow from now the NBA trade deadline will be upon us, in all its contract-shedding, draft-positioning, awful-GM's-trying-to-save-their-job glory. For Sixers fans this means watching in horror as Ed Stefansky is yet again given an opportunity to evaluate talent, tinker with salaries, and mold the roster for the future. Armed with a track record of failure in all three areas, Ed finds himself staring directly down the barrel of an Ed Snyder held shotgun, his job a few more miserable months away from early termination. Luckily for Ed he has a trump card: the non-expiring, trade-kicker enhanced contract belonging to the greatest Haitian since ever, Sammy D. In other words, Ed has Sam, and Sam has the world. By the balls. What is fair trade value for a man of such dignity, stature, and contractual heftiness? Here are the rumors, and my own opinion on each.

Sammy D and Iguodala for Amare Stoudemire
This is laughable. So we're trading our best player, Sammy D, and our most annoyingly good player, Eyegadala, for an overpriced combination of the two? I don't get it. Stoudemire is good for twenty points a game, eight blown defensive switches, five casual-to-lazy pursuits of a loose ball, and absolutely zero trips to a devastated nation to provide relief, support, and inspiration. If Phoenix included Steve Nash, Leandro Barbosa, and agreed to build a time machine so they could undo the 1993 trade of Charles Barkley for Andrew Lang, Tim Perry, and Jeff Hornacek, I'd consider it. I'd at least let them buy me lunch while I considered it.
Verdict: Of Course Not

Sammy and Iguodala for Tracy McGrady
Ten years ago this trade would have made sense: Sammy was in college and Iguodala high school, while McGrady was at the height of his talents and health. I would certainly make that trade. But time moves on people, and Sammy has gone pro, mastered the english language, and enjoyed the finer points of American barbering. Sure we'd save more money than ten nervous octogenarians at Wal-Mart, but the Beatles said it best: can't buy me love.
Verdict: Igga Please

Sammy D for Dwight Howard and Jameer Nelson
This is enticing only because it would place Sammy much closer to his native home, and he could literally commute to work from Haiti. Otherwise it's a no-go. Jameer is a local guy and believe me I respect his game, but he's injury prone and one or two more surgeries away from becoming the next assistant coach at Rider. Howard is big, strong, and big and strong. Beyond that I don't see the big deal. If I had to choose a guy to break rocks with his bare hands, I'd take Howard. If I had to choose a guy to make rocks disappear and return as loaves of bread, then it's Sammy. Is there really any choice there?
Verdict: Negatron, not even if they included Disney World and that hot girl from High School Musical.

Sammy for Pau Gasol, Andrew Bynum, and Kobe
We're getting closer.......to me vomiting. I'd just as soon trade my future wife and kids for a bowl of dirty snow with a frozen dog turd on top. I can hardly use my eyes the day after watching Gasol on TV, he's that physically atrocious. If there is anyone in the world uglier than him please send me a link. I'm a big believer in a persons worth being intractably connected to the re-arranged spelling of his last name. Bynum re-arranged spells NY Bum. Case closed. And Kobe? I want him on my team the way I want incurable cancer combined with red-hot hemorrhoids. Besides, Sammy needs fresh air to thrive and LA has none.
Verdict: No. Insulting.

Sammy for Lebron
Lebron is very good at basketball, maybe the best. He can do it all, he's a great teammate, he's fun to watch, and he's some ridiculously young age, so he has many years of basketball ahead of him. He's poised to dominate not only the league, but the world, if you buy into the global icon/corporate whore thing. Here's the thing, one of these two men will be on money one day, and it ain't Lebron. It's hard to trade a superstar and get equal value, but it's impossible to trade a guy who IS(or will be) monetary value. And that, my friends, is what we have in Sammy D.
Verdict: Gourde notes for everyone! Sammy Stays!

As for the rest of the Sixers roster, my opinion on whether we should trade this player or that is yes, yes, yes , yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. Oh and resign AI. Viva Haiti. Later suckers.

Fun With Taxes

2010-01-14T18:56:00.003-05:00

For the employed out there, the end of this month marks the beginning of tax time. The process of doing ones taxes can be quite overwhelming to some, but luckily these gentlemen are here to help.

With each passing day, our country is one step closer to it's depiction in Idiocracy. Stay classy.

Fair Warning

2009-12-13T22:24:00.005-05:00

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

2009-12-11T15:16:00.004-05:00

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

2009-12-07T18:10:00.014-05:00

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

2009-12-07T16:17:00.004-05:00

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

2009-12-04T06:50:00.002-05:00

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

2009-12-03T23:43:00.004-05:00

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

2009-12-03T13:33:00.024-05:00

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

2009-12-02T22:47:00.003-05:00

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

2009-12-02T20:30:00.000-05:00

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

2009-12-01T22:29:00.006-05:00

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.

You Can't Stop the Prophet

2009-11-30T16:07:00.007-05:00

As we all know Samuel Dalembert is a man who's myriad talents can scarcely be described by words. He is a shot-blocking machine, the Goya of goaltending and the Picasso of the personal foul. Not only that but he can tell how fresh a fish is by looking in it's eye! So is it any surprise to find out that Sammy D is a modern day Nostradamus, capable of foretelling the future through his dreams? From the sporadically informative Phil Jasner comes this astounding tale of prophecy:

"I told you about the dream I had before the season," the 76ers' center was saying during a weekend crammed with Allen Iverson-back-to-the-Sixers rumor and speculation. "I dreamed A.I. was coming back."

And then, late last week . . .
"I had the dream again," Dalembert said. "I woke up at 6:30 in the morning in my house, wondering if it could be true."

Could there be any doubt in any of our minds that the return of AI is anything less than guaranteed at this point? All the logical signs point in the direction of an Iversonian redux: the Sixers are a team stuck in perpetual neutral and going nowhere fast, they have the worst attendance in the league, and their point guard options are either A.I. Lite (Lou Williams) or 19 year old Jrue Holiday. They've got somewhere north of $200 million tied up in players who can't or won't take control of the game in crunch time, and the closest thing they have to veteran leadership is a 28-year-old Haitian center who would rather be a computer technician than an NBA player. Signing Iverson solves all those problems in one fell swoop!

(But EDG, you might ask: how does the signing of A.I. eliminate the $200 million that Iggy and Brand are stealing? Simple, I say. One hit of Iversonian weed will send both on a Harold and Kumar mission to the White Castle on North Broad, where they will be robbed of their wallets by a disguised Marreese Speights and Dionte Christmas. Enlisting Sammy D's computer expertise, they will steal Brandguodala's identity, and use the new ID to purchase bootleg DVD's of Rescue Dawn from Chelten Ave, thus violating a contractual clause forbidding the purchase of pirated material and rendering both contracts null and void.)

On the other hand, would the return of A.I. actually be beneficial to the Sixers? After all, do we really need a veteran presence if that veteran is shooting 35 times a game and teaching young and impressionable players how to smoke weed, skip practice, and hang out in TGI Fridays until 5am?

I say yes. And I say that if it's been prophesied by Samuel Dalembert, it's only a matter of time until it becomes reality. Better have the riot gear ready.

Hittin You From Every Angle

2009-11-30T13:50:00.004-05:00

Apologies for the redundancy, but an accompaniment to Firm's post, in low quality but non-sideways form. I, for one, don't think it's a coincidence that Sammy D and Timmy D share all but two letters.

UPDATE: Video removed due to sad begging and pleading of the subject, who frankly had nothing to be ashamed of. RIP this awesome video and the dignity of it's subject. (Requests for copy of video via email will be honored)

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!!

2009-11-22T21:46:00.014-05:00

Yes all.
It's awards season in La Republique Dalembert. Despite a bit of a sophomore slump, the DR, like our fearless leader himself, has taken a step back only in preparation for a great leap forward. The below nominees, though lesser in number, nonetheless exhibit all of the charm, creativity, and joie de vivre of a goaltend into the third row. I know you are all eager to get to the goods, but first, the rules:

There are 7 categories this year, each with 5 nominees. You may vote for one nominee in each category. Voting will be done via email. Make your selections and email them to thedalembertawards@gmail.com with the subject heading “Awards Ballot”. There is no standard format for the ballot; just make it clear. Anyone is eligible to vote regardless of age, race, sex, intelligence, citizenship, however, you must identify yourself on your ballot by full name or easily identifiable pseudonym (one person one vote people—it’s the law!).

Many of these nominees may make no sense to some of you. That’s ok. Vote anyway. The voting process requires you to take a little time, go back, re-read, get a sense of the context. Don’t be lazy—you will certainly smile, you might laugh, and there’s at least a chance you will vomit.

Voting will remain open until Friday, November 27th, 12:00am. The winners will be announced at the Second Annual Dalembert Report Awards Dinner and Strip Club Gala on Saturday, November 28th.

Bitching, whining, complaining and politicking for you personal favorites (nominated or not) is encouraged, either via email or (preferably) in the comment section. Let’s hear it for Dalemocracy!

The Bring It Head Award for Best High School Reference

1. "i think he's schemin' on Mrs. Workman. I bet she's a straight cougar these days." Comment to School Days, Eldiablogrande

2. "Barry fucking Bonds had no business breaking Hammerin' Hanks long-standing home run record when he's jacked up on roids like Evan Carr catching wreck in the Little Gym." - Don't Hate the Game, Hate the Players (Association), Trapped Under Rice

3. "Have an amazing time in Cali, Chief. Say what up to the west coast heads for me. Maybe you can catch a Dana Carmel show while you're out there." - Comment to Junk Food for Thought, DVDubs

4. "McNabb is to blame, he doesn't want to take Pam Lutz's or Mr. B's job, he wants to be paid to be the helmsman of a middle/working class town's football team, he therefore is subject to scrutiny and criticism." - Comment to GOD-DOG-IT, Trapped Under Rice

5. "I definitely need to tell Ginnie Lewis to stop running to third instead of first. I need to tell Pete O'Donnell to stop eating his own dandruff. I need to tell Hank Lopez to eat a fucking sandwich. I need to tell Neil to stop getting socked in the face by other players on our team. I need to get a restraining order barring John Tuton from al the games. I need to tell Danny Van Wert to stop sharing private parts with my daughter and Ruth NA under the slide in the playground, to stop wearing brown cordouroys on the field, and to stop wearing his A's T-shirt 24/7 off the field. Oh yeah... And I definitely need to tell that litte douche on the mound to stop crying every inning." - Comment to Burning Questions, Bo Wittles (DVDubs)

The Jerny Firm Award for Picture of the Year

1. Beanie at the Eagles Game - Burn, Meadowlands, Burn, Flintskinz

2. Muggsy & Manute - Of Love & Basketball, Big Firm

3. Need Money for Beer - Recession Update, Eldiablogrande

4. Young Harry the K - R.I.P., Flintskinz

5. Young J. Werth - "Werth" the Stupid "Puns", Eldiablogrande

The Latarian Milton Award for Video of the Year

1. Crying Giants Fan - Love Me Some Sweet Sweet Internets, Tha Bul Bubak

2. Ron Artest: Storyteller - Growing up Hood, Big Firm

3. Daggering - What the Bumbo Claat?, Big Firm

4. Ron Artest MJ Tribute - Michael Michael Michael You My..., Tha Bul Bubak

5. Fantasy Baseball Camp - The Black Abbott & Costello, Flintskinz

The Let’s All Hope Dan Wins So He Doesn’t Hang Himself with an Aged Stripper’s G-String At the Dolphin Tavern After the Awards Dinner Award for Comment of the Year

1. "Fuck Shop-Rite. what gives them the right to judge peoples names. Last time I checked its not illegal to name your kid Adolf. I have been lobbying tyhat it is time to start the healing. fuck shoprite and the liberal elite." - Comment to Mo, or Less?, Tha Bul Bubak

2. "think about it. he is a gorilla. he probably comes from the wild, where there is neither cadbury, drumsets, or phil collins. sad sad life, right? however, when he enters civilization, he tries a cadbury chocolate delight and is struck by the feeling of "a glass and a half full of joy". immediately after his first bite of cadbury, phil collins starts bursting out from over his head, and when he looks down, he finds that he is seated at a grade A top quality drum set. not knowing what else to do, his monkey brain tells him to rely on his instincts and embrace the warm chocolaty feeling that is filling up his heart and telling him "play, monkey, just play." and that is exactly what he does, and what we are all capable of doing, if we simply eat some cadbury chocolate." - Comment to Tryin' to Play Gorilla, Willa

3. "Just for kicks, here are the Phils we most resemble:

Flintskins: Joe Blanton
Big Firm: JC Romero
Chief Naka: Chan Ho Park/ Shane Victorino
DVDUBS: Matt Stairs
EDG: Chris Coste
Stand Watie: Jay Happ/ Peter Happy
Tha Bul Bubak: Mick Billmeyer" - Comment to The Chuck Wagon Never Disappoints, DVDubs

4. "No one told Ron that his friend was a vampire. What happened was no accident. Well played, Van Helsing, well played." - Comment to Growing Up Hood, Flintskinz

5. "What's next? Former NBA'er Sam Mack being arrested for pimping? Stephen Jackson arrested for kidnapping a young boy? Shaquille O'Neal arrested for some manner of alcohol related offense?" - Comment to It was only a matter of time, Flintskinz

The Bloody Fucking Womb Award for Quote of the Year

1. "He's the leader who can lift the rest of the team with his sheer intensity, ginormous heart, and trusty mobile phone that contains only one number in it: God." - A Few Words About Brian, #1 Chief Naka

2. "The game begins and I'm stunned that A)the mohawk indeed belongs to Von Wafer B)Von Wafer starts for Houston and C)Von Wafer is not a vampire from Dusseldorf." - Oh Yeah...the Sixers, #1 Chief Naka

3. "I won't lie, it took a lot of self-restraint to not title this post "He's Outttttttta Heeeerrrrrrrrre" but I thought that it may be viewed by some as callous (no pun intended)." - R.I.P., Flintskinz

4. "I urge you all to close your eyes, throw on your favorite Beenie Man jam, light some incense, and imagine Giul getting dragged onto the dance floor by Hussain Bolt for some good ol' fashion daggering." - What the Bumbo Claat?, Big Firm

5. "I definitely need to tell Ginnie Lewis to stop running to third instead of first. I need to tell Pete O'Donnell to stop eating his own dandruff. I need to tell Hank Lopez to eat a fucking sandwich. I need to tell Neil to stop getting socked in the face by other players on our team. I need to get a restraining order barring John Tuton from al the games. I need to tell Danny Van Wert to stop sharing private parts with my daughter and Ruth NA under the slide in the playground, to stop wearing brown cordouroys on the field, and to stop wearing his A's T-shirt 24/7 off the field. Oh yeah... And I definitely need to tell that litte douche on the mound to stop crying every inning." - Comment to Burning Questions, Bo Wittles (DVDubs)

The Homerun Kim Batiste Award for Best Obscure Philly Athlete Reference

1. Kim Batiste - Comment to A Few Words About Brian, Mike W.

2. Clarence Weatherspoon - Oh Yeah...The Sixers, #1 Chief Naka

3. Donnie Carr - Comment to Don't Hate the Game, Hate the Players (Association), Tim

4. Chuck Kornegay - I Can't Think of a Funny Title, Big Firm

5. A. Chism - Comment to Growing Up Hood, Tha Bul Bubak

The Dalembert Award for Post of the Year

1. Donovan Rides on the Highway of Broken Stars - #1 Chief Naka

2. Unconditional Love - Big Firm

3. Women, Can't Live With 'Em, Already Know Everything About 'Em - Big Firm

4. Act II - Eldiablogrande

5. Rodney Dangerfield Lives! - Flintskinz

6. Burn, Meadowlands, Burn - Flintskinz

Money Be Green

2009-11-17T18:53:00.003-05:00

With the exception of our one reader who wouldn't watch the show when season 1 was lent to him, like most rational adults, we can all agree that The Wire was one of, if not the best show ever made. So, on this random Tuesday I am posting this epic video of the top 100 quotes from The Wire, as compiled by some random person with decent knowledge of video editing software. Block out 10 minutes and enjoy, if for no other reason because it's far more entertaining than watching the Sixers.

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiit.

Fair Eastside

2009-11-09T11:49:00.001-05:00

If you need a morning pick-me-up, as I do, this should do the trick.

Moving On

2009-11-08T21:22:00.005-05:00

It's early November, and I am hungover. The impetus for my hangover has both immediate and slightly more removed beginnings. On the one hand, I was out with Fine Tone last night. Nuff said. On the other, I've been dating the Phillies since mid-March. Much like a night filled with Jameson served in plastic cups, a season with the Phillies can be bitter, nauseating, yet simultaneously fulfilling. And here I sit, comfortably resting on my overpriced couch, oddly pleased that the Phillies season is over. In recent days, I've had an opportunity (largely because I don't have shit else to do) to recount the wild ride that we all have just endured.

To begin with, let me say this: the Phillies were fuckin great this year. We all must remember that the Phillies--let me reiterate...the PHILLIES-- just played in their second straight world series. And while the season undoubtedly ended in disappointment, and I may or may not have wished horrible pain upon Pedro Feliz due to his awful tendency to leave people on base, the fact of the matter is the Phillies were the second best team in the land. They are the Jason Mann to Peter Rook. They are Fake Dude to Dude. They are Jonah to Leon in a drinking contest! Although none of that makes sense, the point is we had a stupendous year and I am proud to wear copious amounts of red. Next year we will rise again, these are the glory days people!

