"Toss me a dougnut...I'll catch it in my mouth!"

At this point, we’ve grown accustomed to seeing big leaguers test positive for steroids. It’s become as common as seeing a twenty-something actress “forget” to wear underwear and flash her cooter at the paparazzi. But when news broke that “Big Papi” David Ortiz was among those who tested positive for steroids in 2003, my heart sank into my stomach.

Ortiz is the first player named for taking steroids that’s made me scratch my head a little bit. It wasn’t hard to see that Clemens was roid raging back in ‘04, nor did it take a spread in Details magazine to prove that A-Rod would do anything to make his guns look bigger. And Sammy Sosa, despite maintaining a friendly smile throughout his juicing regimen, was sprouting muscles in places previously unimaginable.

But David Ortiz was so fun-loving, so likable, and to be frank — fat as hell. Nothing about Ortiz’s corpulent form ever hinted that he was injecting himself to get a competitive advantage. If anything, I thought the guy needed to learn when to step away from the buffet table every once in awhile.

It just goes to show, an extra helping of empanadas won’t cause you to hit 40 home runs a year. It’s the steroids, stupid.

If Pittsburgh only brought this type of ingenuity to building its team

It’s another day and another trade for the Pittsburgh Pirates, who moved first baseman Adam LaRoche to the Boston Red Sox for two mid-level prospects that no one has ever heard of. The Pirates are trading away their lineup faster than their fans can trade a Nate McLouth jersey for some Little Debbie cakes that are past their expiration date, and there’s no end in sight. When a city gets nervous at the thought of losing Jack Wilson or Freddy Sanchez, you know the situation has grown desperate.

Some may feel that Pirates fans should boycott the team, but this is Pittsburgh we’re talking about here. Like my hometown of Chicago, these are blue collar, working-class people who want to watch a ballgame just to forget about their 9 to 5 job canning beets in Punxsutawney.

The real tragedy here is that the fans in Boston aren’t even that excited to get LaRoche. A player who was a fan favorite and cleanup hitter in Pittsburgh will now be a seldom used utility man and pinch hitter for the contending Red Sox. But I feel you, Joe Punxsutawney. When my Mom had that goddamn yard sale last spring, she got rid of my favorite Cubs t-shirt. Who cares if it was six sizes too small and she wouldn’t let me wear it outside the house…it was worth a shitload more than $1.50.

"Hi, Billy Mays here!"

Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon…blah blah blah. All these pale in comparison to the recent death of quintessential pitchman Billy Mays, whose passing went relatively unnoticed in the sports world, even though the guy single-handedly carried ESPN’s 360.com promotion. I thought he’d at least get some posthumous article on ESPN.com or a lame shout-out from Stu Scott on SportsCenter.

Forget the fact that Mays was only peripherally related to sports and spent a majority of his time schlocking crappy cleaning supplies. The guy could sell just about anything, and that’s a sought-after skill in the world of professional sports. If T.O. had Mays representing him instead of Rosenhaus, he’d probably be sipping Mai Tais off the coast of tahiti, instead of appearing on bogus reality shows and getting ready for an exciting winter in Buffalo.

When I was seven years old, I vividly remember a conversation I had with my father. He put down his Bluetooth, and sat me on his knee. He knew I loved sports, but he also knew how uncoordinated I was. However, according to him, it didn’t matter. As a Rubenstein, I had been born with a gift: the ability to sell. And that was my ticket into the sports world.

Billy Mays was given that same gift. And I, for one, am going to go purchase a Magic Eraser in memory of him.

"Try to be like me. I dare you."

I was horrified by the news that Jeffrey Jordan, son of Michael Jordan, was stepping away from the University of Illinois basketball team to focus on his studies. As an agent who prides himself on guiding young athletes through the difficult decisions facing them, I wish I’d been involved…because this one was a no-brainer.

There are plenty of examples throughout history that could have helped young Jeffrey make a better choice. After Genghis Khan pushed his way across Asia Minor, his son Kublai grabbed a sword and took his Dad’s style of raping and pillaging to the next level. And though Bobby Bonds was a prickly bastard, it was his son, Barry, who really helped define what an “asshole” is.

For a kid like Jeffrey Jordan, what life is there “outside of basketball?” Does it involve having a constant stream of Illini cheerleaders at your fingertips? I never thought I’d say it, but give props to Luke Walton. A name is a powerful thing, and if you got one, flaunt it.