The playoffs damn near killed me, for the record, and not because there isn't a pill purple enough to cure the heartburn triggered by the sight of Brad Lidge's mole. They damn near killed me because they turned me into an old man, constantly in need of more sleep and frustrated by the slow pace of the game. While Jorge Posada might find it necessary to suck on Any Pettite's earlobe twenty times in the first three innings, I prefer Cliff Lee's brisk pace, 7:05 start times, and national anthems sung by celebrities, not Lower Merion police officers. On a related note, how do the Yankees get John Legend and Mary J Blige to sing the anthem, and we get the fuckin cast of Glee?!? Shiyeeeet, if that doesn't explain our porous showing at the Bank, I don't know what does. Whatever, I mean, I'm not complaining. The Phils added an additional month of anticipation to my life. Very few things get my blood pumpin, and work aint one of em. So thank you Phirries, you make me want to dance.

But now that the love-fest is over, I turn my attention to two teams that, truth be told, underwhelm me. The Eagles, for certain, are a good team, albeit not a great one. We have skinny superstars, worthless superstars, injured superstars, and bipolar fatties who we thought were going to be superstars. We dominate one week, lose to the Raiders the next, and secretly begrudge the more successful team across Pattison Street. Let it be known, I will ride or die with the Birds, but until the playoffs start, I reserve the right to latch onto this train with a rather ambivalent clutch. Safe to say, there will be no pre-game face-painting on Appletree street, bukaki aside.

And then there's the seventy-sixers. Whereas the Phillies inspire, by the look of the crowd at the Wachovia Center, it's apparent that the fans don't realize two important things: (1) Ed Pickney is the new mayor of mixville; and (2) the new Dei Lynam could get the bottom lip. Here's hoping someone pulls an Erin Andrews on her. It would seem, however, that the fans are focused a bit more on the lackluster rotation Coach Eddie is throwing out there on the floor. Without question, I am increasingly frustrated by Sammy's dwindling minutes, Elton Brand's aversion towards scoring in double-digits, and Jrue Holiday not being Ty Lawson. But I want to believe! I want to foresee anything other than a 42-40 season, an early playoff exit, and Giul wasting all his time in those god-forsaken seats! There is no white towel in my linen closet, rest-assured, but the Sixers are dangerously close to being unmistakably insignificant.

And finally, I note that the annual celebration or our existence is creeping up on us. That's right, the annual DR awards -- in the Gianni room --is less than three weeks away. I can't speak for the rest of you, but I intend to shamelessly flirt with the cougar hostess. Get your outfits ready, press your pocket squares, dust off your favorite public league ball-cap, and load up on brown liquor. Remember, if we don't celebrate Sammy, no one will!

Getting That Get Back

2009-11-02T14:25:00.002-05:00

There is no need to discuss specifics, we all know what the Phils are facing. We can do this, and not to sound actually serious for once, but we have to do it one game at a time. Find below some needed inspiration. This is not new in any way, but most of the best good luck charms are not.

Going Back to Philly - Always Sunny in Philadelphia from Danny DeVito

Let's hope Mr. Lee brings the gangster tonight. Go Phils, bitches.

Yank Deez

2009-10-30T14:42:00.006-05:00

Watching Game 2 last night I was struck by the relative silence of the NYC crowd. The quiet crowd in Game 1 was somewhat understandable: when your team get's shut out for 8 innings and your best player looks like Ali the Prime Minister at the plate and your team loses 6-1, it's kind of difficult to get hype. But Game 2 proved to me what should have been obvious: Yankees supporters are a bunch of corporate suck-off pseudo fans who wouldn't know how to boo if you dressed them up in a ghost costume and stuck them in the middle of an Usher video. But don't take my word for it; even resident Fox corporate stoolie Ken Rosenthal thinks the Yankee fans are soft:

"As a native New Yorker, I never thought I'd say this, but here goes: Thank goodness the World Series is leaving New York so we can get a little atmosphere."

He goes on to ramble over 800 or so words about how Yankees fans are a pathetic mockery of anything approaching true fandom. And this is coming from Fox no less - a network that has very little incentive to piss off the fan base in America's biggest media market. Just another piece of proof that rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for Goldman Sachs, only less fun. I hope we kick their ass.

Tenacious LEE!

2009-10-29T12:12:00.003-05:00

Jack Black and Kyle Gass eloquently sum up last night's game.

What is the World Coming To?

2009-10-27T15:44:00.004-05:00

First the Mets blow the division leads two years in a row to the Phillies. Then Mike Piazza gets caught canoodling with Lance Bass at a gay bar in Chelsea (pretty sure that happened, even if the internet cannot confirm). Next the Mets finish closer in the standings to the Nationals than they do to the Phillies in 2009. And while all of the above demonstrates the Mets swift and steady decline into being a joke of an organization, the ABOVE represents the lowest moment in recent memory.

See Steve Phillips did what any man with a full head of perfect silver hair, an appetite for hyperbole, and an impressive baseball resume would do. First, he got a job with ESPN following his run with the Metropolitans. Then he started spending extra time at the workplace, you know, brushing up on his catch phrases, his posture, and his bottom-lipping. Soon enough he wasn't making it home for dinner, failing to keep track of his children's after-school obligations, and spending an inordinate amount of time mentoring the fresh faces filling the EPSN newsroom. No one was shocked to find out that (gasp) a man in his position was having an affair. Not I, not you, not even Endy Chavez. But low and behold, Steve Phillips' conduct is as disappointing as it is predictable.

Not to beat around the bush here, but if I were to, I dunno, risk my job, family, otherwise decent reputation in the public...I would not cheat on my wife with the above. In fact, I wouldn't even glance at the above. I might let the above dome me up while vacationing on some third-world island and tell her my name was Ed Wade, but I most certainly would not conduct an extramarital relationship with her. See Steve, you have a duty to the male population. If we are going to learn of your deplorable behavior, you have to, at the very least, leave the men of the world sympathetic to your plight. Leave us nodding in agreement, muttering to ourselves that we too would leave our significant others for a taste of that apple bottom. Or for pure entertainment, show us that you are a freak like Marv. But to throw it all a way on a girl who may or may not have graduated from the GFS class of 1998, indulged a bit too much on free donut Friday, and stalked your son on facebook? Really? The entire Mets fan base should be disgusted with themselves.

Rodney Dangerfield Lives!

2009-10-13T20:24:00.008-05:00

In the aftermath of one of the greatest Phillies wins ever witnessed which catapulted our version of the big red machine further into our second straight Red October, I went to my usual routine of hunting down what I was positive would be a horde of articles praising the Phillies, warning the Dodgers of their imminent hurt, and capitulating who the Phils would face in this years fall classic.

Needless to say it was a fools errand.

I really shouldn't have been surprised, after all I have endured my entire sports life in the city that praise forgot (which I concede was much deserved for the most part, especially if we want to talk about the mid to late 90's with the exception of a few Lindros led Flyers teams which ultimately and familiarly disappointed), but it was going to be different this time, right? We were the defending world f'ing champions, we defied the odds dictated by previous defending National League world champs and not only made it to the playoffs but dramatically dispensed of our first round rivals, so the sports media pundits were finally going to be ready to give us the nod, correct? If Chase Utley was asked that very question, he would be correct in answering "In-fucking-correct".

You can absolutely get your fill of praise, optimism and general good tidings by trolling the local beat writers, columnists and bloggers. You can extend the teasing by reading articles written by local guys on the big media outlets. You can even find yourself confused by an article rife with Dodger praise that somehow ultimately predicts the Phillies winning over at ESPN.

Unfortunately it seems to stop there.

To reiterate, the Phillies have won the NL East three years in a row, won the WORLD SERIES last year, and we are still the red uniformed stepchildren of the playoff teams. The Rodney Dangerfield of the postseason. This is not simply ingrained Philly-negativity rearing it's ugly, predictable head as there is no shortage of easily found examples of articles written over the past few days that prove this developing complex to be firmly rooted in reality, that I assure you. However, what finally set me off was the discovery of William Rhoden's article from this past Sunday's New York Times. The following quotes should appropriately define my rage:

"....what Major League Baseball needs is a great World Series, a Series for the ages. And with all due respect to those two other potential matchups, it’s a Yankees-Dodgers World Series that could take the game back to its roots at a time when baseball desperately needs to recover a portion of the trust, if not the innocence, that it has lost in the steroid era.....

If the Yankees were to face the Dodgers in the World Series, the season would end with two great players who had admitted culpability and moved on. It would represent a line of demarcation, that the game was ready to get past one of the most painful episodes in its history....

Baseball needs a World Series for the ages, one that reinforces its roots and, yes, its relative purity. Granted, this is a lot to ask one World Series matchup to accomplish, but baseball needs an authentic fall classic.

It needs Yankees-Dodgers, for the good of the game."

Sadly, thanks to J.C. Romero's follies last year at "GNC", I can't go on the unbridled, self-righteous attack that is aching to spill onto this page, but due to him not being on this years playoff roster, I can at least ask Mr. Rhoden WHAT IN THE NAME OF JESUS THE PIMP ARE YOU SMOKING?!??!?? The Yankees and Dodgers??!?? Manny Ramirez and Alex Rodriguez, thanks to personally increasing the Dominican Republic's Gross National Product by at least 300% with their steroid usage, are the FACES of today's steroid era. As for the admissions of culpability referenced by Rhoden, I was always raised to believe that vague finger-pointing was not actually an admission to ANYTHING. Let's recap, A-Rod claimed that his cousin stuck needles in his hind-parts, the contents of which he 'never knew'. Admission fail #1. Manny had some time to think about it, and actually landed on saying his doctor just prescribed him some pills and he assumed they were fine. Admission fail #2.

With that in mind, how exactly does the proposed Dodgers-Yankees matchup reinforce any manner of purity? If anything, having two of baseball's biggest stars who were both caught red-handed REINFORCES those disillusioned by the steroid-era. If we're discussing 'purity' the obvious answer is a Phillies-Angels series. Sure, that may not be the most interesting Fall Classic from a media or ratings perspective, but that couldn't have been what Rhoden really meant, right? Nor could it be that he has a great revisionist history and longs for the days of the Yankees and Dodgers being the kings of New York, because nobody over the age of 50 is still irrationally bitter about that at all. Therefore I'll assume this was a simple search and replace accident in MS Word and he actually meant an Angels-Philliesseries.

As usual, I digress.

The Phillies simply have not garnered the respect which has certainly been earned and sure as shit should be acknowledged, and I agree it's something to be upset about, but not for too long. As fans, we should take a cue from the players, who choose not to dwell on the egregious oversights of the national media and know that if they conduct business as usual, they will leave their detractors two options: silence or respect.

Nothing will do that better than rings on two fingers. These next few weeks are going to be awesome.

(NOTE: Apologies for not bringing the usual dick jokes and bad puns I tend to heavily rely upon, just needed to get a few things off my chest. Jester Flintskins will return shortly, I may even bring nudity next time)

Prosthetic Legs and Wiping That Ass

2009-09-29T08:57:00.014-05:00

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

2009-09-23T18:40:00.002-05:00

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...

2009-09-16T22:43:00.002-05:00

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"

2009-09-10T14:20:00.012-05:00

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

2009-09-09T14:02:00.007-05:00

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

2009-09-08T23:13:00.008-05:00

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

2009-09-08T16:07:00.002-05:00

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.

The Black Abbot & Costello

2009-08-06T15:48:00.005-05:00

Let's be honest. On their own, Ryan Howard and Jimmy Rollins are not the most inspired thespians/spokespeople. Try as you may to block it out, RyHow's abomination of a Subway cheesesteak commercial will never be forgotten, and J-Roll's good deed commercial for Reviving Baseball in Innercities (aka RBI...see what they did there?) actually makes me want kids to join gangs and stab things. But, put them together and the results are always AMAZING. First we had their righteous remix of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame", and now we have this gem embedded below. For once, Funny or Die has posted something that doesn't actually fall into the 'die' category. Enjoy.

Baseball Fantasy Camp with Ryan Howard and Jimmy Rollins - watch more funny videos

Lee Elia ain't got shit on Cliff Lee

2009-08-03T22:40:00.008-05:00

There is no denying it, the DR is on life support. We are Terry Schiavo, 1990-2005. Our collective contribution to the world wide web has rarely been so insignificant. Yet as our esteemed staff has hibernated in air conditioned rooms up and down the east coast -- all due respect to Eldiablogrande and his affinity for fans during the hot summer months -- rest assured, three readers, we will return triumphant, stronger, and more offensive!

The big news in my life (my imminent move back east) is a mere blip on the radar of truly important developments that I think we can all embrace. Our beloved Phillies have made their power move, telling J.P Ricciardi to eat the proverbial penis and scooped up Cliff Lee in exchange for a bounty of promising prospects we will all soon forget. I, for one, have no beef with this trade. Despite sharing an unfortunate common last name with one of the all-time pieces of shit ever to adorn Phils pinstripes, he also shares a first name with an all-time Phillies great. Someone needs to buy me that poster, pronto. The more crafty lefties the better in my book. If Hamels can drag himself away from his wife and get his shit together, October might bleed into November and we will all have reason to celebrate yet again. Until then, props to Ruben Amaro, ain't a soul in Phillies nation who can complain about our commitment to winning.

With August comes the end of my time here in the Windy City. The year has disappeared faster than a Jake Schultz consumed 40. Yesterday was yet ANOTHER gay festival in my soon-to-be old neighborhood. And what did I learn upon my return home last night at 11:00 PM? Put simply, gay men love tank tops. Beefy gay men, skinny gay men, gay men who now fancy themselves as women... they all love tank tops. Outside of that, my tutorial has been rather limited. But a lesson learned is a lesson learned.

There has also been a massive amount of death in the news this past month. Thoughts of my own demise put me on to this cheery website, which might very well make its way into my daily routine, somewhere between the Inquirer sports page, the New York Times Business page, and starbury tv. I have long since wished death upon the Red Sox, only to have the sanctity of their championships dealt a fatal blow in the alternative. At least when the Phillies did steroids, we continued to suck, thus avoiding the public shame that now falls upon our neighbors to the north. That's no coincidence as I see it.

Michael Michael Michael you my...

2009-07-07T12:35:00.003-05:00

Ron Ron will never disappoint, it's as simple as that. The man cries for mike. We learn from this song that Artest is willing to turn into a pacifist for MJ - "Even though I'm always strapped, I'm putting down my mac for Mikey Jack." You might also want to pick up the newest Laker in your deathpools - "I know you in heaven hope to see you next year." Without further ado I bring you the best song ever.

Blame It On the Boogie

2009-06-26T12:58:00.002-05:00

What We Talkin Bout Bitches?

2009-06-23T10:33:00.004-05:00

Uggggghhhh... We talkin Bout practice

Casual Weekend Racism

2009-06-20T19:08:00.003-05:00

To assure that the DR is not eliminated from contention for an NAACP Image Award, I must point out that the below video was produced by PBS, and does not necessarily reflect the views, opinions or comic sensibilities of the Dalembert Report, its editors and especially Samuel Dalembert himself. That being said, I really wish I had been paying more attention during the 80's, I really could have gotten away with a lot more.

Hope you enjoyed, and always remember "it's not like you're REALLY black..."

What the Bumbo Claat?

2009-06-19T19:45:00.002-05:00

I fancy myself as pretty hip. Not a hipster, but hip no less. You know, up to date on all the new fads spreading amongst our youth, confusing our elderly, and directly increasing the amount of illegitimate children in this country. Back when I was rocking Structure polos, the running man could not be topped. Get in a circle at your weekly Bar Mitzvah, encourage your friends to run in place and waive their hands to Tribe Called Quest, and ultimately watch Shiz introduce the Roger Rabbit to the masses. Fast forward to what really may be the lowest moment in American pop culture, when two social security-receiving Mexicans took over the world with their tantalizing version of movement, also known as the Macarena. As a proud straight man, I proudly confirm that I never have done that shit... not on the dance floor, at a sporting event, or in front of my bathroom mirror.

In more recent times, kids have taken favor to the Soldier Boy, which I, unfortunately, don't find particularly compelling. But just when I was ready to hang up my Usher shoes, my man Ben puts me on to an article, and in turn, some new flavor that I simply must welcome with open arms.

Some of you may be aware that Jamaicans aren't just smoking weed, harvesting guavas, and racing bobsleds. And by some of you, I mean Giul and Liz. But beyond those truly accurate stereotypes, Jamaicans are confronting something far more debilitating than suffering through Taye Diggs' fake accent and fishnet tanktop. Indeed, many have broken penises, bruised tailbones, and the daily shame that accompanies this madness. I present to you... DAGGERING:

Daggering - More related videos from Asterpix

First, we can all acknowledge that this rhythmic motion is aptly named. I urge you all to close your eyes, throw on your favorite Beenie Man jam, light some incense, and imagine Giul getting dragged onto the dance floor by Hussain Bolt for some good ol' fashion daggering. Of course that would require a higher degree of flexibility and stamina then Giul likely has to offer, but the image is enchanting no less. Who comes up with this shit? I find my hips gyrating just watching that tiring piece of video.

Point being, daggering is the way forward, and at the next Chief Naka dance party, rest assured, the Big Firm is bringing the Jamaican heat to South Philly.