"I'm leaving, so...now you're really fucked, Bud."

Donald Fehr’s retirement should come as little surprise to baseball fans. With falling TV ratings and terrible attendance at games, Fehr realizes there’s no upside in sticking around to negotiate the looming agreement with the Players Association in 2011. He knows that baseball could be heading for more difficult times, and for once, it’s not just because Commissioner Bud Selig has the appeal of a three-day old hotdog.

The numbers say it all: when Fehr entered the league, the average salary was $289,000. But under his command, it’s risen to an impressive average of $2.9 million, as the steroid era juiced salaries like a syringe in Roger Clemens’ pimply ass. Although Fehr’s heir apparent, Matthew Weiner, is set to take the reins, he’s like the poor kid who has to take the podium after me in class elections — there are some acts that are simply impossible to follow.

Fehr’s retirement is sure to send a cold shiver through the world of baseball’s agents, whose careers could take a left turn if baseball has another lockout in 2011. So, although Scott Boras may be cruising the streets of Huntington Beach right now in one of his many fine and luxurious vehicles, his hands are shaking through his expensive driving gloves. The end may be very, very near.

Put this guy in a purple suit and maybe I'll give a shit.

The lack of attention being given to the MLB Draft isn’t surprising to me, and it’s indicative of a larger problem facing baseball: it’s lack of style. Where’s the flash that we’ve come to expect with the NFL and NBA drafts? Where’s that certain je ne sais quoi that gets an audience buzzing with anticipation?

The other leagues have stepped it up in recent years: the NFL gave us the perfectly coiffed odd couple of Todd McShay and Mel Kiper, and the NBA draft is entertaining if for no other reason than to see what suit the draftees will wear. But with the MLB, we’re stuck with guys like John “I ate your hoagie” Kruk, who’s most famous for losing a testicle and whose best analysis comes when deciding between yellow or dijon mustard.

So as long as the owners remain reticent to change, and Bud Selig sits as the commissioner, the MLB draft will continue to go un-noticed. But be careful, baseball fans. It’s not inconceivable to think that, in the near future, our national pastime could join the NHL and Lingerie Football as yet another second-tier professional sports league.

CUBS vs. BREWERS! TONIGHT! ON VERSUS!

When Jon Gruden, a.k.a. Chucky, joined Monday Night Football’s broadcast team, it signaled a change in the way the media plans to cover the NFL this coming season. Gone is the light-hearted Tony Kornheiser, whose style was soft as two-ply, and in comes Gruden, whose style is a bit rougher, akin to wiping with sandpaper.

Let me get this straight...You chose Ron Jaworski over me?

And now that NBC has named former hard-hitting safety Rodney Harrison as a member of their crew, another less than popular NFL alum will be in the spotlight. Which begs the question: have the networks lost their collective sense of humor?

What are we supposed to look forward to now…the Gruden growl or Harrison’s stories about clothes-lining kids when he was coaching Pop Warner? At least on Fox they get it and play to the lowest common denominator (enter Jillian Barberie).

In my continuing series on why women’s basketball is about as interesting as watching paint dry, I present you with the following:

"You're not burned out, you're homesick!"

According to ESPN, Elena Delle Donne, the women’s basketball star recruit who left UConn last season after only 48 hours on campus because she had “burned out” on the sport, has admitted that it was not burnout, but rather homesickness, that motivated her to leave the Lady Huskies. To make matters worse, she’s now going to be playing for the Delaware Blue Hens, who went 15-15 last season, as opposed to being a part of the undefeated national champion Lady Huskies.

When I first heard this news, I thought it was a joke. It would be like Mark Teixeira leaving the Yankees to return to the Rangers because he missed Texas BBQ. Or Kevin Garnett rejoining the Timberwolves because winters in Boston just don’t compare to those of the Twin Cities. Let’s get real — if I’m supposed to take women’s basketball seriously, drop the homesickness when you leave the AAU, and take the advice of Jimmy Dugan: there’s no crying in baseball, and there sure as shit is no homesickness in hoops.

Ladies love a sell-out.

If this isn’t a sign that no one gives a shit about women’s basketball, I don’t know what is:

From ESPN:

Following the lead of international sports, the Phoenix Mercury have become the first WNBA team to put a sponsor’s name on their jerseys.

Sure, the NBA’s tyrannical czar, David Stern, will try to convince you that this is for the “financial health” of the league. But don’t let the fat man fool you: no self-respecting athlete or organization willingly hocks someone else’s crap. 

Pete Rose’s financial problems were well-documented when he told you all how to smell like an Aqua Velva man. And you think Joe Namath would have pitched BeautyMist pantyhose if he wasn’t hard up for cash? Hell no.

So kudos to the WNBA — you now share the same company with a gambling addict, one of the most well known male chauvinists of all time, and European soccer. Very impressive.

Recent news that the Cavaliers’ principal owner, Dan Gilbert, struck a deal with a Chinese investment group for a minority percentage in the team comes as no surprise to me. This agreement sends a clear message to Mr. Gilbert’s superstar, LeBron James, that the organization understands what it needs to do to keep him in a Cavs uniform.

"LeBron James is coming!"

With this partnership comes promotional opportunities for LeBron in a country that’s four times the size of our own, and who’s people love basketball almost as much as white rice and the little red book. LeBron’s self-stated goal of being the first billionaire athlete doesn’t seem so far off, now that he’s got over a billion Chinamen behind him.

I suppose LeBron’s a bit like Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors: he has an outsized appetite…for money. And like Seymour, Mr. Gilbert’s been bitch-slapped into doing something he didn’t want to do in order to satisfy that hunger.

So when you take the floor for tonight’s pivotal game 4, Lebron, remember the words of Mao: “Communism is not love, Communism is a hammer which we use to crush the enemy.”

"Hello? Oh, hi Coach Ryan. You like the pants?"

After seeing Mark Sanchez’s recent GQ spread, where he tries on “the timelessly cool beachwear of the 70s,” I nearly vomited in my mouth…and it’s not because I’m homophobic. Sure, Sanchez is a handsome, charismatic franchise quarterback with a bright future. But what moronic agent let this photo-shoot happen?

You think it’s easy to walk into a locker room full of grown men after being shown in white Capri pants and a shirt that doesn’t cover your belly button? Somehow, I don’t think that D’Brickashaw Ferguson or Kris Jenkins have ever been asked to expose their navels.

Sanchez needs to learn from the other quarterbacks who have managed to become pop culture icons without losing their “everyman” image: Brett Favre and Peyton Manning. Both look like guys you could kick back and watch a game with…not get a hand-job from.

Little Timmy is the best left-handed hitter in the second grade.

Like most red-blooded Americans, when you heard the news that Delaware had legalized sports betting, you were probably ecstatic. When I got the update on my blackberry, I chestbumped my social studies teacher — it was a little awkward, but it seemed right at the time.

And while the news is fantastic, Delaware missed a huge opportunity with this one.

Sure, sports betting is legal…if you’re over 18. Do you know how many kids bet on sports? Take it from me, the stakes on the playground are high, whether it’s Lakers vs. Cavs or Odds vs. Evens. Every classroom has a March Madness Bracket, each advanced math class a Super Bowl pool, and afternoon gym class? I compare it to the horsetrack.

How do you think I got this Armani suit? Let’s just say that my favorite second grader provides for me better than any “Mom” or “Dad” could.

This year, Mrs. Russo spent half the semester trying to teach my classmates and I why Romeo and Juliet is one of the classics — a timeless tale, she said, that has never lost its power and impact.

Quite frankly, I thought she was full of shit. Let’s face it, the Capulets are a bunch of pussies, and Tybalt’s soliloquy is way overrated.

But when I saw this video, I think I understood what Mrs. Russo was getting at when she called Shakespeare’s masterpiece “timeless.” Because while I might not have been around when the original Mike Tyson’s Punch Out was released, I know that game inside and out. And judging by this video, the franchise has survived the test of time.

Thanks to Asylum for the link.

Big Babies just wanna have fun!

We’ve all seen the footage of the Orlando Magic fan who got shoved by Big Baby Davis after last night’s game-winner. This morning, it made even bigger news when the father of the young fan, Ernest Provetti, emailed league offices complaining about the shove and going so far as to compare Big Baby to a “raging animal.” 