Got 5 Minutes?

2009-06-16T15:10:00.003-05:00

Of course you do. Lord knows DVDubs has it, that dude has so much spare time he gives it away to homeless beggars on the street. But I digress. I have little to offer in the way of sports commentary today, other than a pair of dismissive wanking motions directed towards the Lakers and the Penguins, but I did bring some youtube heat, courtesy of a bored, lonely, probably morbidly obese man who has both the time and computer wizardry to put something like this together:

PCP looks AWESOME. Not as awesome as the second half of the video of course.....

Oh, wait, there is a mild sports related matter: vote early and vote often for your favorite Phils for the all star game. Chase leads all vote getters for every position, J-Roll leads all shortstops and Raul leads all outfielders. Lets keep it that way. Go over to mlb.com, but not before you've watched the above video for the tenth time.

It's Been Too Long

2009-06-05T12:13:00.004-05:00

I do have something big in the works, but it is taking a lot of time to sort out. In the meantime, for your viewing pleasure I present this country's biggest step towards racial equality since they stopped using fire hoses on Blacks.

Definitely not her, but amusing nonetheless...

2009-06-03T10:57:00.004-05:00

Compliments of the Birthday Jawn...

Ask & You Shall Receive

2009-06-01T20:46:00.005-05:00

The masses sent out the bat signal earlier today, only by masses I mean one of our two fans on Tobacco Road, and by bat signal I mean email. And when one of our very few regular readers threatens bodily harm against the DR staff, it is incumbent upon me, the Big Firm, to put an end to the insanity. No doubt, the DR has been slippin. Nearly a month since our last inspired contribution to the world wide web, I extend a collective apology to you, Dubs, and to you, Raleigh Towel. That should just about cover it.

I've been asked to cover two topics: Eddie Jordan and Brett Myer's replacement. Seeing as I am not one to exceed expectations -- at least not voluntarily -- I will stick to my assignment and stay safely within the confined guidelines.

Following a disappointing conclusion to their season, the Sixers have gone out and TOTAAALLLLY REDEEMED themselves with the Eddie Jordan hire. Oh wait, my mistake, they did the complete opposite and in this fair reader's view, completely shit the bed. Well that sort of implies that they had a bed to shit in, but the point is that Eddie Jordan does very little to get me hype. I could pretend that I don't care who coaches the Sixers, but I would be lying. Sure, I don't think that coaches win titles, and they rarely change the course of a team's good fortune all on their own. But a good coach -- one that is intelligent, calculating, and authoritative yet personable -- is hard to come by. And more often than not, a good coach only becomes "a good coach", let alone "a great one" once the players he/she leads succeed in their own right. But why Eddie Jordan???

Certainly his record alone does not speak volumes for his qualifications. Impressive perhaps only to the likes of Bill Fitch and Isiah Thomas, Eddie Jordan has a career coaching record of, drummmms pleassssse: 230-258. His most successful season resulted in a 8 more wins than losses, not to distract us from the three seasons -- including his most recent performance when he won a single solitary game while losing nine-- where he won less than a whopping 32% of his games. Indeed, twice his team lost thirty more games than they won. I have more success with strippers for god's sake. He also seems completely boring. Well, as boring as a supremely sharp-dressed black man can be. Mr. Jordan also runs that perfect offense for our athletic, dim-witted young players... that's right, the Princeton offense. Sammy is a regular Steve Goodrich, his backdoor passes will vault us to the top!

Well, what can one do? Ultimately, I do trust in Stefanski, and I'm glad we didn't bring in a crappy Boston Celtic coach. In fact, truth be told, I genuinely believe that a strong supporting cast can make up for any coaching shortcomings that Eddie himself may encounter. He has already hired the crispest beard south of Jake Lefco's Chelsea apartment. I only hope his other assistant coaches hold it down like Luther Van Dam and Dauber. Because if Eddie Jordan fails, we all fail.

On to the Brett Myers injury and the Phillies immediate recourse. Our beloved hometown team is motoring right along, simultaneously boasting the worst ERA in the league and a first place standing in our division. Go figure. But now we face what many might dismiss as a rather inconsequential loss, but really, although B. Myers may be about as consistent as a 75-year old man's stream of urine, on any given night he can shut down his opponent and give us a solid 7. His loss puts us in a predicament of considerable degree. Fortunately for us fans, the Phillies mean business and will, in all likelihood, find them someone worthy of our support. No chance we scoop another Paul Abbott, you heard it here first.

A few suggestions that Ruben Amaro might want to look into:

1) Ryan Rossitto. Word on the street is that he came through stunning at the GFS alumni baseball game. Throwing heaters, mixing in a proud incapacity at the plate and a bushy head of deceptively jewish curls. I figure the Phils can offer him slightly more than whatever crumbling financial institution he likely works for presently has on the table. Need I remind you that another Princeton grad, who happens to be 6'10'', has done quite well for himself in the major leagues. The symmetry is beautiful.

2) Cincinnati Mayor Mark Mallory:

Mayor Nutter wouldn't stand for that nonsense.

3) Your favorite voluptuous R&B singer and mine: Mariah Carey. The Japanese commentary, combined with the catcher's shit eating grin, make her an instant contender to throw every fifth day in my book.

4) And last but not least, Carl Lewis. My favorite video of Carl Lewis is undeniably this one. But dare I overlook his other gems. Shit, he runs faster than God. Speaking of which... for the love of friggin God I can't find the video of Carl Lewis throwing the ball 4 feet in Seattle, but I know it happened.

Can't Wait, Want Now.

2009-05-14T16:15:00.005-05:00

I always found that one of life's greatest ironies as a child was that the same people who persisted with the idea that playing video games would rot my brain were the same people who bought me those video games in the first place. My parents bestowed my first Nintendo Entertainment System upon me as a Christmas gift sometime in the late 80's (note to self, forgetting the exact year could be proof of brain rotting capabilities), and almost immediately the warning of imminent short bus riding began. Not that I can blame them, I was hooked on the damn thing. For at least a two-week period I'm pretty sure I convinced myself that Mario and Luigi were actual members of my family, and that we had loaned our family dog to assist me in Duck Hunt. The warnings of brain rot, and threats of permanent NES removal were actually starting to make an impact at one point, and I was ready to give my controller some rest, but then along came one of the greatest video games of my generation: Mike Tyson's Punch-Out.

Now, it's not what you think. Sure, I loved this game, but frankly I was never very good at it. What made this game so life changing is that when I was at my breaking point, believing all of the evils that my parents were advertising, a funny thing happened. I arrived home from school early one day to find my stepfather, the loudest champion of the anti-gaming society, in my bedroom, controller in hand, fighting Don Flamenco.

The jig was up.

The fortune associated with catching my stepfather in the act was two-fold. First and most obvious, he backed off his anti-video game stance and compromised with the all-familiar "not until your homework is finished *wink*" directive, and second, he had been secretly playing so long he was actually able to teach me how to play the damned game. Sure, I was the last person I know to actually beat Mike Tyson, but it happened and for better or for worse is one of my bigger accomplishments in life.

If you have even managed to read this far you are definitely asking yourself what the point of all of this is. Well, besides that I am trying to let all of the DR faithful know that I have actually accomplished something with my life, Punch-Out is being resurrected for the Wii. Sadly, and I can't figure out why, Mike Tyson's name and likeness have been removed, but the below commercial should squash any doubts you may have of the game because of such an omission. This commercial has it all, a real boxer (Paulie Malignaggi for those that know boxing, which I sure as shit do not) playing Little Mac, Clay Davis playing Doc (sidenote, couldn't even get Cutty a little cameo?!?) and a lot of gym props dressed up as game characters. There has yet to be any annoyingly witty internets slang created to express how I feel about this game.

I'll see you bitches in line at Best Buy on May 18th.

It was only a matter of time

2009-05-13T11:31:00.005-05:00

From the "get the fuck out" category of the day, I am sad to report that Corie Blount has been sentenced to one year in prison for, get this... marijuana use. A judge rejected his guilty plea, which essentially suggested that Mr. Blount needed 29 pounds of weed for his own personal consumption. Hmmm. Not even Dominican Bill could smoke that much of the Bul Bubak's weed if he had a party every Saturday night for the rest of his life. I know what you're saying: a guy named "Blount" smokes marijuana? And copious amounts of it at that? Shocking development, indeed. His forefathers must be completely blindsided by the development, and Mark Blount is probably flushing drugs down the toilet as we speak.

Before we know it Rudy Gay and William Gay will be hanging out at the 12th Street Gym. Bumpy Knuckles will have Bumpy Knuckles, and I will be featured in a Playboy Magazine spread.

Also, I hate the Celtics. But more on that later once I am off a work computer and free to spew hatred at my convenience.

Growing up Hood

2009-05-07T13:31:00.002-05:00

When I used to play games at the Water Tower, perhaps the most significant off-court distraction was the inevitable decision between eating at the Italian Oven or The Depot post-game. And the concern over being molested by unnamed coaches, but that's neither here nor there. Sometimes the Germantown Ave. Roy Rogers presented an interesting third alternative, but rarely did I need to take my focus off Matt Gordy, Matt Tuzman, or Matt Gillespie.

Not so for Ron Artest. Whereas we played hoops within a stone's throw from Caffette, lil' Ron played hoops within a stone throw of a crazy table leg-yielding assassin who voiced his displeasure with any on-court antics by killing players via splinters and loose nails. Young black men in this country really do face insurmountable challenges.

Ron, here's to you and your picture-perfect account of your youth. No one will ever doubt your credibility in a court of law, I assure you. Props to Big Ben out of Fairmount for bringing this gem to the DR's attention.

Our Fearless Leader

2009-04-30T12:26:00.004-05:00

Courtesy of Sammy D via the Metro.

- "He Probably just woke up on the wrong side of the bed and said 'I'm gonna get the Haitian guy.' "

Why you gotta pick on the one Haitian we got? For shame Dwight...for shame.

Sixers Got the Magic Stick

2009-04-30T09:46:00.008-05:00

Courtesy of dictionary.com, here are some synonyms for the word "Magic":

Alchemy: The Magic are a bunch of medieval shysters trying to convince the world that they can turn lead into gold.

Astrology: The Magic are the Psychic Friends Network.

Augury: The Magic are a drill-like tool used to put holes in people's lawns.

Bewitchment: The Magic are a witch trying to lead the life of a suburban housewife in a 1960's sitcom.

Black Art: The Magic belong on the wall of Big Firms new house.

Diabolism: The Magic are a Bulgarian death metal band consisting of three members: Agarvaen, Lord Deimos Infernal Frost and Angrist. They took first prize at the 3rd annual Bulgarian National Death Metal Festival in 1996. Critics describe their music as "raw", "cold" and "ungodly".

Hocus Pocus: The Magic are Kazaam.

Illusion: The Magic are fraudulent.

Necromancy: The Magic like resurrecting corpses from the dead... and then having sex with them.

Occultism: The Magic are a bunch of pale teenagers painting their finger nails black, playing Ouija, and listening to Marilyn Manson.

Taboo: The Magic are an enthralling board game wherein players take turns describing a word or phrase on a drawn card to their partner without using five common additional words or phrases also on the card. Also, the Magic are the gay Indian dude from Black Eyed Peas.

Trickery: The Magic like turning tricks.

Voodoo: The Magic are amateur medicine men powerless under the spell of Sammy D's Haitian Jedi Mind Tricks.

Das EFX with the Real Hip-Hop?

2009-04-29T15:01:00.008-05:00

As I was perusing the 76ers Dance Team bio page (how is it that they are all in nursing school? Am I missing something?) I came across this fabulous picture of Hip-Hop doing his part to make sure Thursday's game is a sellout by rounding up Philadelphia's homeless population and plying them with free "Run With Us" t shirts. Is there anything that wascally wabbit won't do for the good of the team?

In other news, my cubicle mate here at the CromCastle is telling me that Da-wight Howard will be suspended for Game 6 after is unprovoked assault on Sammy D. Could this mean a breakout game for the Haitian One? Such events are always possible, though I suspect the Sixers will use this suspension as an excuse to uncork an uninspired display of mediocrity, squeezing through to a Game 7 only because, Da-wight-less, the so-called Magic are little more than a group of second-rate hucksters pulling quarters from the ears of toddlers.

At any rate, I plan to be joining Hip-Hop and his homeless brigands at the former FU Center on Thursday, doubtless spending timeouts furiously texting updates to the DR's NBA TV-less Chicago correspondent. I think we'll win.

The Chuck Wagon Never Disappoints

2009-04-22T22:57:00.001-05:00

Like a Fart in the Wind

2009-04-16T22:16:00.009-05:00

Does jumping in the air while holding another man's hand make you gay? I think so. If by gay you mean incredibly happy. Gayer than springtime, some might say. But all that glee I felt while frolicking in the hot Mexican sun came to a crashing end when I landed in dreary Chicago on a rain-swept Monday evening earlier this week. Turning on my phone to frantically see alllll the many people who had left voicemails and friendly texts since I left the States five days earlier, I realized I have no friends. Not a single solitary human being called me, you know, wanted to hang out, get a drink, watch a marathon of Real Housewives of Atlanta. Not even my mother. Granted, she knew I was away, but she's old and forgetful, so I expected a text at the very least. I digress... point is my own personal disappointment quickly evolved into shock and awe when I got a text from one Mr. Fine Tone that said the following, or something to this effect: "Way to go to Mexico and kill Harry Kalas." Hmmm. I knew I had gone to Mexico and eaten a lot of Mexican hot dogs, but killed Harry Kalas? Confused, I thought to myself, Harry the K... gone? Would Tone joke about this? Never. And then I got real sad. Not only because there is a greater possibility Gary Matthews will be promoted to a more important cog in the Phillies broadcast machine, but really because I, like so many others, love John Gruden. I mean Harry Kalas. I'm talking Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip love here. Maybe even sprinkle on some Mint Milanos, that was my level of compassion.

Harry Kalas was much more than an admirable man of indulgence who loved the good things in life. Sure his lungs were darker than the deepest jungle in the Congo. Yeah he slugged whisky like it was the DR holiday bash 365 days a year. God bless the man because he in all likelihood took down Chris Wheeler's wife triggering a feud akin to Ricky Vaughn-Roger Dorn. But beyond all those truly great qualities, he was a comforting voice and a friend to millions. When thousands of people line up on Saturday morning to see his 145 lb body lying at home plate at the Bank, undoubtedly most will feel as if they knew the man personally. As though he was their ace rollie. That's pretty dope if you ask this fella.

I remember when the Phils were only on television, at least in my house, on Sunday afternoons. Tuning into Philly 57 (I think was the station at the time) to catch the Harry-Wheels-Musser-Whitey combo was a treasured treat. For some reason I attach his voice with the concrete carpet we called "turf" that covered the Vet for so many years. The one with random wet spots scattered throughout the field, and seams that tripped up everyone from Dickie Thon to Charlie Hayes to Tommy Herr. I remember how the camera would start with H-K and then scroll out to see Andy Musser and his ridiculous Kangol hats. Harry for some reason triggers, in my mind, the old maroon colors, Von Hayes, and the years we sucked. I don't necessarily love him because he was the focal point of my baseball experience. Nah, really, I loved him for just the opposite. Sure his famous calls made him a tri-state phenomenon. But I learned to appreciate the 1.5 minute at-bats when he barely said a damn thing. Harry went hand-in-hand with those miserably humid and hot summer nights when the Phillies were battling it out for last place with Spike Owen & the Expos. Harry was Sil Campusano breaking up Doug Drabek's no-hitter with 2 outs in the 9th inning. Harry was Steve Bedrosian's beard, Steve Jelt'z jerry-curl, Bruce Ruffin's mullet, & Randy Ready's awesome name. Harry made me want to throw sidearm like Kent Tekulve. Shit, Harry added legitimacy to Bobby Munoz's upside, and bite to Wally Richie's slider. Harry was "calls of the game" while stuck in traffic on the way home from the Vet. Plain & simple, Harry was the fuckin man.

So now that I have gone through a box of kleenex, it's time to point forward. Can Wheels hold it down on the dolo? Is Larry Anderson the answer? Do we steal away Harry's son from the Devil Rays? Do we rescue Andy Musser from whatever mundane life he is leading in the random New Jersey town he probably lives in? Do we let the most articulate man this side of the Shenandoah Valley, our beloved Charlie Manuel, take over after we win another title this year? Time will tell. But if D'allesandro's can start selling New England Clam Chowder (those nazis) with a straight face, I suppose the Phils can and will move on without Harry the K. I'll still eat what they be cooking, but it aint gonna be easy.

Sad this is the last time I saw you Harry, but you went out a champion, and I'm glad I got to send you off with a hearty wave and a creepy scream. Go Phils.

R.I.P.

2009-04-13T14:22:00.006-05:00

I won't lie, it took a lot of self-restraint to not title this post "He's Outttttttta Heeeerrrrrrrrre" but I thought that it may be viewed by some as callous (no pun intended). It of course was intended as homage, but it may have been a bitter pill to swallow nonetheless, especially seen in big, bright letters. My twisted sense of humor/tribute aside, we all lost a great member of the Phillies and NFL Films family when Hall of Fame broadcaster Harry Kalas passed away shortly after 1PM this afternoon.

There isn't much I can say in this space that we all have not already thought about or said, and frankly there are far better and accomplished writers than me out there that can offer far more insight into the life of this baseball legend, so I will be very brief. Simply put, watching and listening to the Phillies will never be the same for me. Harry and the Phightens have been synonomous to everyone who ever heard the man call a game, and there is a part of me that never wants to experience a Phillie hit another home run if I am not in the stadium. Well, that's going too far, but there is no question it will be bittersweet at best (NOTE: Shane Victorino hit one at the exact moment I wrote that, and it was indeed a bit sad).

We lost a legend today, but if there is any solace to be taken in it, know that on some alternate plain of existence, Harry and Whitey are finally reunited in the booth.

You will be missed, but never forgotten, Harry. In your honor, I want to play our loyal readers the moment I waited my whole life to hear. Thanks for everything.

The Ring is The Thing

2009-04-08T23:04:00.005-05:00

When the Phillies won the World Series in 1980, the team received the ring above, a heavy-looking ornament that combined the fortress look of Veterans Stadium with an acceptable amount of blood jewels in appropriate colors. Having today glimpsed the 2008 World Series ring bestowed upon the defending champions, I have two observations: 1)championship rings nowadays are roughly the size of a box of Lucky Charms and weigh more than people who eat Lucky Charms, and 2)I think the real reason why teams don't win back-to-back titles in baseball is because the entire roster gets droopy-finger syndrome, a pernicious and debilitating affliction that can kill a pitchers grip, a batters swing, and a managers wave to the bullpen.

Before anyone jumps to false conclusions concerning my opinion on the 2008 World Series ring, let me say they are huge and that's cool. The bigger the better, because as soon as Geoff Jenkins gambles his money away and pawns that tasty ring I'll be there, ready to snatch it up, put it on, and add some serious shine to the next Dalembert Awards Banquet. The real reason I mention the ring is because baseball is back, and the ring is the thing. And the Phils are the team to fucking beat.

What will happen in 2009? Here are some guesses.

The Shane Victorino and Jayson Werth candidate for career year:
Winning the World Series will cover all sorts of warts, facts, and realities, and the fact is that we won it all without a career year almost nearly anyone on the roster, save for the aforementioned outfielders. Yes Cole Hamels was very good and a playoff stud, but Colbert only won 14 games in the regular season. JRoll basically had a bad year, Utley's numbers dropped steadily starting in May, and Ryan Howard made me cry almost every day for the first three months of the season. Burrell was great early but overall had a Burrell year, Pedro Feliz was bad, Geoff Jenkins was awful, Carlos Ruiz stunk, and Chris Coste an afterthought. Our bench doesn't count. Jamie Moyer pitched great but Myers, Kendrick, and Blanton were iffy, leaky, and chubby. You get the point: we have room to improve! Oh wait, Brad Lidge was perfect. Anyway, my candidate for career year is Brett Myers(I'm acting as if the season hasn't already started and he hasn't already given up 10,000 feet worth of home runs). Bottom line is this: contract year!!

The Geoff Jenkins candidate for Disappointing Corner Outfielder:
Since there are only two corner outfielders, and since I'm so drunk on the Ibanez kool-aid(even before today people!) I can barely see straight, I nominate Jayson Werth. Obviously I hope I'm wrong, but Jayson and his disgusting flavor-savor signed a new contract, has injury issues, and more than a little pressure on his lanky frame to represent the right-side of the plate in our line-up. We need the guy to bat fifth and hit 25-30 dingers for our line-up to work. Can he do it? We'll see.

The Crucial Asian Quota candidate for team harmony:
Does anyone think it's a coincidence that the Phillies rosters in 2007(a return to the playoffs) and 2008(a title) were both successful and both contained Japanese players? Hell no! You gotta have Wa, and for proper wa you need some Japaneezy's. I'll even settle for a Korean, which is why Chan Ho Pak(Chop as a nickname?) is the winner here. This dude is the key to everything.

The Charlie Manuel is Actually a Genius And Now We See The Light candidate:
There's only one choice here, and that would be the one and only Richard Peter Dubee, aka Dick Dubee. Our beloved pitching coach is a straight G. Not only did homeboy coax 21 wins out of Kyle Kendrick the past two years, he did it with refreshing bluntness(pun intended). Dubee will make sure our pitching staff stays focused and on point, while acting as consiglieri to Charlie Manuel. Dubee will soon get national props.

The Blessing In Disguise candidate:
JC Romero, forced to miss the first 50 games of the season due to a confusing and unfair suspension, will return angry, motivated, and pumped full of undetectable new steroids, and will strike out Carlos Delgado twelve times in September.

The Talent Wins In the End candidate to lead the team:
I sure hope all the role players and bullpen specialists play great, and the manager sets the right tone, and major injuries are avoided, etc., but I really want to see our Big 3(JRoll, Utley, Howard) mash the ball together this year. Out of the three of them I'm most obsessed with Howard reaching his potential. He had one great month last season and a bunch of terrible/average ones, and he nearly won MVP. Can the big guy stay consistent, avoid 200k's, and bring the average up to .280? If so 60 home runs could be a serious conversation. Did I say 60? I meant 80.

The Subtle Reason To Love Ed Wade candidate:
We've been through this before, but quickly lets recap: Ed Wade was in charge when the Phillies drafted and nurtured Jimmy Rollins, Pat Burrell, Chase Utley, Ryan Howard, Cole Hamels, Ryan Madsen, and Brett Myers. Then he took over in Houston and gave us Brad Lidge for Michael Bourn. He basically looked at our roster, thought "hey, I love the Phillies and would love to see them win a World Series so I think I'll give them a beast reliever, since they could use one, for a bum", and sent us on our way to the promised land. But the real kicker? Eric Bruntlett is fucking awesome. He came here in the Lidge trade and recovered from a slow start to become my favorite bearded bench player since Aaron Mckie. Bruntlett plays every position except pitcher and catcher and will prove indispensable as this year progresses.

The Reliever Who Will Make Those Jews Among Us Proud candidate:
Gary Majewski of course, even if the w is silent. I plan on Chad Durbin sucking this year, getting shipped down to the minors, and being replaced by the Mighty Majewski. Majewski will then make Sandy Koufax proud and anchor the middle innings like a true mensch.

We will win 92 games and the division of course. That is all.

I Can't Think of a Funny Title

2009-04-01T21:23:00.014-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tryin' to Play Gorilla

2009-03-30T14:12:00.003-05:00

I can't quite put my finger on what makes this clip one of the greatest things I've ever seen on the whole innanet. Is it the Phil Collins? Is it the gorilla? It really is hard to say. Somehow though, the match made between nature's largest primate and the genius who brought us "Sussudio" seems like one that was made in heaven. Judge for yourself (video NSFW but only if you work in a zoo or are a member of Genesis).

Friday's Hangover Inducing Video Dump

2009-03-27T20:48:00.003-05:00

Happy weekend kids! While everyday is a Saturday for your humble narrator these days, I still appreciate the plight of the working man and know what it's like to want to unwind, relax and kick back a few after a long week of pushing the broom for the man. In that spirit, I took some time out of my very lazy day to compile some of yesterdays finest alcohol related propaganda. Being that I am gifted in the art of keeping it real, and am also living a life of leisure on a government paid income it seemed appropriate to focus upon the oft consumed but rarely publicly acclaimed beverage, malt liquor. So in closing, remember to drink responsibly (as in don't drink with me), don't drink and drive as you may spill your drink and never overpay for street walkers. Enjoy.

Budweiser Malt Liquor

First I ever heard of this was when I was doing my search for ads. I'm not upset I never had the pleasure of cracking one of these open, but I am a little bewildered that it seems malt liquor was once actually marketed to white people. I am more than slightly disturbed by this, as I suspect you will be as well.

Colt 45

The Billy Dee Williams Colt 45 ads are nothing short of legendary. While they were directed at the generation prior to mine, I find that the peers of mine who remember the ads do so quite fondly. There is a perfectly good reason for that: they are absolutely ridiculous. Listen, I do not intend to imply that Billy Dee is not one of the smoothest brothers to have ever walked this earth, that is indisputable, but trying to bring dignity and respect to malt liquor is tantamount to trying to get my cat to go out and get a job and support the family for once. It's not going to happen. That being said, the effort is more than respected, it is admired. Below are two fine examples of Billy Dee making it work every time.

Country Club

This ad is not good. At all. I only posted so you can all see why it is just wrong in every way.

King Cobra

Fred Williamson may not be the actual God, but he is A god, as proven here.

Schlitz

I'm not really sure what the fuck is going on here, but I do know there are so many things awesomely wrong about this ad. Key word awesome.

St. Ides

It is no secret that St. Ides put out the absolute BEST commercials in the 90's. Saying that the advertising caused me to illegally purchase and illegally drink the sweet crooked I nectar is slightly misleading as I was guzzling any bottle I could get my hands on at that age, but it certainly did create enough brand allegiance that given the choice I always wanted to visit the sweet tropics of the island of St. Ides. Below are some of the finest ads ever created, for malt liquor and beyond.

BIG

Wu-Tang
TV Version

Full Version

King Tee (note: with two aspiring DR lawyers to protect me, I too will have a St. Ides license plate one day)

Ice Cube & The Geto Boys

TV (bonus points for the bootleg style)

Full

Is it even legal for little people to drink?

Rakim (Yes, Rakim Allah supports malt liquor. Awesome.)

Snoop Dogg and Nate Dogg (Couldn't find the video version, which features Snoop's hair at its best)

Method Man & Redman (minus points for it being a Special Brew ad)

TV

Full

Bonus Hangover Remedy Ads

Nas & AZ - Sprite

Pete Rock & CL Smooth - Sprite

Biggie - Pepsi

The Tao of Thad

2009-03-26T14:39:00.006-05:00

According to Google, Thaddeus Young is the 6th most important Thaddeus on the whole innanet. He trails the likes of St. Jude Thaddeus (axe-wielding holy man), Thaddeus of Edessa (one of the 70 disciples (though presumably no relation to Shabazz the Disciple)), and Thaddeus Stevens (flamboyant Republican congressman). This sad state of affairs belies a truth that the believers amongst us have known for some time: if this Sixies team is to ever contend for an NBA title, it will be upon the slender shoulders of the man we call Young Thad.

'Tis a rare sight in the NuhBuh that a team without a superstar is able to reach the league's upper echelons. In the last 20 years, only the '03-04 Pistons (who's best player, Rasheed Wallace, had been a superstar on Portland before sublimating his own skills to play the team game in Detroit) and the '99 Pacers (who's best player, Reggie Miller, was certainly better than Andre Iguodala) reached the Finals without a bonafide superstar leading them. In the later rounds of the playoffs, when the scores are all close, the defense gets sticky, and the games slow to a half-court crawl, having a player who can make tough shots and more importantly command the respect of the refs is invaluable. That's why an egalitarian team like the Sixers will inevitably have trouble down the stretch - without a player who can consistently score or draw a foul in a one-on-one situation, they won't get any calls, and will struggle to put points up.

Elton Brand may have once been that player, but he isn't anymore. Andre Iguodala, for all his positive qualities, will never be that player either. Lou Williams is a good, aggressive crunch-time scorer, but anyone who thinks he is the go-to guy on a championship team is smoking Dennie Street's finest.

Our future rests in the soft, soft hands of Thaddeus Young.

All season long we've been maddened by the Sixers' inability to realize this essential truth. In the last 15 or so games however, it appears that the irrepressible genius of Thad's left hand has invaded even their most calcified of brains. As the team has begun looking to Thad in the half-court, and the coaching staff has (gasp!) starting actually running plays for him, he's been averaging over 20 a game on 53% shooting (37% from treyland), and has emerged as a reliable scoring threat. Oh and by the way, he's not even old enough to get into Bob and Barbaras!! And playing out of position! Thad is the truth; he tao is undeniable, and all should bear witness this spring as we witness the coming out party of the NBA's next superstar.

On a Roll Like a Deli Sandwich

2009-03-25T10:34:00.005-05:00

It's been a long cold winter for the DR, but we're finally showing signs of life. Buoyed by Sammy D's inspiring work on the just-concluded western road-trip and by a weekend trip to the land of grouper, we've finally started the slow process of emerging from our respective cocoons. And so it came to pass that, as I contemplated how best to break my month-long post-less streak, a little birdy named Michael Klein came along and whispered through the internet a tidbit of glorious news:

"Phillies shortstop Jimmy Rollins says he and longtime girlfriend Johari Smith are "checking out some islands" and plan to be married in January."

J Roll and our own favorite high school classmate aren't content with just getting married though. According the Bill Gates:

"Jimmy Rollins...and girlfriend Johari Smith will appear in a Playboy fashion feature, most likely in the June issue and on video on Playboy's Web site."

Now, there are many things to take issue with here. First: since when are there videos of men in Playboy!? Second: does it make me gay that i want to purchase the Playboy in which Jimmy Rollins is posing? Third: will Abby Klein be invited? Fourth: will she have a plus-one? Fifth: what are the chances that the island they decide on is Haiti?

I could go on and on, but I think instead i'll stop here and simply wish the bestest of luck to the young couple. I can't wait until their kids are catching wreck in the Smith Gym.

Let The Madness Ensue

2009-03-18T10:26:00.020-05:00

Here at the DR we are cut from a different cloth. The editors at large are not what the masses would call "normal". That being said, it is that time of the year again, time for our march madness preview. There will be no basketball talked about in this post, but rather the more important bracket. This year's Name Of The Year(NOTY) bracket is nothing if not phenomenal. It's not just me who thinks so either. Check out what some of my colleagues have to say on the subject:

- Atari Bigby of the New Brunswick Herald Times Picayune Daily has called this years tournament "The year of the upset!"

- Blogger Majestic Mapp of www.thisisafakeblog.blogspot.com/org.us.gov claims "Finally, a tournament that Kok dominates."

- Neon Beaudeaux who has been a guest editor of the Metro Calcutta asserts " This year has more intriguing first round match ups than ever: Dick v. Beaver, Warmflash v. Koldsweat, Uranus Golden v. K Cumalat, and Dr. Shasta Kielbasa v. Cherish Frankenstein." With examples like that who could argue with Mr. Beaudeaux?

Without further ado, I give you all a sneak peak at my bracket. I have 10 upsets in the first round headlined by 5 seeds of 10 or higher making it to the round of 16. Now... on to the FINAL FOUR. Only one #1 seed made it into my final four. Sadly, Taco Vandervelde was not one of them...that sneaky canuck. On the top Half of the bracket I have Glorious Johnson going up against the Reverend Valentine Handwerker, and on the bottom half Nutritious Love v. Dr. Shasta Kielbasa. Surprise final four participant, #5 seed Dr. Shasta Kielbasa, goes up against Glorious Johnson in the finals with the glorious one prevailing in a ridiculously close race.

I Have Seen The Light

2009-03-11T16:53:00.009-05:00

As many of the readers know, Bubak is an avid television watcher. It has been previously documented on this very site that I have 74'' of HDTV housed at the crib with all the accouterments. With so much to watch (and so much to catch up on via DVR) it is not often that I venture into those channels that no non 50+ year old white man in checkered pants watches. Monday night happened to be one of those nights...THANK YOU GOD that it was, for I saw the greatest TV show ever created. Like any real red blooded American, I believed that when it came to golf on TV or film, no one could outdo Dorf.

America I am not ashamed to say we as a country were wrong, dead wrong. Like any other Monday night, I was sitting on the couch lounging when for some reason unbeknownst to Philo Farnsworth himself I turned to the Golf Channel. What happened next is the fourth best thing that has happened to me this year after marrying my beautiful bride, being a lifetime Sirius member, and going to MONSTERJAM. Monday nights at 9 pm est on the golf channel just became must see TV. The Haney Project might be the greatest idea an exec has ever had. I wont give you every gory detail because you really need to tune in, but I will leave you with these tidbits: Barkley is classic Barkley... congenial, fat, sweaty and utterly hilarious. You can see why the man got a DUI as he is best friends with a random bartender at a random steakhouse who does nothing but talk shit to the Chuckster about his golf game. Lastly, Neil Hartman makes a cameo...need I say more?

The Winter of My Sammy Discontent

2009-03-08T23:44:00.003-05:00

While driving back from New York this evening I turned the radio on to get a Sixers score. The 610 WIP host who came on was in the middle of a fiery rant about the embarrassing way in which the Sixers lost to the lowly Oklahoma City Bombers, I mean Thunder, a lowly team without it's two best players(Kevin Durant and Jeff Green).

I got home and checked the box score. Several things stand out. Iguodala and Lou Williams were awful. We lost by fifteen points, Thad Young played thirty-nine minutes, and was somehow +3(when he was on the floor the Sixers scored three more points than the Thunder) at the end of the game. How is that even possible? And Sam Dalembert played seventeen minutes, had three rebounds, one block, and zero points. What is going on with him? And with this team?

I have read several articles recently about Sammy, and even heard Theo Ratliff on 610 talking to Ike Reese late one night. A large segment of the interview centered on Sammy, and some of Theo's quotes included "He's just a different type of personality" and "Sam's a unique guy", quotes which translate into real talk as "Sam is weird" and "Sam is a headcase". Normally I would immediately write a post titled "Rat Bastard" condemning Theo Ratliff, his mother, and his entire family, and sleep a deep satisfying sleep. But the thing is, Theo Ratliff was being diplomatic. He repeatedly told Ike Reese how Sammy should be an All-Star in this league, how he tells that to Sammy all the time, etc.