Well this afternoon, Daddy Provetti has rescinded his complaint after the media backlash, unsure of how to navigate the waters of such a divisive and complex issue. Thanks, Dad — you’ve just shown us why kids these days, even if they’re just spectating, need agents. Not dimwitted parents.

This kid coulda seized the spotlight, taken his life to Jeffrey Maier-like heights. I’m talking a book deal, endorsments, a 60 Minutes feature about child abuse in NBA arenas. But thanks to shitty parenting, this kid’s fifteen minutes of fame have slipped through his fingers.

As they say, youth is wasted on the young.

From the fumblerooski to baseball’s famous hidden ball trick, trick play has long been a part of sports. Let’s face it, these are just games after all…

So needless to say, I was very disturbed when I saw this in the AP:

Chivas defender Hector Reynoso has been suspended from the Copa Libertadores for pretending to cough and spit in an opponent’s face, gestures interpreted as threatening to spread swine flu.

The Mexican coughed several times in the face of Sebastian Penco — an Argentine playing for Chilean club Everton — in a Copa Libertadores match last week. He later apologized, but said he expected to be punished for his behavior.

What’s with the apology? Did Boise State apologize when they outsmarted Oklahoma to win the 2007 Fiesta Bowl? Hector Reynoso should to be praised for his creativity, not punished for a silly gesture.

Thanks to Randball for pointing us in the direction of this story. And in case there’s any debate as to what the greatest trick play of all time is, check out the clip below.

I know you’ve been calling him. I know you’ve been showing up at his doorstep early in the morning, late at night, throwing rocks at his window as he tries to get some shuteye. Shit, he even told me one of your cronies did his math homework last night. Not cool, Scotty. Where I come from that’s called cheating.

So I’ll say this one last time, and I don’t want to repeat myself:

Back off, Boras. The kid’s mine.

For a talent evaluator like myself, I start licking my chops when the NFL Draft comes around. And like me, some coaches and GM’s also thrive under the pressure, where you can simultaneously make or break a franchise with a single choice. It’s gotta be like Christmas for guys like Belichick and Andy Reid, spending days on end in a dark room, chewing through videotape and pastries with reckless abandon.

The Draft also gives me the opportunity, for weeks in a row, to bask in the glory of someone I wholeheartedly admire: Mr. Mel Kiper, Jr. If you don’t love the haircut, fine, to each its own. But you gotta love the passion.

For all the bad that you hear associated with the Boras name, it’s nice to see a moment like this, when the super-agent himself shows a bit of vulnerability.

Let’s not forget that agents are real people, too. Shit, even I cried when Jason Taylor was eliminated from Dancing with the Stars…

Colin Cowherd knows his shit.

"How the hell should I know how many I've had?"

This morning, he reported that “a reliable source” had told him that Bus Cook was the chief architect of Jay Cutler’s lightning-fast trade to Chicago. Why? Because Cook knows his client, and like any good agent, he recognized that an unsigned Jay Cutler is a dangerous Jay Cutler. So he loaded up the horses and quickly got the hell outta Dodge.

If given too much free time, Cutler’s hard-drinking ways would hurt his reputation, and Cook knew that. It was only a matter of days after Denver announced its intention to trade Cutler before he cruised into an MMA event looking like he’d been hitting the Jim Beam all afternoon. If Bus Cook had a responsible client, things might have been different, but with Cutler he knew he had to act fast.

If Lindsay Lohan has a multi-million dollar on the table, d’you think her agent wants to wait for the next DUI to fall before signing on the dotted line?

And now Cutler's handing it off to his agent...

Sitting in English class the other day, Mrs. Thompson had the audacity to yell at me for not doing my homework. After all I do for this school!? To make matters worse, the assignment was to write a report on a short story about a handicapped kid and his dumbass puppy.

But instead of telling the old hag what’s what, I went straight to the Principal. And that’s exactly what Jay Cutler and his agent, Bus Cook, have done to rectify their situation. 

Why continue arguing with Josh McDaniels when he’s not even the man in charge? By going straight to Broncos owner Pat Bowlen, and officially requesting a trade, Bus Cook is gonna get his client the respect he deserves. And now we’ll see who’s more important to the Broncos: their star QB or their unproven coach.

The new face of steroids.

You heard it here first: Peter Gammons has been juicing. 