Combined with several stories about Sammy's post-practice habit of practicing his three-point shooting, his trade demands, and his invisible play of late, and I'm worried about our boy. What's more, I'm angry. I think it's time for some tough love.

Sammy, we've supported you since day one, when nobody even knew you existed. We've defended you beyond all reason. And we deserve better. We deserve a blog devoted to a man who practices his low-post moves BEFORE he practices three-pointers(fact: Sammy has never made an NBA three-pointer in a game). Are you fucking kidding me?!?! Develop a jump hook! Practice your turnaround jumper!! Work on your left hand!! Christ, work on your RIGHT hand!!! Stop pouting. Stop demanding trades. Stop handing in D- work like tonight.

We thought you were a head-case in a good, healthy, charming way, not in a selfish absurd way. Please make all the haters eat their words. Prove to the world you are a flake off the court but never on it. Please, I beg you, make the name Dalembert synonymous with rags-to-riches Haitian excellence, with jaw-dropping athletic ability and work ethic. As it stands, everywhere but here on these pages, Dalembert is synonymous with "terrible contract" and "underachieving headcase". The final judgement rests solely in your hands. Do the right thing Sammy, for you, for us.

This was written in anger and frustration and is my opinion and my opinion only.

Teach them well and let them Lord That Stinks

2009-03-03T21:42:00.004-05:00

A little more than a month ago I did what the skeptics of the economy thought impossible: I got a job. My bank account stood and applauded(more like clapped sarcastically). I booed. My life since then has been an ongoing debate between working and not working, eating and not eating, and of course posting and not posting. I enjoy having money and eating food, and when the mood strikes eating money, otherwise I would prefer to be dead broke with nothing to do but watch matinee movies and post on the DR.

My new job requires two major skills: the patience of a tee-ball coach and a garbage-mans ability to work amidst foul stenches. No, I am not in fact a tee-ball coach near the South Philly refineries, but a daycare teacher.

Patience is required because tiny kids(18 months in some cases) know three things: mommy, food, and farm animals. That's it. Daddy? Ehh, maybe they know him, maybe not. Toys? Five raisins in a bowl is a toy for a two-year old. Conversation? Please. Because these cute little bastards know nothing about everything, it's therefore only fair you can't get mad when indeed they know nothing. Sure, it's hard to contain pure rage when you wash a youngsters hands, turn around for a quick second, then turn around again to see the same youngsters hands splashing joyously in the toilet water. But for them toilet water is just water; they'd drink the stuff if given the chance. They just don't know. These moments test me but also make me stronger.

And strength is what I need when working on the second skill: the stench ignoring mechanism. As much as we humans have evolved, we still haven't risen to a level where incredibly foul smelling brown FUNK isn't pushed out our ass. Yo, religious folk, do you really think we were created in God's image? You really think God would be reduced to sitting on a toilet wiping his butt with paper? It's crazy. My point is, I change diapers, and diapers stink.

But my larger point is that I change diapers and re-wash toilet touching hands knowing full well that my DR time suffers. So I'd like to offer a few comparisons from my new job to recent events outside of the job.

Don't Touch That! Stop Touching That!! NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
The redundancy of reminding kids that electrical outlets are bad is beginning to remind me, in a roundabout way, of how frustrating it is to be a Sixers fan right now. They exist at this point in the season as a convenient workout session for good teams. I'd love to believe we will turn it on, improve at all the things we suck at(perimeter D, perimeter O), and make the next two months interesting for all of us. But I don't feel it. Maybe it's the winter talking. Maybe DiLeo has a trick up his sleeve. But I do know this: Sammy isn't happy, and when Sammy isn't happy the world isn't happy.

A Big Diaper of Shit
The Eagles remind me of one. They stink. The BDawk disaster has been beaten to death in Philly, so I'll keep it short. We have the money. He played well down the stretch last season and is hands-down better than whoever will replace him this season. And he was the most popular player on the team, by far. What a doggone travesty.

Weeee're Going Outside!!
When the weather is nice we take the kids outside, which offers both fresh air literally and a sense of time moving faster. It's a happy time. Sort of like Spring Training and the Phillies. No amount of exhaustion will keep me from offering a detailed Phillies preview come April, and since it's early March and the story-lines in Clearwater are mostly boring I just hope you all are getting subtle satisfaction from Johan Santana's elbow problem, as I am.

Where's My Peanut Butter and Jelly!?!?!
Last week I forgot to make a PBnJ for lunch, which nearly forced me to leave work early. I was so hungry. PBnJ is such a simple, bland sandwich, sometimes we forget how important and underrated it can be. Sort of like Tra Thomas. The Eagles are about to let him leave too. It will be fun playing the sack drinking game during Eagles games next year. One shot of cheap liquor for every sack Winston Justice gives up. The Eagles lose, McNabb gets hurt, and all drinking game participants die.

Gooood, you said Dog!! Good Job!!
Bobby Jindal. I would call you Piyush but that would upset our readers with the name Piyush. You appeared after Obama last week and sounded like a stupid person. You were talking to the audience the way I talk to the two-year olds at my school. At least read us a good story with some good pictures Jindal.

I just realized that the combination of a daycare center and Sammy Dalembert is perfect. Sam, if you're out there, and we all know you are, come volunteer with the kiddies for a few days and get your spirits boosted. Jai Ho!!

Down For the Count

2009-02-28T15:22:00.012-05:00

I wonder, do they sell corn pudding in Denver? Does mango juice drip from the Rocky Tops in a little place I call Aspen? Can you get rice djon-djon at the Pepsi Center, pain patate at Coors field, or Calalou at Invesco? Because at this rate, it's only a matter of time before Sammy D, my beloved hero, daily inspiration, and best friend in life, relocates to the Mile High City. A Haitian on skis? It almost seems inevitable we will come to find out.

First you took AI, ripped him from my bosom and wrestled his clutching arms from my broken heart. It feels like just yesterday that the Sixers of old were replaced with the Sixers of new . When the face of the organization changed that cold winter day, I feared I'd never recover. I immediately and openly discussed the option of moving to Denver. How else was I supposed to handle my guy playing for the other team? Low and behold I got over it, realized I was freaking people out, and discovered new ways to keep myself occupied.

But just when I was lifting myself off the mat, getting my wind back, and assuring the ref I was sturdy enough to continue, Denver bites my ear off and I find myself gasping for air, wiping the blood from my nose, and staring up at the arena lights once more. There was a time I was once largely indifferent to Denver, its fans, and its professional athletes. Now my hatred rivals that of Michael Richards. Damn you, Denver, Colorado, damn you.

B Dawk will always be an Eagle; he loves us, and we love him. Never have I been less annoyed by a bonified Jesus freak, and never have I wanted a Zinman fur more in my life. His billboard on 76E always reminded me that well-groomed black man can pull off just about anything when it comes to looking jiggaferred. I will miss those temporary moments of comfort. I will miss the flying tackle, the borderline scary pre-game ritual, and the post NFC Championship (loss) tears. Quite frankly, I'd be lying if I said I understood the way in which NFL contracts are structured, and what drives management decisions. Re-signing B Dawk was a no-brainer. If Brian Dawkins was thirsty, I expected Andy Reid, Jeff Lurie and the rest of the higher ups to collectively respond in their thickest Puerto Rican accent: "B Dawk, I, too, know what it's like to be thirsty. I, too, know what it's like to have a dry mouth." Don't go get the man a cup of water, give him your sympathy and understanding. In other words, don't let this happen. I understand the deal is pretty damn ridiculous, and the Eagles weren't going to match for that long and that much, but I gotta believe Dawk would've stuck around for something respectable. After all, God would frown on making decisions for money alone. And God frowning on B Dawk is like me frowning on a 2 for 1 deal on Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip -- it just ain't gonna happen.

Lucky for another Broncos signee, I am pretty darn certain that Buck can buy weed in Denver, as AI undoubtedly discovered. So for now, I am left with the beautiful, yet tear-jerking image of my favorite Eagle driving a moped through the ice, wind and snow of the Rocky Mountains, and my favorite backup RB's arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Thankfully my Bobby Abreu t-shirt, Duce Staley green away, and Placido Polanco authentic can keep my Dawkins home jersey company in the lonely drawer at the bottom of my dresser. Oh wait, Spillz had the Polanco...once again my jealousy undermines my perception of reality. But you get my point.

So will Sammy be a Denver nugget? We know he loves hockey, but must I begin searching for jobs, homes, massage parlors and cheesesteaks in the Mountain timezone? That possibility is almost too painful to consider.

What's that Smell?

2009-02-19T13:31:00.004-05:00

Oh wait - it's the putrid funk associated with a basketball team that just shot a combined 33% over its past two games. Watching the second half of yesterday's debacle against the Nugs was like watching a 'Real Housewives of Atlanta' marathon: boring, predictable, and ultimately painfully embarrassing, only there weren't any random Eric Snow appearances to brighten up the scene. Even the crab fries were soggy, as if the Aramark employees were someone channeling the Sixers performance.

About the only bright side was Sammy D's work. Despite battling foul trouble thanks to a series of questionable calls by greasy ref Eli Roe, His Royal Dalembertness managed to score 12 points and grab 10 boards while also blocking 3 shots and keeping up a continuous trash-talking banter with NeNe in a strange and unfathomable Amazonian dialect.

It bodes well for Sammy to start the 2nd half off with a pair of reasonably good games. It bodes poorly for the Sixers to blow a winnable game at home against a good team.

Not to end on a depressing note, I will leave the readership with a link to this inspiring article about Young Thad. And for those of you who hate clicking on hyperlinks, here is a pic of the Bul and Mrs. Bubak at home in Fishtown.

Recession Update

2009-02-16T17:35:00.004-05:00

We all heard about the global economy being in a free-for-all, and how we're all going to have to brace for a long recession and how Sammy D's monthly budget for remote control cars is being slashed to $25,000 including the price of D batteries. Lately though the desperate times have called for increasingly desperate measures. Our sources tell us that Marc Zumoff is saving money on tailoring by foregoing pants during games, and that Jason Smith and Thad Young are now going halfs on the surf and turf at the Cadillac Lounge. Here's how some of the other Sixers are weathering the economic downturn:

Louis Williams: Supplementing his salary by doing spots for 1-800-MATTRESS during the LouWill Show on 100.3 The Beat (leave off the last S for SAVINGS!!)

Kareem Rush: Checking brother JaRon out of Promises rehab facility in Hollywood; enrolling him in Norristown AA chapter.

Reggie Evans: Selling oregano to unsuspecting white high school students at Chew & Chelten.

Aaron McKie: Turning in his collection of illegal firearms in return for Forman Mills discount coupons.

Willie Green: Selling mixtapes in front of FYE on Broad Street.

Elton Brand: Borrowing funds from Wayne Enterprises through Rescue Dawn co-star Christian Bale.

Donyell Marshall: Working part-time as short order cook in Khalid El-Amin's seafood restaurant.

Mo Cheeks: Stealing life-sized Jon Runyan cutouts from Chestnut Hill McDonalds for later resale on the black market.

Glory Glory Hallelujah

2009-02-16T14:22:00.011-05:00

After 28 years on this earth and 28 anniversaries of coming into this world out of my mothers vagina, I have finally seen the light! Why it took until my 28th birthday to have my eyes opened I do not know, but what I do know is that Monster Jam is the JAM! On BDay numero 28 the wife, Big E and I attended the most American of "sporting events" and it did not disappoint. As you can see from my handy camera work, all of the major groups were represented:
SMASHING

JUMPING

FREESTYLE MOTOCROSS

And of course ATV racing.
The clientele was actually way classier than expected. Don't get Bubak wrong here, they were not classy, just classier than expected. They looked less like this, and more like this. I laughed, I cried, I saw in action just how accurate my memories were of the gross Spectrum restrooms, it was the feel good event of the year. On the downside, we did not witness any mutilation or death(s) but there is always next year!

Of Love & Basketball

2009-02-14T22:44:00.015-05:00

Valentine's day conveniently fell on NBA All-Star Saturday, and boy am I grateful. Whereas I could be jealous of the happy relationships on display just outside my window, or nauseated by the roses, teddy bears, and hearts adorning the various stores throughout the city, I choose rather to embrace perhaps my first true love, and a companion I sorely need to rediscover: basketball.

Much like losing one's virginity, All-star Saturday can be great, but more likely disappointing. The biggest stars tend not to participate, and traditional entertainment has been replaced by gimmicky nonsense that barely keeps the attention of even the most passionate fans. Yet that being so, I spent my entire weekend, Saturday night included, watching the all-star game festivities. Unfortunately I missed Young Thad put on a near-perfect show in the rookie-sophomore game, but the rest of the weekend provided great opportunity to lie on the couch and indulge in the athleticism of African-Americans, the ugliness of Pau Gasol, and my affection for asian cheerleaders.

While much of Saturday was spent asking myself whether there is even a remote chance that Cheryl Miller hasn't at some point proudly worn a strap-on during the course of her life, the bulk of my time was dedicated to contemplating the various ways in which I would improve NBA All-Star weekend... or at least reduce it's shortcomings.

1) Get rid of the skills competition. As it stands, presumably hungover and quite obviously uninterested young players sluggishly make their way through a most unchallenging course. The Double Dare set would present a more difficult proposition. While the raising of the trophy confirms that many athletes still don't know that antiperspirant comes in a "clear" variety, the competition itself is depressing. While the addition of "GEICO", an intriguing play on the familiar game of "HORSE" was a half-decent idea, it panned out to be uninspired. I'd prefer a game of 21, with 10 players who actually care. You'd have big guys launching threes, little guys going to the hole, and epic fouls. This idea has potential.

2) In watching Michael Rappaport fall over himself repeatedly during the "celebrity" game, I thought to myself, good lord that man has gotten fat since his fine portrayal of a tortured young white man who fell in love with a black woman in one of my all-time favorites, Zebrahead. That and he doesn't even look like the kid I went to high school with anymore. But beyond those deep thoughts, I say replace the likes of TO, Chris Tucker, and Bow Wow with celebrities I care to watch run up and down the court, all the while banning sports bras. And maybe pants too.

3) Have the Budweiser Clydesdales at absolutely every event. Inside. Outside. Everywhere. I was with Steve Solms when he spotted the Clydesdales outside the Spectrum when the Sixers hosted all-star weekend a few years back. Granted, the man apparently has discovered perpetual euphoria, but I'm pretty sure his heart skipped ten to fifteen beats when he saw those, as he put it, majestic animals. And let it be known: he was not alone. I damn near bought a pony the next day.

4) Absolutely prohibit band-aids below the eye. Last I checked, Nelly made this popular 7 or 8 years ago. Last I also checked, he looked stupid then as D-Wade does now. And with your name on the band-aid? Really? We don't know who you are? Come on.

5) Reserve front-court seats to the dunk concert for celebrities, current players, or well-toned females. This would prevent the oversight that obviously contributed to letting the friggin Junkyard Dog and Adonal Foyle sit directly within the camera's view. Hosting a Georgetown probation meeting? Sure, invite Jerome Williams. But not at the most celebrated event of all-star weekend.

6) No matter how drunk, offensive, or otherwise awesome Charles Barkley is in the months leading up to the mid-season spectacular, let the man call the dunk contest, game, and after-party. Reggie Miller, try as he may, brings little to the table.

7) Do not allow Shaq and Kobe to pretend they like one another. What was wrong with the world when those two couldn't stand each other, and Shaq was on the brink of diving the world, as it should be, into the Kobe lovers and the Kobe haters? Absolutely nothing. As I've said many times on these hallowed pages, it's astonishing how popular Kobe is. I mean yeah, he's an ok ballplayer, but my life was way more satisfying when everyone thought he was a putrid human, Shaq included. How predictable must the NBA be? Co-MVPs?! The game itself is already a sham, but this is almost demeaning to the fans, Wilson Chandler style.

8) Make every player who cheated on his wife the night before wear some sort of scarlet letter on their uniform come game-time.

9) Every time you show Tom Chambers, give the man his props.

10) Give one lucky fan a chance to punch Craig Sager.

11) Explain when Shaq got back together with his wife. Just yesterday she was filing for divorce, rumors were consuming every free minute of my day, and my own sense of true love was falling apart. Don't just show them sitting courtside arm-in-arm without telling me what he bought her to make up for what he did wrong. The fans deserve at least this much. Moreover, scratch John Legend and company, as much as I love the man... I want a halftime scrimmage featuring the kids who participate in Shaq's Big Kids Challenge.

12) How bout a team dunk contest, rather than an individual competition? Picture a sort of Harlem Globetrotters routine, players throwing it off the backboard, jumping off trampolines, weaving in and out of each other throwing down monster dunk after monster dunk. Now picture that with Lou Will, Thad, Iggy, & Sammy. The Sixers, hands down, would dominate a team dunk contest. Set it to some music, mix in a little choreography, and voila!...no more time wasted watching Paul Gasol's greasy, non mouth closing self fail miserably at throwing a behind the back pass off the backboard to his hairy-shouldered countryman. Not that there's anything wrong with, or gross about that.

13) And last but not least, reserve a roster spot for Sammy each year. Sammy is a BORN all-star. The game is about taking questionable shots, using poor judgment, and basically doing everything your everyday coach tells you repeatedly not to do. Imagine Sammy in this context. Now take some time to clean up the area around where your head just exploded.