I thought it was a little suspicious that a guy pushing sixty-five could bounce back from a brain aneurysm as fast as he did. Either this guy is superhuman, or he was putting something special in his Wheaties. Well, this morning, while being interviewed about the suspicious growth on A-Rod’s hip, Gammons inadvertently let himself slip.

“I was really surprised…I know he works out at the (laughs) same gym I go to here in Jupiter, Florida, and he seemed very optimistic [yesterday]. But I was told this morning that there were issues that had to be addressed….”

The same gym? C’mon, Gammons, that’s almost as stupid as bringing your Dominican Cousin with you on road trips. 

"Be careful, Mr. Coletti..."

There’s a lot to love about Manny Ramirez: the smooth swing, the sense of humor, the gorgeous flowing locks. But the reason why the Dodgers and Manny finally came to terms isn’t because of his abilities – it’s because of Scott Boras.

In ’06, my sister’s soccer coach put her on the bench after drawing yellow cards in successive games. When the next game rolled around, six pairs of cleats had disappeared from the locker room and four of his starters were mysteriously missing due to “feminine issues.” Advantage: Rubenstein.

That’s what it’s all about – showing them the influence you hold as an agent. Every major league team knows that super-agent Boras is here to stay, and there’ll be other big clients down the road to haggle over. So while the Dodgers probably could have reduced their offer to Manny without losing him, no team wants to bite the hand that feeds it.

"Hi, is this Ned Coletti? Fuck off!"

Can you hit a 100 mph fastball over 400 feet without trying? Didn’t think so.

So let’s stop this “how can Manny turn down so much money in this economic climate” bitching. We’re not talking about an assembly line worker here. We’re talking about a one-of-a-kind, irreplaceable talent. A talent that will pay for his contract, and then some, by what he brings to a team.

Boras is handling this negotiation perfectly.  You want the best offensive player in the game on your squad? Pay up. If not, have fun winning 75 games next season and watching the playoffs from your couch, Los Angeles.

"You want to look like this, Alex?"

“It’s been a difficult several weeks and it’s been very painful for me and my family. I’m here to take my medicine”

- Alex Rodriguez

After hiring two PR firms and flying in Boras from Hermosa Beach, this is the best you can come up with, Alex? Are we really supposed to believe that a professional athlete, who makes millions of dollars, bought drugs on a Caribbean Island and then let one of his random cousins from the D.R. stick a bunch of needles in his ass?

Right. And the dog ate my homework.

"I apologize. Enchiladas always do a number on my ulcer..."

The NBA trade deadline is approaching, and let me be the first to assess the activity so far: B-O-R-I-N-G.

Whether it’s being forced to watch Ernie Johnson for hours on end, or the stench emanating from Commissioner Stern’s adult diapers, something about this time of year has never agreed with me.  In the past I’ve followed every bit of coverage only to feel cheated when the biggest story is Raef LaFrentz getting dealt in a salary dumping move. It’s like when my Thai masseuse doesn’t tell me to roll over – where’s the payoff?

Seriously, is there anyone out there? Do something!

"You and me, Alex. We're going places..."

After botching the Manny Ramirez deal beyond repair, it hasn’t been easy going recently for Scott Boras. But even in the face of failure, Boras has managed to take his best client’s career to new heights.

That’s right, I’m talking about A-Rod’s admission that he used steroids from 2001-2003. And let’s not allow the media to hide what’s going on beneath the surface here.

Whether it was the call girl in Toronto, his relationship with Madonna, or the steroid mess, A-Rod’s entire life has been media fodder. And with the economy driving baseball into the shitter, Boras knows that the A-Rod sideshow will not only help his client, but will also fatten many an owner’s wallet. Never again will a Royals day game in mid-August go unattended – for just a few bucks, any unemployed asshole with anger issues can vent at the Yankees slugger. If I were Bud Selig, I’d be sending fruit baskets to Huntington Beach right now because this is exactly the type of publicity stunt that baseball needs to survive these tough times.

"We turned down WHAT?!"

Needless to say, I’m reveling in the fact that Boras has overestimated the value of his star client, Manny Ramirez. I’m so happy right now that my balls are literally tingling. Boras doesn’t misjudge the market this badly very often, so you’ve got to enjoy it while it does.

Are we really to believe that there’s a team that can offer Manny more than $25 Million? Ramirez could feed his entire island with the kind of loot the Dodgers were offering. The summers must be beautiful down there if Ramirez would rather sunbathe in La Dominicana instead of being the highest paid outfielder in the game.

So while Manny maintains his figure with a steady diet of fried plantains, Boras will be sweating it out over the coming months. But this time, it’s not the summer heat that’s making Scott greasy between the knees. It’s the specter of failure looming over his head.

"Buy three tacos, and I'll throw in Russell Martin for free."

When I heard that Russell Martin signed with the Dodgers for less than $4 million for just one year, I was appalled.  Here’s a player entering his prime who has all the tools to be a superstar: talent, intensity, and from what Manny tells me, the ability to make one mean empanada.

But as the Yankees simultaneously forked over nearly $7 million to Xavier Nady, a decent outfielder at best, it became clear that Martin didn’t get close to what a franchise cornerstone is worth.  I’d heard that Martin changed agents this past winter, but I didn’t know that he was being represented by the guy frying carnitas in Pepe’s Taco Truck next to Dodger Stadium.

What’s done is done, and Martin will undoubtedly have another stellar year playing in Chavez Ravine.  But if he’s smart, he’ll be walking into Hank Steinbrenner’s office by my side next offseason. If he’s not, he’ll be living in a two bedroom condo in South Pasadena for the rest of his career.

"Jerry Jones is a bully!"

As someone who scouts day in and day out, no one respects the importance of talent more than me. But when you’re trying to build a winning franchise, sometimes the sum of the whole is greater than its parts. So when I heard that Jerry Jones and the Cowboys were considering cutting Terrell Owens, it became clear to me that the franchise is moving in the right direction.

Take last year’s JV basketball squad. I scoured the county for the most talented athletes, and on paper, it looked like we had the second coming of the Jordan era Bulls. But the starting lineup had more internal unrest than the Jackson 5, and our two star players made Shaq and Kobe look like Ozzie and Harriet.

Sure it’s hard to cut a star like T.O. But the Cowboys haven’t won a playoff game since I was breastfeeding, so they have to shake it up somehow.

 

 

Cashman and Boras...friends forever.

As a student of success, I’ve noticed something about all truly successful people: they understand the value of relationships. And as Yankees GM Brian Cashman quietly snuck Mark Teixeira out from under the noses of both the Nationals and the Red Sox this past week, he signaled to the rest of the league that he has indeed exchanged friendship bracelets with the most powerful agent in sports, Scott Boras.

Relationships help me in my day-to-day as well. The school custodian, Raul, mops the floors until well after the practice fields are empty, and I’ve got him keeping watch over every sport from field hockey to football. How did I know that little Pete Thompson had gone through puberty and was ready to be captain of the baseball team? Raul heard his voice change. And how did I get the inside track on the transfer student who has the quickest feet in the county? You get the idea. 

Sure, it takes time to foster a relationship like this, but it’s not rocket science. I just make sure to take care of the little things for Raul, like delivering a tray of brownies from Momma Rubenstein, and of course, making sure Principal Hampton doesn’t review the status of Raul’s green card during the school board’s annual review. 

It’s been a rough 24 hours for everyone here in Philadelphia, as we truly lost one of the good guys yesterday afternoon. Jim Johnson was a coach for some, but a role model for an entire city, representing the spirit of Philadelphia through his grit and toughness.

As a high school quarterback turned gynecologist, I know a thing or two about a tough defense. And believe me, whether I was trying to score on the Central High Raiders, or in the back seat of my Dad’s Camero on prom night, the only thing capable of stopping a forceful attack is a hard-nosed defense. Jim Johnson epitomized this spirit, and without him, the Eagles would be a completely different franchise.

RIP JJ. You will be missed.

Some of you may know this about me, but I’ve always been a bit of a packrat. My nightstand tends to be cluttered with everything from medical reports, to receipts for last week’s lunch, to wrinkled ticket stubs from my nephew’s high school football game. Big or small, it’s all about the memories.

So it should come to no surprise that the desk at my office is filled with remembrances of the young lives I’ve helped bring into this world.

Recently I’ve made efforts to clean up. Let’s face it, I should have thrown out those dirty scrubs from the birth of the Abramowitz triplets a long time ago…

For years, my office has been organized under the strict yet loving care of Miss Donna Roberts. A talented nurse and administrator, Donna has been the Brian Westrbook of my team — the definition of a multi-threat caregiver.