On a more serious note, I wonder who will be the next Sixer to make the all-star game. In the last decade alone Mike Lieberthal represented the Phils TWICE in the mid-season classic. Vicente Padilla, Paul Byrd, and Ricky Bo ALL can call themselves all-stars. But basketball isn't quite as forgiving. The last Sixer not named Iverson to actually play in an all-star game was Deke, who amazingly started in 2002. Sadly, I'm not overly confident Iggy ever makes that leap. His statistics might be close, but he rarely stands out, and his position in the East is cluttered with some formidable competition. Lou Will needs more minutes, Sammy needs more freedom to roam, Elton Brand's all-star years are behind him, and 'Reese is still a few years removed. But Thad offers hope. Dude is what, twenty? His game has developed far beyond the expectations of the staff - both theirs and ours - and he has that certain swagger, not to mention a smile worthy of any NBA Cares commercial. Something tells me the taste of all-star weekend he relished in the last few days will drive him to playing on Sunday sometime soon.

And in wrapping things up, let's remember that the stimulus bill plays second fiddle to truly important legislative action: recognizing Joe the Lumber's greatness (bottom of second column). GO PHILS!

TGIF

2009-02-12T23:04:00.004-05:00

A few things I'd like to mention.

The Sixers are fun again. Maybe one day they will be both fun and legit, but until that day I will take solace in the former.

Andre Eyegudahla. I'm going crazy trying to understand and properly slot his potential. In general it's probably best to underestimate him rather than the opposite. When I expect only a solid all-around game devoid of 4th quarter heroics and big offensive numbers I enjoy him all the more. That's when he sneaks up on you and makes game-winning plays.

Some hack named Paul Forrester from cnnsi.com named Sammy D as the starting center on his all-disappointment team from this season. Putting aside Mr. Forrester's obvious bigotry towards Haitian-Canadian-Americans, this ridiculous claim calls into question his basketball IQ. Sammy was hindered by the presence of a genuine disappointment, Monsieur Brand, and battled horrific coaching decisions and rotations for months. This is a slam-dunk(no pun intended) case of defamation!! Legal action against Paul Forrester by the DR legal team may be in order.

The NBA trade deadline looms and with it a potential Andre Miller deal. I would bet against it. Still, I did have the thought that Portland might be a good fit. Brandon Roy might be more effective sharing the distributing duties with a veteran point-guard, and Portland has a good roster to trade with. They have three terrible white guys, all with bad contracts, any of whom could be worth taking if any number of young players were included. Players such as Jarred Bayless, Rudy Fernandez, Travis Outlaw, and Nicholas Batum. And Shavlick Randolph!! You heard my right the first time, Shavlick Randolph is apparently still alive and most definitely available.

I watched the Phoenix Suns up close and came away insulted as a fan. They gave up midway through the third quarter and forced an entire arena to watch Goran Dragic play basketball for fifteen minutes. Steve Nash had the look of somebody who is so disconnected you can't tell if they are totally wasted or intensely committed to their own solitude. Then you see them the next day and they have no recollection of anything that happened due to blackout drunkenness. He was lost.

Shaq is old and can't jump anymore. As a basketball fan it was sad to see him miss lay-ups that a few years ago he would have dunked while simultaneously laughing, dancing, and trash talking. Oh well.

Bud Selig should have to apologize everytime another ballplayer gets exposed for using steroids. For instance, when Albert Pujols gets caught it should be Bud, and not Albert, that has to cry in front of reporters and beg for forgiveness.

I don't like A-Rod any more than the next guy, but isn't it clear that EVERYBODY was using fake muscles? Except the '93 Phils. That team was clean and earned every victory fair and square.

The Beast from Marreese

2009-02-10T11:38:00.009-05:00

Some people (OK, possibly only me) call him the Speights Cowboy. Some call him the gangster of dunks. Some people simply call him Marreese, though not Matt Cord, who continues to mispronounce his name.

One thing is certain: under any name, watching 'Reese unleash an aerial dunkathon on the unsuspecting dome of Amare Stoudemire last night was as satisfying as a Sammy D goaltend slammed into the 5th row, and even the most cynical of Philly fans might be forgiven for inklings of optimism as the Sixies head into the break. A win Wednesday against Memphis would put us 3 games above .500, and within easy striking distance of the 4 or 5 seeds, and with that a legitimate chance at a first round playoff win.

The importance of a playoff berth, and if possible a strong playoff run, will be of great import in deciding what looms as being the Sixers most significant future dilemma. No - it's not figuring out how to get this picture onto the the cover of the next issue of Drive Magazine. And it has nothing to do with the salary cap ramifications of turning Aaron McKie into a player/coach so he can shame LeBron with his ultra-tight beard.

The truly important question facing Sixies management is: what's to be done about Andre "Juice Goldman" Miller?!?!

Here's the scenario, for the uninitiated: Juice is 33 years old. His contract is up after this year. He has stated his preference in the past (though he's been noticeably mum of late) of playing for a winning team. His been instrumental to the Sixers success. And the trading deadline is just one week away.

Your probably on the edge of your seat, wondering about how this precarious situation might turn out. Well, the way I see it, there are three possible scenarios. Here we go, yo:

Scenario One: New York, North Kakalaka & Compton

After secret talks with David Stern's robot bodyguard, Stefanski decides that the Sixers stand little chance of making it out of the first round this year. Citing Juice's desire to play for a winner, and the Sixers need to get something for him before he leaves as a free agent, Eddie swings a trade with a title contender in need of a point guard, bringing in most likely a promising young player, an expiring deal, and perhaps a conditional first or second round pick.

The problem with this scenario is that there aren't many title contenders with the pieces to make a deal work. Cleveland and Boston are set at PG, as are San Antonio, New Orleans, LA and Houston. Orlando just lost Jameer Nelson, but they've already brought in Tyronn Lue as a replacement, and have neither promising young players nor expiring contracts to send us in return.

One possibility might be Detroit, with it's balanced scoring, championship pedigree, and lack of true point guard. A Juice for Rip Hamilton trade works under the cap, and would give the Sixers the shooter that they need. But we would be taking on a big, long-term contract that might screw up our ability to sign Young Thad to an extension down the road. Too risky.

Odds: 15-1

Scenario Two: Gots to Get the Loot So I Can Bring Home the Bacon

The Sixers reach the playoffs, but lose in the first round to Mike Woodson's mustache. Juice gets offered 3 years and 26 million from some other team. After Stefanski equivocates, he jumps ship, having bid a sad goodbye to all the Jews in the courtside seats.

Odds: 5-1

Scenario Three: No Holds Barred, No Time for Move Fakin'

Secret envoys to the Miller camp have yielded positive results. Juice likes playing for the Sixies, and he feels they have potential. Also he shares an agent with... MARREESE SPEIGHTS! After a sweeping Orlando out of the playoffs, and taking the Cavs to 6 games in round 2, Juice sings a 3 year, 22 million deal with huge incentives in the event that Marreese wins the MVP award and doesn't get caught out in any embarrassing late night situations with Jason Smith in the Cadillac Lounge.

Odds: 2-1

Please feel free to weigh in with any other possible scenarios in the comments!!

Act II

2009-02-06T15:34:00.006-05:00

F. Scott Fitzgerald (or possibly it was Scott Williams) once said that there are no second acts in American life. It’s quite possible he was talking about the ashes of his own once-glorious career, which collapsed when he left the warm comfort of South France (Jordan’s Bulls) to pursue fame and fortune in suburban Baltimore (the Sixers) with a mentally unbalanced wife (Derrick Coleman), ultimately dying at the age of 40 from alcoholism (getting traded to the Bucks). Now, I don’t like to disparage the sage wisdom of one of our greatest writers (and the man who backed up Shawn Bradley), but I would like to point out that we are in the process of witnessing a rare exception to his famous dictum.

I’m talking about the rejuvenation of Samuel Davis Dalembert.

For some, the season-ending surgery to Elton Brand is tragedy writ large; an excuse to wallow in another season of self-pity and a welcome retreat to the familiar cocoon of lottery-watching. But I know I speak for the entire Dalembert Report, and for Samuel Dalembert himself, when I say: count us out!

A week ago, the Dalembert we knew and loved was scarcely recognizable. A half-season of fractured minutes, disparate coaching ideologies, and abortive attempts to integrate his frontcourt partner had rendered Sammy confused and tentative. His playing time was reduced and his style was cramped as Coaches Cheeks and DiLeo sought to find a place for Brand, the Sixers free agent prize. There was even hushed talk amongst some Dalembert cognoscenti that Sammy’s time in Philly could be nearing its end. But with last nights news that Brand would be lost for the season, Sammy was finally free.

Unshackled from his Brandian bonds, the Haitian One unleashed his exuberant brand of basketball mayhem on the unsuspecting Pacers. 18 points and 20 boards later, and the old Sammy D is back, which can only mean great things for the Sixers, and for society at large.

Brand’s injury means the remainder of this campaign will see the Sixies revert to their natural madcap style, getting steals, running the floor, missing free throws and generally treating the court as their own personal Jackson Pollack painting. It means more ‘Reese, more ‘Reg, and more Sammy D. It may mean the playoffs, and more; even Brandless, I still believe we are the 5th best team in the East. Elton Brand can go back to doing what he does best: producing Werner Herzog movies. Maybe next year he will return a changed and healed man, ready to take us to the Promised Land. But for now, let us treat his injury as the benediction it surely is.

Gettin Real Up in Hurrrr

2009-01-31T21:20:00.015-05:00

It has come to my attention that I have not posted on the DR in almost three weeks. There are many things that I don't do over the course of three weeks, but posting on the DR should not be one of them. So what better way to spend a Saturday night than hopping back in the blogging saddle and touching on a smorgasbord of relevant social concerns.

First some business to take care of: Sammy is hurt. I know, it's positively shocking. I, too, thought he was indestructible, an athlete immune from injuries that plague the more common man. But alas, it is only his mind that is superhuman, not his ankle. The man has a bright future working for the Geek Squad, if nothing else. So Elton slides to the middle, and we march forward with Sammy leading from the bench, rather than from the paint. As always, I remain vigilant, and big things await our Sixers as spring nears.

Not quite as important, yet equally as shocking, reality tv has taken a turn for the worse. As some of you might know, it's not beyond the Big Firm to mindlessly tune into MTV and watch trashy white people share a jersey shore house, or a straight guy tell his parents that he does gay porn for a living. I'm even mildly entertained by meth addicts breaking their addiction and fat kids training for a triathlon. But this year's Real World, set in tropical Red Hook, Brooklyn, is taking it too far. For those of you who have better shit to do...well damn you. Let me set the stage- This year's show features an Iraqi-war vet from Gettysburg ignoring his post-traumatic syndrome symptoms in favor of pursuing a most unpromising singing career; a male mormon virgin who wears eye-liner and pastels; a gay dude from South Beach who trains dolphins and wears V neck t-shirts deeper than the massive man's voice in the Trading Places jail scene, or that of Michael McCrary of Boyz II men fame; a meathead from New England; a black jawn with a firm backside and breasts like cassaba melons; and oh yeah, a tranny with a deeper voice than the gay dude's V-necks. A TRANNY! A true and honest slice of American life. In fact, I venture to say this is "realest" house in all the land, J-Roll's humble abode excluded (Martha...even you- and everyone who went to GFS - will like this link). The transgender individual is fresh off a trip to Thailand where her manhood was removed in favor of some lovely lady lumps. Now I don't know about you, but I go to Bangkok for the the clean air and the massages. But I suppose it's also a safe and sanitary destination to interrupt God's work. But my beef with her has nothing to do with her chosen path, her affinity for boy shorts, or even her constant dead-arms. Really, I just feel damn near terrible for the incredibly drunk, coked-up frat boy bankers in New York grinding on her in the bar for all the world to see. Plenty of people want to get on tv. Plenty of people are willing to romance a questionable companion if they think that will get them on the Real World. But I'm not so certain those same people would be eager, let alone willing to freak dance a post-op tranny to impress their friends all for a mere 15 seconds of shine. I see a lawsuit, and/or a suicide complicating matters in the near future for the show's producers.

On a completely unrelated note, when I'm not watching shows that simultaneously uplift my self-image and destroy my sense of worth, I am dodging do-gooders on the street like the Mets avoid the playoffs. It would appear that children - namely international children- need my hard-earned money. It would also appear that not just anybody can throw on a Children International fleece, carry a clipboard, and ask you if you have a free moment. Nope, you have to be abrasive, annoying, and persistent. Let it be known, Children International volunteers sucking money from this already depleted economy who populate the corner near my residence and State Street near my office: Americans don't support their own children, let alone international children! Sure, it's a foregone conclusion that I already can't tolerate you, but why make me hate the poor innocent children on whose behalf you purport to solicit money?! Selfish, I tell ya, straight up selfish.

Now that I'm all worked up, I have nothing more to contribute to this esteemed webosphere. Happy Black History Month to all.

Love Me Some Sweet Sweet Internets

2009-01-28T09:29:00.010-05:00

For those of you who do not know what the above baked good is, here ya go. What angers me most about this story is not the name of the cookie, but rather the lack of realism. I mean c'mon guy... I have seen my share of drunken black people and none of them have jimmies for hair or gross red gelatinous eyes.

What other facts have the Internet reinforced for me this week? Well for one, Giants fans are a bunch of whiny little bitches.

Secondly: One should not attempt to rape a raccoon no matter how good it feels.

Thirdly: David lee Roth is as I believed fucking crazy and immensely entertaining.

Lastly: As we all know Philly accents are great and horribly trashy sounding. Now the Internet and Judge Judy know it too.

THE OLD UNIFORMS ARE BACK!!!

2009-01-24T21:11:00.002-05:00

No, it's not what your thinking - we're not going back to the early 90's era Shawn Bradley classics. But according to the reputable news organization Sixers4Guidos.com next year we're going back to the '82 - '83 classic throwback jams PERMANENTLY.

Apparently Jeff Ruland went into Mitchell and Ness to buy an authentic Lenard Copeland throwback and saw that the '82 jerseys were flying off the shelves faster than Obama watches on Chelten Ave on Inauguration Day. And then he realized that Sammy D averages like 26 rebounds a game when he's wearing the throwbacks. So he and his homie Moses Malone went up to Brian Roberts' office and told him that if he switched the jerseys back they would personally affix a David Cohen bobblehead to the roof of the Comcast Center right next to the Billy Penn statue. And so Roberts called up the Sixers personally couturiers office at 15th and Lehigh and told them to make it happen, but since they were backlogged with orders for Sammy D's Team Canada uniform they said they could do it but that Royal Ivey would have to share Donyell Marshall's jersey and apparently Ivey has it written into his contract that he doesn't share jerseys. So Roberts figured the change could wait until next year.

Not coincidentally the day this news broke Sammy D had 10 points, 17 boards and 3 blocks tonight and the Sixies went to .500 for the first time in forever.

GOD-DOG-IT!!!!

2009-01-22T00:54:00.002-05:00

Before we move on to other pressing matters, I feel it important to say a few things about the terrible, hideous, malodorous game of football last Sunday, the game that once again confirmed the Birds' reputation as suspect big-game performers.

I made several sucky predictions and will the first to say I have nobody to blame but myself. I drank the kool-aid willingly, and it was the wrong decision. Or was it? How was I to know that Jim Johnson, so often the bedrock of success around here, a man I called a genius only days ago, would be decisively out-coached by a guy named Todd Haley?

How could I have foreseen David Akers taking this special opportunity on this huge stage and unleashing a diarrhea bomb for the entire state of Arizona to smell?

Greg Lewis dropping a pass? Unheard of.

And not even Zoltar could grant the necessary power of intuition required to see Donovan McNabb allowing a 4th quarter drive to end in the other team celebrating like a black man had been elected president. How was I, or anyone, capable of seeing so many unlikely events occurring at once in the same game?

Oh wait, I know: BECAUSE ALL OF THESE THINGS HAVE HAPPENED BEFORE.

Which brings me back to kool-aid, the sweet delicious killer. I chose to drink it knowing Jim Johnson had been outsmarted in big playoff games before, against St. Louis in 2001, Tampa Bay in 2002, and New England in 2004, three gigantic games in which our defense couldn't hold a lead, make a key stop, and/or make a play when we needed it. Yes, the players play the game and are responsible as well, but I have a problem with the scheme when Larry Fitzgerald is running around in single-coverage catching touchdowns.

I gulped it down despite not having any confidence in Akers beyond 45 yards since back when Sammy Dalembert was eating chicken patties and curly fries in the Seton Hall cafeteria.

Greg Lewis is not even worthy of an analogy of any sort. He's like that box of stale pasta that has been in your cupboard for 5 years, that you actually hate looking at but haven't thrown away for some reason. It's old and bowtie, a style you don't like in the first place, and it wouldn't have tasted good even fresh and with the best of ingredients. But there it sits. Every stinking time you open the cupboard. Shit, I just gave him an analogy he doesn't deserve.

Which leads to me Donovan McNabb. I will try to avoid unfair criticism because he did play well. The bottom line is that he had the ball in his hands with a chance to tie the game in the 4th quarter and he couldn't do it. Is it all his fault? No, of course not, but this, similar to the other things listed above, is not a new development. Don has failed so many times now with the game in his hands that it is no longer merely troubling, it is a trend. He's a good quarterback but not a leader, a great athlete but not a great competitor, and most vexing for us Philly fans, a success but not a winner.