The lovely Donna Roberts; former Head Nurse at Leavenworth Gynecological

But recently, I noticed that she was slipping. Things weren’t running as smoothly as they once were and Donna didn’t have the same explosive first step when a pregnant patient got carted in at six centimeters dilated and three-quarters effaced. So even though Donna will remain a part of my team, I recently elevated young Nancy Jones to the position of head nurse, replacing Donna. Needless to say, it was not an easy decision.

My beloved Eagles have also been faced with a grueling decision this offseason, and it’s one that could change the trajectory of the franchise: what to do with Brian Westbrook. With LeSean McCoy becoming the first second-round draft pick to sign with a team, the Eagles are clearly placing their future in his hands. And while I can’t wait to see the Big Green take the field again, I can only hope that Jeffrey Lurie gives Brian Westbrook the fine treatment he deserves. Just like Donna, he’s earned it.

"MVG! MVG! MVG!"

A clear message was sent today when Donovan McNabb signed a new contract with my beloved Eagles: he better win, and he better win now.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a quarterback or a gynecologist: when you’re the man-in-charge, and you’ve got the tools at your disposal, you’re expected to get the job done. Donovan’s 1-3 record in NFC championship could be blamed on the failure of the teams around him. But with a new left tackle, a fiery young running back, and one of the best offenses in the NFL, he’s out of excuses.

Let’s take it away from football for a second: it was one thing for me to lose 3 babies in the 2007 season — my nurses were fumbling newborns right and left, and half my orderlies couldn’t speak English. But after the hospital went out and got me the support staff I deserved, I went on to deliver three sets of triplets the next season, winning the coveted MVG (Most Valuable Gyno) in Southern Pennsylvania.

Donovan doesn’t just need to win a Super Bowl to get a contract extension, he needs it to establish his legacy. After winning the MVG, I know how my career will be looked upon when I retire. And one day, my son Gerard, Jr., might even take over my practice. Like his Pops, he’s a smooth one.

What's with the Chargers jersey?

It’s always a pleasure to work with the wife of a Philadelphia Eagles player, whether it’s Mrs. Mcabb or one of my oldest and most loyal patients, Mrs. Jaworski. That woman gives new meaning to the nickname Jaws…if you know what I’m saying.

But this morning, I got a call from my favorite wideout, Hank Baskett, letting me know that he and his wife, Kendra Wilkinson, are expecting their first child. And with all due respect to the entire Eagles family, I’m a bit more excited about this one than some of the others.

Sure, Mrs. McNabb is an elegant lady, but to compare her to Kendra is like comparing a big mac to a filet. I’m sorry Donovan, but would you rather play on the finely trimmed field of Veteran’s stadium, or on a sandlot littered with glass and debris?

So today I wish a hearty congratulations to the newly expecting parents, and for the rest of you unmarried Eagles players out there, I hear the Playboy Mansion is a great place to meet a wife.

Over the past few weeks, the talk around my office has been about how the Eagles are poised to make yet another Super Bowl run. That, and the fact that Mrs. McDougan’s genital warts have returned.

But when I heard the news from the Eagles’ training camp this morning, I became even more concerned about the upcoming season than I am about Mrs. McDougan’s love-life:

Clearly, someone didn’t take my advice. So in case you missed it the first time, Westbrook, listen up:

Where did you go, Plaxico?

It was the fall of ‘98, and my practice was coming off a fantastic summer run, capped by my delivery of four separate sets of twins on the greatest holiday of them all, Labor Day. And with the addition of an especially burly nurse to protect my blind side, I was positive we were gonna nab the top spot in the OBGYN power rankings.

So needless to say, it was a shock to me when Dr. Thompson’s New York practice, our bitter rival who we had outperformed the year before, was ranked above us.

Yesterday, my Philadelphia Eagles received the same treatment from the idiots over at ESPN. Normally, I’d be happy with a #4 preseason ranking…but not when the Giants are #3. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t we end their season last year? And didn’t we have arguably the best offseason in the NFL?

But while the situation is frustrating, let me put things in perspective. ’98-’99 was my finest season as a gynecologist, and while Dr. Thompson’s practice was mired in miscarriages and mammary glands, my year went down as one of the greatest in OBGYN history. So while the Giants can smugly claim that they are the best team in the NFC east, we’ll do our talking on the field. And let’s all be thankful this isn’t the BCS, and rankings don’t mean squat.