So what else did this game prove? It proved that God is racist and prefers white quarterbacks to black safeties. It proved that a stud receiver makes a difference. It proved that the NFL is weird and almost any team can get hot for a month and make the Super Bowl. And it proved that no matter how much "house money" a team plays with, or how little a team has to lose, it is totally demoralizing when the season ends and the Arizona Cardinals have just beaten you.

Onward and upward.

History Is Made!

2009-01-21T11:56:00.005-05:00

Today we awake in a glorious new world where Shane Victorino signs for a measly $3 million and Elton Brand returns to the fold as the higher paid version of Reggie Evans, and where a great and beloved black man can aspire to our nation's highest office!! It's true!! Obama?!? Marlon/Morandini '16!!

Meanwhile the Phightins are trying to play Tim Geithner and bailing out all last years role players with million dollar deals that border on the reasonable. Ryan Madson locked up for 3 years at 12 millions, Chad Durbin for just over 1 mill, and J Dafoe for 2 years at 5. All this seems fair to your DR editors and made even more so by the fact that the big chocolate guy in the middle wants Iverson money just so he can re-establish his rightful place as the strikeout king of the world after a late season hot streak left him just short of the crown. 18 MILLION IS TOO MUCH!!!! We could buy 36 Chan Ho Parks with that money for chrissake!!! And then form them into an uber Chan Ho Park, somewhat similar to Voltron but way more into bukkakke.

But anyway, the Sixies came within a German 18-footer of evening their record at .500 on MLK day. Myself and Ms DiabloGrande were in attendance and I can tell you that the Sixies comeback from 12 down with 2 minutes left reminded me of the North Africa campaign, except in this version General Rommell looks like Jim Carrey and controls a giant Luftwaffe bomber squadron, and Reggie Evans is an undersized power forward with a short wingspan trying in desperation and ultimately in vain to stop the bombs from falling.

But soon we'll be back, led by a resurgent Sammy D who's no doubt spent the long layoff between games perfecting the behind-the-back dribble he used with such devastating effectiveness against Big D.

Junk Food For Thought

2009-01-17T01:56:00.002-05:00

As I count down the hours before my warm body must exit its warm cocoon of blankets and enter a world of pain known as 7:15am on a 8-degree day, I have a few thoughts I wanted to share. My ten-year City Year-San Jose reunion is taking place this weekend, in San Jose of all places, hence the early departure time for me Saturday morning. This means I will be away and largely out-of-touch from everything safe and familiar for the next 4 days. Namely the DR. So I felt it was important to leave with a parting note.

First and foremost, how about them Sixers!! As Eldiablogrande and I watched the Sixers run the Spurs outta Philly with a tantalizing combination of fast-breaks, outside shooting, and Sammy D jump hooks, one thing occurred to us: Elton Brand better not fuck up this flow! It feels familiar to how we were playing during the second half of last year, before we signed Brand, and now he's coming back and the team again needs to adjust to having a supposed legitimate power forward. It's not a good sign when the highest paid, most highly regarded player comes back from an injury and NOBODY thinks this is a good thing. By no means have I given up on Elton Brand, I just have had such a good time watching this team run around like the kids from Lord of The Flies that I don't want a parental figure messing things up.

Now on to the Birds. So much to say about this game, none of it particularly original. Still I will try to explain why I think the Eagles will win and proceed to the Super Bowl.

Two camps have set-up shop around these parts. The camp that thinks the Eagles will destroy the Cardinals, and the camp that is stressed out by how many people are in the first camp. A word to the first camp: chill. And a word to the second camp: relax. Chill and relax, they are the same, right? No my friend, they are different, but instead of wasting time delving into that question I will simply segue into some reasons why I am in fact both chill and relaxed as Sunday approaches.

Real Reasons:

1) We have a better team
Sure, that didn't stop Russia from losing to Team USA in Hockey in 1980, or keep the Giants from upsetting New England in last years Super Bowl, but more often than not the better team wins the game.

2) They have great receivers, we have a great secondary
I'm as scared of Larry Fitzgerald and Anquan Boldin as the next guy, but let's think about this rationally for a second. Do we really think Jim Johnson, the genius defensive mind, will let the Cardinals take their one true strength, their passing game, and beat us with it? It's possible Arizona will go crazy and have their way in the air. It's just as possible that our talented secondary will play well, give up a big play of two, but overall contain the Arizona receivers as well as anybody. Personally, I'd bet Jim Johnson will play a lot of nickel defense and dare the Cardinals to beat us on the ground.

3) Donovan McNabb
He drives me crazy he really does. He throws at least five passes a game that resemble Ebby Calvin "Nuke" Laloosh wild pitches. He rarely scrambles and when he does he never fights for extra yards or stays in-bounds. He makes stupid faces. But let's face it: he's better than most everybody else, and when he plays well we tend to win. I think he'll play well on Sunday.

4) Random Freshness
This will sound ridiculous but I think two random guys will make a difference in this game. These two guys missed significant time with injuries and thus are fresher than a detention class at Eastside High and ready to do damage to Kurt Warner. Chris Clemons and Victor Abiamiri are young, have great names, and will do work.

5) Home Field Will Work Against Arizona
As we Philly fans know all to well, playing the biggest game of the year at home isn't always a good thing. If Philly can get an early lead, the collective anxiety and trepidation in the stands can rub off on the home team, making them tighter than a pair of Richard Simmon's spandex while simultaneously keeping the road team looser than public-school teachers at happy hour.

Fake Reasons:

1)Strange Coincidences
Bear with me for a minute: We lost to Tampa Bay in the 2002 NFC Championship game; this year Tampa Bay loses its final game to Oakland, opening the door for us to make the playoffs. We lost to Carolina in the 2003 NFC Championship game; this year Carolina gets killed in the playoffs, setting up the match-up between the Eagles and the Cardinals. Who beat us in the 2001 NFC Championship game? Kurt Warner, that's who. So in a roundabout way each of our past NFC Championship demons has played a part in where we are now. I like the symmetry.

2)The Power of Positive Thinking
Why do I feel so good? I'm not sure I can explain it, but I just remember when the season looked dead, when McNabb was as good as gone and the season in flames, and I feel sorry for anyone who can't simply enjoy what has happened since, where we are now, and most of all the fact that we've gotten an extra month of exciting and meaningful football on Sundays. If we lose we lose, but I will wake up on Sunday and watch my favorite team play, which is more than 90% of the fans out there can say. Besides, we're not gonna lose. And why not??......

3)God
As has been chronicled here before, Brian Dawkins is a righteous man who loves him some God the way Andy Reid loves him some extra mayonnaise. As BDawk has morphed from player to mystical spirit-guide of the gridiron, I have come to put faith in his faith. Simply put, I don't see how God can possibly let BDawk down, and vice versa. I'd like to add that I will be converting to whatever branch of Christianity Brian Dawkins belongs to if the Birds win the Super Bowl.

4)Dreadlock Imposta'
Remember Stephen Spach? He was the dispensable white guy with dreads who was on the Eagles a year or two ago. He cut his dreads and became the starting tight end for Arizona. Last week he got hurt and will miss the rest of the year. I don't know why I'm mentioning this but for some reason I found it worth mentioning. Mostly I dislike white guys with dreads.

5)This is our year
All I really need to see to know this shit is ours is JRoll in a luxury box in Arizona. Show me JRoll and I'll show you a trip to Tampa.

And now I'm off to San Francisco, the land of Bucho, Vid VW, and the Mexican spot that gave me the worst food poisoning of my life. I'll see you suckas next week.

The Man, The Myth, The Legend

2009-01-13T20:50:00.007-05:00

I could trouble you with vivid descriptions of my uncontrollable glee that erupted around 4PM eastern this past Sunday. I could even engage you in a stimulating discussion focused on how damn cold it is here in Chicago. Frankly, I could delve into just about anything that is actually important or relevant to our collective lives (or at least to mine), but I would only be neglecting the attention, admiration and applause a great man of society has come to warrant.

As some of you might already know, the bear in the hug pictured above has proven, yet again, if you think your life is normal, move to NY, join a professional sports team, and watch your good reputation unravel. Or in some cases, get exactly what you deserve.

Word on the street is Eddy Curry, a fine family man who has somehow managed to father four children by the age of 26, is both progressive in one respect, and regressive in another. That's right, the Knicks overweight and heavily tattooed center is a homosexual racist.

First the rather benign remarks. According to his chauffeur - an ex-felon, presumably well versed in homosexuality, torture, and desperate measures - Curry repeatedly called him "white slave", "fucking Jew", "white devil", "cracker", and perhaps most descriptive and to the point, "grandmaster of the KKK." Those are some serious allegations, Mr. Curry. There are plenty who might have beef with generously labeling someone else the grand wizard. In fact, white slave might even be considered offensive. But just when you think his warm flavor of racism sets Mr. Curry apart from other thoughtful athletes, I remind you that reverse racism may be the trend, rather than the exception. So try as you may, Mr. Eddy, it will take more to distinguish yourself as a bonehead idiot who has lost touch with reality.

What is that you say, Mr. Curry? You are much more than a racist? A homosexual demonstrating surefire signs of jungle fever? Well I'll be damned, you are unique! Not only does Eddy enjoy belittling his help, he also savors any opportunity to point a loaded gun at his poor innocent driver's head. And oh yeah, his penis too. Curry "purportedly" had a slight obsession with ejaculating into towels and having his driver promptly clean them so his wife wouldn't find the hardened, mysteriously stiff restoration hardware linens. He also had a propensity for dropping his pants in the white devil's presence, all the while conveniently forgetting to wear under-garments, and blurting out against his will "come and touch it, Dave." Sounds like a bad case of tourette's to me, nothing more, nothing less.

As a man of the law, I am certain of one thing: while Mr. Curry has not yet had his day in court, and these allegations on their face seem remotely far-fetched, he is DEFINITELY guilty. In fact, even if later proved innocent, I'm pretty sure the presumption of guilt overcomes any "proof" his lawyers might produce. After all, they are probably just shifty jew devils too, so they can't be trusted.

A few lessons can be taken from this heroic tale. One, hire a minority, preferably foreign chauffeur. Their chances of fully understanding your disparaging remarks go down drastically when they don't speak english. What's more, rather than let your driver sue you, nip that shit in the bud before such harmful accusations can be made to begin with. Two, ejaculate into kleenex. Easily flushed, soft and abundant, tissues are their perfect, non-traceable accessory. And lastly, if you intend to drop your pants in the company of others, by all means, do so around a jersey-chasing female who might assume the risk of shame in furtherance of an accidental pregnancy, giving rise to that beloved practice known as blackmail. After all, clearly gay people snitch; at worst, women get even.

Don't Hate The Game, Hate the Players (Association)

2009-01-12T13:58:00.004-05:00

The DR has an extra special treat for you kiddies on this fine Monday afternoon. Our very own whale-pant-wearing wearing West Coast correspondent Trapped Under Rice has decided to bless the masses with his opinions on JC Romero-gate, Steely Dan, and the Cherry Hill Mall.

According to Wikipedia Cherry Hill New Jersey is 24.4 square-miles. In that 24.4 square-mile plot there are 8 GNC's and 2 Rite-Aids with GNC's inside- that's a GNC about every two-odd miles. If Selig and his cronies want to make an example of J.C. Romero for using legal over-the-counter substances J.C. should appeal on the grounds that he was systematically relegated to a neighborhood where he, had to buy the unnamed substance.

Maybe he went to the GNC in the Cherry Hill Mall? Maybe he wanted to buy Steely Dan's, 'Two Against Nature' album? But because Cherry Hill sucks and there's no more Tower Records there, J.C. couldn't buy the daft duo's 2000 record; discouraged and suffering from CHMB (Cherry Hill Mall Boredom) he was forced to go to GNC where he had to buy the unnamed substance.

Prior to 'Two Against Nature' Steely Dan put out 7 more than impressive records and the Dan is arguably one of the most important American bands. But because they were never praised when they were relevant, the powers that be gave them a Grammy too late for their shittiest record.

J.C. Romero and Steely Dan were dealt similar plights - granted the former was decried and the latter praised - but both at the mercy of their respective institutions. Barry fucking Bonds had no business breaking Hammerin' Hanks long-standing home run record when he's jacked up on roids like Evan Carr catching wreck in the Little Gym. MLB should have penalized Bonds (amongst others) but they didn't and everyone knew the shitty truth. Now MLB wants to put their foot down and punish Romero, a hardworking man in the thankless blue-collar position of being a reliever.

Selig needs to recognize 3 key points:

1. Unnamed substance is over the counter and was allegedly approved by the Players Association, an organization condoned by MLB.

2. That the substance in question is violently more available to J.C. Romero (and any other player living in Cherry Hill for that matter) than most places in the United States.

3. Only a Fool Would Say That.

Rick Rollin

2009-01-11T16:21:00.001-05:00

In honor of the Eagles win and advancement to the NFC Championship, there is nothing more appropriate than declaring it Rick Astley time. Enjoy.

Burn, Meadowlands, Burn

2009-01-09T11:56:00.014-05:00

I'm a terrible fan. After being severely dismantled by the Ravens in week 12, for at least the third time this season I declared the Eagles dead, extinct, no longer of the football earth. Subsequently, and highly unsurprisingly considering my history of things going the exact opposite of the way I predict they will, our Birds flew high, defied the odds by winning 4 out of 5 down the stretch, and receiving unlikely and unexpected help from the Texans, the Raiders and most importantly from Beanie Sigel (as seen above) whose attendence of the Eagles-Cowboys game resulted in the Cowboys deciding that it was best to either get down or lay down in his presence, providing us the path to the playoffs. Of course, our first round of the playoffs was spent bag-tagging Adrian "Purple Jesus" Peterson and his band of merry purple gentlemen, resulting in our first playoff win since the 2006 season.

On Sunday, we once again face off against the unlikely reigning Super Bowl champs, the much hated Giants, with whom we split our season series, with both games decided by less that a touchdown. This week we return to the scene of the last matchup, won by the Eagles much more decisively than the score would indicate, in the Meadowlands. The Giants are favored, and based upon season record alone they should be, but it is important to remember that we have a history of doing big, great things in that building. It's the last year of its existence, and there is a school of thought out there that we could very well be due for one final fuck you to the New York/New Jersey faithful. That also may be complete nonsense and we could be walking into a bloodbath. This is why I avoid making football predictions.

In that spirit of avoidance, I have defferred to Chief Naka's thorough post below when it comes to matters of the heart and mind as they pertain to outcomes of upcoming games, and instead will combine my limited knowledge of the game of football with my love for acting as if I am a complete expert on the game and offer you fine readers Flintskins' Five Keys to the Game:

Donovan McNabb vs. Eli Manning - Yes, very original, the quarterback comparison. However, this one comes with a slight twist. Most QB comparisons rely on the positives of each and who will have the most weapons come game time, blah blah. Not this time. This game will be won or lost on the ground, so ultimately what it comes down to for 5 and Peyton's special needs brother is who fucks up less. We've seen 5 throw at some feet, and lord knows that he is as capable as any of us at not paying attention during that whole "handing off" thing that he and Westbrook/Buck have to do at times during the course of a football game, generally resulting in turnover fun. However, we've also seen Eli Manning look like Eli Cohen when he drops back into the pocket, between sacks, interceptions, fumbles and general depression he can certainly be a liability back there. Less of a solution than it is an observation, but whichever QB is forced to shift the run-pass balance to the pass is likely in trouble. Not only does it indicate that the ground game has not worked out as planned, and/or they are behind on the scoreboard, but one super bowl miracle pass aside both of these guys have shown us that they do not always play their best when the game is put on their shoulders. Sure, at times they both have, but single elimination playoff games are no time for "maybe".

Brandon Jacobs – With the exception of one 40 yard end-zone finder, our defense shut Purple Jesus down for the most part on Sunday. What is fortunate about that he is seen by many as one of, if not the best RB in the league, and while BJ (editors note: heh) is not given the same consideration he is roughly the size of three Purple Jesus’. Consider our defense is beat to shit from carrying this whole team on our stretch run and this could be a problem. Potentially in our favor is that he has had some lingering injuries and did not practice at all with the team until yesterday, although if lack of practicing is detrimental, that would also apply to B-West, and I would prefer not to go down that road. My solution? True, in week 14 we held Jacobs down, but he was already kind of injured, and then he got injured more so we really didn't see that much of him. So I offer the same advice I suggested to the fucking Cowboys (yes, I gave THOSE ass-clowns advice, which they of course promptly ignored) around this time last year, and that is to force Jacobs outside, as he turns corners like a tank. Yes, he is bigger than most of our linebackers, but any combination of Mike Patterson, Broderick Bunkley, Victor Abiamiri and even Trevor “Identity Crisis” Laws forms a voltronesque Jabba the Hut that my Grand Cherokee would have a tough time busting through. Throw a linebacker into the mix and it could be a long day for Jacobs.

Giants Wide Receivers – This is normally the part where I would discuss how to deal with Plaxico Burress. Thanks to paint chips and the second amendment this has been made easy for me. If you have not yet sent a thank you card to the makers of Glocks for not equipping their gats with dedicated safeties, I urge you to do so and promise you it is not too late. That being said, they do still have a receiving corps to worry about. While it is tempting to assume that because you can’t name more than one, mayyybe two of them off the top of your head that they are not to be worried about at all, may I remind you that the majority of our receivers can’t be named outside of Cherry Hill. I mean honestly, do you know what Jason Avant actually looks like? Because I sure as shit do not, but I do know he has become our best slot receiver since Antonio Freeman and Freddie Mitchell before his first trip to Zinman Furs. My point is, Plax was by far their biggest threat and a certified Eagle-killer, but just because he decided that sweatpants were adequate for pistol transportation does not mean there is no need to worry. The key here is that our secondary keeps doing what it has been doing. Asante had the pick-six on Sunday, Sheldon covered well and should have had an INT, Dawk is possessed and as a result the Vikings for the most part had little production when going to the air. We did shut-down the Plax-less WR's in the Meadowlands in week 14 and considering that there have been no significant injuries or losses in the secondary since, if the Birds D shows up bloodthristy with heads full of game tape they should have a dominant edge. As I mentioned before, this is a game likely to be won or lost on the ground, but you can't run every down, some balls are going to have to go airborne. No homo.

Eagles Offensive Line - There's no real sugar coating this one. Our O-Line is looking like Kim Myers the day after St. Patricks Day. For the most part it held it's own against the Vikings, who despite having two of its D-Line starters injured last Sunday is very good. However, probably not as good as the Giants D-Line. The importance of our O-Line is at least twofold, in the sense that it needs to stop the pass rush of the Giants and it also needs to create holes for Westbrook and Buckhalter. Jon Runyan and Tra Thomas have been playing injured for weeks (if not years), Nick Cole is Shawn Andrews' backup's backup, but has been solid for the most part, along with Todd Herremans and Jamaal Jackson, although Jackson was shaken up a few times last week as well. While Shawn Andrews was finally cleared to practice this week, as of today he has not been activated for the game, and no indication has been given that he will be. So, it will be the same battered five guys that have been in there. Well, again, I don't really know if there is a solution to this one, other than hoping for the continuation of what we've seen thus far. Short of finding Robocop and putting him in Runyan's jersey it looks like a mix of painkillers, steroids and whiskey seems to be the best bet. There really is no downside if you think about it.

Jim Johnson - To go into cliche land, defense wins championships, and Jim Johnson causes offensive coordinators to lay awake, in puddle of their own bodily fluids worrying what is coming at them. Ultimately, if the Birds do win, it is all but guaranteed that this man will deserve the game ball. The things he will have Brian Dawkins do this week might call for children to have their eyes covered during most of the Eagles defensive downs, and frankly it is exactly what we will need. If Jimmy JJ can dial up defensive schemes throughout the course of the day that keep Eli, Jacobs and the rest of them back peddling, it will be hard for the Jints to come away with a W. Just remember, we've all heard countless times that other teams have 'figured" out Reid and Mornhinweg's offense, but have you EVER heard anyone say that Jim Johnson's defenses have been figured out? The answer is no. Trust me. If you claim you have, chances are you were very high. Chances also are that I was with you and can corroborate that you are wrong. I repeat, if Johnson brings the heat, we have a great chance of winning this game.

Those certainly are not the only five keys to this Sunday's game, but five big ones, and more importantly the first five I came up with. As mentioned, I officially refrain from making predictions in this space as NONE OF THEM have ever come true. To avoid tempting fate, I'm not going to make a prediction that I really think is the opposite of what I think will happen either, because I'm far too paranoid for that (thanks decade-plus of weed). At the end of the day, even if I'm forced to turn off the TV midway through the first quarter because it's too ugly to watch anymore, it's playoff football, and there's no better kind. See y'all bitches on Sunday.

GO BIRDS!

He-Brain and Bra-Heezy

2009-01-08T23:05:00.011-05:00

When faced with a crucial decision in life I must decide which lump of anatomy to trust: my brain or my heart. Complicating matters is my gut, which wins two-thirds of the arguments due to numbing hunger. With so much internal tension broiling inside, how am I supposed to make tough choices? In matters of the heart it would make sense to listen to the heart, except my heart is blind to the world and often sidetracked by the loud screaming coming from the gut, only inches away. The brain has some advantages, including memory and the power of analytic thought, but lives so far from the gut that it often operates at half capacity, making tough choices nearly impossible. And therein lies the problem: the heart and the head are so intertwined that it's hard to tell where one stops and the other starts. And yet separating them sometimes is the only way of focusing and getting perspective.

This applies to sports as well. The Eagles play a huge playoff game this Sunday against the Giants, a game full or intrigue, subplot, and genuine rivalry. Instead of making a simple pick of who I think will win, I think it's important to introduce the characters who are battling within my body to decide on the pick. I'm not sure they can agree on the game, but I'm positive they will agree that no strangers will be allowed to watch with them, and cheesesteaks will be consumed ferociously. So let me introduce them now, Mr. Heartless Brain and Mr. Brainless Heart, or for brevity's sake, He-Brain and Bra-Heezy.

The Heartless Brain avoids the trap of thinking too highly of destiny, fate, or outright magic. He sees two teams, rationally determines which is better, and expects the better team to win. He looks at match-ups, sees the major mismatches and has no trouble accepting what these match-ups could mean for his team. Stats are often used by He-Brain as explanation for an opinion. He has watched enough games to know for sure that nobody is guaranteed anything; there is no cosmic law at work making sure fairness and justice will prevail. Sports, like life, isn't fair, and He-Brain isn't particularly moved by this reality, whereas Bra-Heazy is driven crazy by the inequality of the universe, especially how it relates to his favorite teams. He-Brain could pick against his own team in the playoffs, and will. Lastly, he thinks Sammy D is overpaid, should never shoot the ball, and will never be more than a disappointing NBA player.

The Brainless Heart puts far too much stock in coincidence, meaningless media opinion, and superstition. He often feels overly positive or negative for reasons that have little or nothing to do with reality. Losses can be attributed to a player or team appearance on a major magazine cover. A win is credited to a specific seating arrangement among friends in Bra-Heezy's living room, or to an outfit worn during the game. The Brainless Heart has opinions, strong ones, but they fluctuate wildly and are as inconsistent as Oprah's diet. Bra-Heezy is quick to pronounce his team the best, then even quicker to reverse course and proclaim his team is awful, maybe the worst in the league. There is no rhyme or reason to his pattern of thought besides the consistent lack of sound judgment and an inability to deal with basic outcomes and facts with maturity. Bra-Heezy makes ESPN, talk radio, and Dei Lynam possible, yet he is still cooler than He-Brain. He believes Sammy D was sent to earth to led the Sixers to a championship, and inspire a blog in his name along the way.

Now that you know the players, here are their picks for this weeks game.

Heartless Brain: I think the Giants will win because of all the obvious reasons: they are home, they are rested, and they were a much better, more consistent team throughout the year. They can and will run the ball effectively, and Eli Manning is good enough to make plays through the air. The Eagles have convinced a lot of people they are better than they are, but when faced with a strong team in a hostile environment, they will prove to be what they were all year: predictable, inconsistent, and frustrating to root for. Final Score: Giants 27 Eagles 17

Brainless Heart: The Eagles will win this game because of all the obvious reasons: they are the hotter team, they have nothing to lose, and they have playoff beards. Brian Westbrook has always killed the Giants, and will do so again. Expect at least two BWest td's. The team chemistry is flowing like activator through a moist jheri-curl and the beards of unity are just the type of quirky talisman that championship teams need. Asante Samuel is destined to redeem himself for the dropped INT in the Super Bowl, and he will take a pick to the house. And lastly, and most important, the Phillies won in '80 and '08. And the last time the Eagles won a title was in '60. Flip that sucker over, juggle it a bit, and you get '09. Destiny people!
Final Score: Eagles 20 Giants 17

The rest of the DR Staff picks

Big Firm
Head: Eagles 21
Giants 17

Heart: Eagles 24
Giants 13

Bul Bubak(Choosing with his gut I presume)
Eagles 23
Giants 17

ElDiabloGrande(Clearly straight He-Brain at work)
Giants 27
Eagles 20

DVDubs
Head: Eagles 27
Giants 24

Heart: Eagles 87
Giants 0(with every Giant player getting injured or dying)

Flintskins
Citing previous incorrect predictions regarding football and The DR, Finetone excused himself from prognosticating but promised a football post of his own. Classic Bra Heezy.

Stand Watie remains silent.

Women, Can't Live With 'Em, Already Know Everything About Em

2009-01-07T20:37:00.016-05:00

Thankfully, Chief Naka has the beat on the Sixers, the very tall Chinese, and the sexiest diapers out there on the streets. That leaves room for me to discuss mindless shit that undoubtedly doesn't concern a soul other than my own. That being said, I push forward nonetheless.

I spent the better part of my Saturday night/early Sunday morning in a roundtable discussion touching on matters of the heart, matters of the penis, and matters of the penis that are clouded by matters of the heart. If that makes little sense to you, then I'm sorry, you were not one of the three (and for a hot one four) DR editors in attendance at the time. What I learned in between lagers, trips to the bathroom, Martha's tasty cookies, and frequent visits to www.bigsausagepizza.com, is quite simply the following: I know absolutely everything there is to know about these creatures of the earth that we all call "women." Everything. I am an expert, so to speak, a modern-day nostradamus in this field. Okok, I know what you're thinking. If there is anyone who doesn't know shit about women, it might be the Big Firm himself. But behold, a brief tutorial.

[A final point worth noting. As gay as this discussion sounds, there actually were women there. One of them left after she killed her fish by feeding it an excessive amount of comfort bubbles - a story for another day - but the other two stuck around and we didn't even pay them for their company]

#1) Women love it when you say "Hay shortie." Especially when you are in a car and they are on the street or waiting for the bus. "Hay shortie" is code for "Hi, my name is Big Firm. Drop your pants if you know what's good for you." Top it off with a creepy hand motion resembling a tiger clawing at its prey, and women practically panty drop on the spot.

#2) If you are British, black, and somewhere around 6'5'', "hey shortie" can be easily replaced by "youz is one sexy bitch," an equally effective technique honed in the streets of Manchester, perfected in the quaker halls of Abington.

#3) Women are crazy. Or some would say, they are cray cray. There seems to be this awful misconception that men will have sex with any girl who feigns an interest in receiving the business. Well that's where they are dead wrong. I have serious standards that will not be sacrificed, even for the most persistent of broads. Come with that peg leg? Get beaten down with your prosthetic. Don't have all your limbs? Get to steppin (or rollin) out my way. Still rockin a retainer? Well you can stick around, who am I kidding.

#4) Women beeee shoppin.

#5) Women like it when you have sex with them, and promptly turn over and go to bed while they are in the bathroom. See women, much like men, value their sleep and space. When you, as a man, honor that interest...well sir, the reward will be significant, and likely fall sometime in mid-March.

#6) Women are selfish. Selfish I tell you! Let's say you've got one woman and one man, and they are happily in a relationship. Now let's say that man wants to be friends with other women, you know, grab a bite to eat, meet for coffee, engage in harmless pillow fights and innocent tickle wars. But noooo, his woman won't let it happen. Why? Because women are selfish. How else can you explain one woman demanding all of one man's attention? I mean, I dare you to tell me it's because she likes that man. In all likelihood, the bulk of her time is spent complaining about that man. Pusssshaw to that idea. No, it's because that woman doesn't want to share you with your other friends. Call me Noah Webster, because that is precisely the definition of selfishness.

Ok, so I know six things. Frankly, I can't remember the other tidbits of knowledge I generated that night, and contemplated erasing all of the above, but figured that would be shortsighted. Some of you out there might learn something, and at the very least, deserve to know exactly how delicious/multi-dimensional sausage pizza is. I apologize in advance for the shittiness of this post, it won't happen again.

And oh yeah. If Charles Barkely isn't the president before I die, I will do so an empty man. I love him in the gayest of ways.

Oh Yeah....The Sixers

2009-01-06T23:24:00.005-05:00

Lost amid the Eagles fuss and the Phillies glorious hangover lies a forgotten entity: the professional basketball team. Yes, the Sixers do still exist and in fact still play basketball games, some of which Sammy Dalembert (barely)contributes in. Therefore they remain worthy of our attention. How have they gone from priority #1 to somewhere between Johari Smith sightings and homeless man bio's in importance here, the very sight dedicated to staying current, diligent, and enthusiastic about them?

A quick list of reasons why we've lost track of the Sixers will hopefully provide some insight.

Reason 1)They suck

Reason 2)They aren't fun to watch.

Reason 3)Their problems seem fundamental and without obvious or overnight solutions, which make reasons 1 and 2 irredeemable.

Reason 4)Sammy D never plays anymore.

Reason 5)The NBA in January is akin to years 3-8 in a 10-year relationship. You got a dog, started a joint bank account, and started dressing the same without even noticing. Yee-ha. Not very interesting.

Still, I'm here to shine a light on The Sixers for a night because dammit they are still my team and doggoneit I remain vigilant in my hope they can turn things around. So let's review last nights 104-96 victory at home against the Artest-less Houston Rockets.

I arrive nice and early with my main man Giul and we make our way down to our seats, cough, cough, on the court. On our long arduous walk down to courtside we walk directly next to Ron Artest, who is not playing tonight but rehabbing an injury of some sort, thus shooting around before the game. He's on the sideline working out ticket details with an usher. I just want to say that this is not a man I want coming into the stand after me. He's large. With big muscles. And he's nuts.

The pre-game warm-ups are always interesting to watch up close. Andre Miller dribbles aimlessly for ten minutes, not talking to anyone, not looking up, giving off the aura of a guy who'd rather be almost anywhere but here. I don't like his barely tempered contempt for the situation.

Sammy D embraces Dikembe Mutombo at midcourt in a joyous exchange of broken English pleasantries. What a moment. A second later Yao Ming shows up and it's literally twenty-two feet of love just a few feet from where I am. I see the future dictators of Haiti, The Democratic Republic of Congo, and China in front of me and damn, it looks and sounds like freedom brewing.

Dikembe's knees and elbows scare me, even where covered in warm-ups. I mention to Giul that should he enter the game and chase a loose ball anywhere near me I will be evacuating post-haste.

We notice an odd looking player on the Rockets with a mohawk. We check out the roster list and try to determine who it could be. We decide on Von Wafer.

The dance team lines up in front of us for the national anthem. Their booty shorts resemble bedazzled diapers and I stare accordingly.

The introductions begin. Five minutes later they are still beginning. This is ridiculous. Just announce the friggin players names and let's play basketball. The one bright spot during the interminable video montage is a clip of my favorite Sixer from 1993-1996, Clarence Weatherspoon. I openly wonder what 'Spoon is up to these days. Giul says he's an announcer. I make it my duty to figure this out by midnight.

The game begins and I'm stunned that A)the mohawk indeed belongs to Von Wafer B)Von Wafer starts for Houston and C)Von Wafer is not a vampire from Dusseldorf.

Two other crucial details you should know about Von Wafer:
1) His shorts are entirely too tight.
2) He's wearing an elastic knee brace. On his ankle. I know it sounds weird but I stared at it for 3 hours and it was real.
*I'd like to remind everyone that other crucial details which were already mentioned but cannot be overstressed are that his name is Von Wafer and he has a mohawk. I make it a point to find out what planet this man came from and what his mission on Earth is.

This crowd could be at a funeral. It's so quiet that I feel awkward. You can hear everything the players are saying, which consists mostly of play calls and defensive switches disguised as unintelligible grunts.

Sammy picks up two fouls in the first three minutes. To the bench he trots. He will not come back this half.

Iguodala is playing well.

Tracy McGrady can't make a shot and looks in pain. Having seen Kobe and Lebron recently I can say T-Mac is not even close to that caliber of player anymore. His beard is also contrived.

Hip-Hop and the Hare Raisers make an appearance and the crowd makes noise for the first time all night. I pose this question: do all these people think they are at a basketball game with intermittent entertainment provided by a lame rabbit mascot and his band of merry ass-clowns, or at a performance by a lame rabbit mascot and his band of merry ass-clowns with intermittent basketball? I'm truly concerned about the future of rooting in this country.

The highlight of the night: with 2:56 left in the 3rd quarter a time-out is called. The ball rolls down the floor towards Sammy D, who is now in the game. He stops it with his foot, kicks it up in the air, and with another deft touch kicks it to the ref. I'm dazzled. Pure athletic brilliance by our boy.

Sammy picks up fouls 3 and 4. He trots to the bench. He will not return.

Marreese Speights dunks the ball. He's playing great. It's also feeling very natural to call him Reese.

Royal Ivey wears New Balance sneakers.

Von Wafer has scored in double digits. Who is this freak?

During a time-out in the 4th quarter they play a video montage with Mass Appeal by Gang Starr as the music. I'm impressed. They follow it up with Montell Jordan. Well done.

The most terrible person in the world is sitting behind us spewing negative garbage at Sixers players, specifically Iguodala and Andre Miller. This guy is a caricature of an imbecilic Philly fan. It's almost fake how awful he is. Plus he has a ponytail, and a voice that could substitute for an alarm clock buzzer. Seriously, this is the worst person ever.

Sixers pull ahead and finish strong. McGrady can't make a shot. Yao stays on the bench in the 4th quarter. So does the Rockets best player tonight, Von Wafer.

We win.

Sammy, optimistic and joyous as ever, takes part in the post-game huddle at center court. I don't have the guts to tell him about the DR.