When some poor soul enters my office after contracting herpes, genital warts, or even the “clap,” I always tell them the same thing: you can run but you can’t hide. And Hans Cooman, a doping official for the Belgian Bodybulding Championships, delivered the same message this past weekend.

One thing he's not afraid of? Banana hammocks.

From ESPN: 

The Belgian bodybuilding championship has been canceled after doping officials showed up and all the competitors fled.

A doping official says bodybuilders just grabbed their gear and ran off when he came into the room.

I remember a young lady - a certain Meredith Baxter - who once fled my office in a similar manner. But three years later, she was back, knocking at my office door again… with two kids, twenty extra pounds, and a husband who’s a Lions fan. I you’re listening, Belgium.

"We gonna get high tonight!"

Steroids, HGH, or female fertility drugs…it’s all old news. But leave it to a Dallas Cowboy to take it one step further.

Ever since the Michael Irvin days, recreational drugs have seemed to find their way into the Cowboy locker room. But when I read Martellus Bennett’s recent blog post, courtesy of The Dallas Morning News, I was flabbergasted:

“We took a raft to the shore, i immediately saw huge footprints on the beach kinda freaked me out. And thats when I saw it the T-Rex running wild, I screamed like a person getting called down on the price is right, I began to run like i was running a vertical route for he game winner in the super bowl. I hid in the shrubs and pulled out my Harry Potter invisible cloak, i was safe. I got up and tiptoed outta the shrubs and into the woods and thats when i saw them. The Dinosaurs!! I discovered em all by myself, since i was invisible i decided to walk closer. I used my #2 pencil to carve my initials into the back of a Saurornithoides it slapped me with his tail so i slapped it back Ike Turner style and it took off running.”

I’m hoping that Martellus got hit in the head one time too many in the Eagles 44-6 drubbing of the Cowboys last season. Because if not, the NFL better start testing for Peyote.

For more gems from the Cowboy tight end, check out his view on why black people love chicken, and how to deal with women’s farts.

Being a distinguished gynecologist, one of the best parts of the job is when I get to meet other passionate obstetricians from around the nation. There’s Dr. Pagliano from Green Bay, who performs with more intensity than even the great Brett Favre. There’s Dr. Sedgewick from Denver, who’s been known to do the “Mile High Salute” with each successful delivery. And who can forget Dr. Wilkins from San Francisco? Like Steve Young and Joe Montana combined, when he’s in the red zone, he’s as smooth as silk.

But one gynecologist who has always rubbed me the wrong way (pun intended) is Dr. Michael Bummer, my cross-state rival from Pittsburgh. Not only does this guy disrespect his favorite team by wearing a fake Steelers jersey with “Dr. Bummer” written across the back, but yesterday, he disrespected our entire profession by making an ass of himself on national television.

Typical Steelers fan: no class.

Thanks to F Juice for finding this video, and making me vomit in my mouth.

You're still #1 in my heart, Brian.

Unlike the rest of Philadelphia, I’m not bouncing off the walls about all the talent that the Eagles got throughout the draft, especially the Eagles’ second round selection, RB LeSean McCoy. Now this is nothing personal against LeSean, but as the best pass-catching back available in the draft, his entrance clearly signals the end is near for Brian Westbrook.

It’s only natural that all good things come to an end. When Jaworski left, Cunningham came in. When “Good Times” went off the air, “The Cosby Show” filled the void. And when they discontinued the Sponge, they invented the Contraceptive Patch. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

So let’s hope that LeSean has some big feet…because he’s got some huge shoes to fill.

"That's right...a tray of lasagna this big!"

In the winter of 1989, when I was just a fresh face on the Philadelphia OBGYN scene, my nurses were completely unreliable. There was pressure coming at me from all angles, and I was constantly scrambling around the hospital.  But when I interviewed Cecilia, who still serves as my Head Nurse to this day, I knew that I’d found the person to take my practice to the next level – she would protect my blindside, if you will, and would allow me to do my job. Never again would I ask for a forceps and be given a speculum, nor would my office ever be without an ample stock of lubricant.

By the same token, the Eagles organization has taken a huge step forward this past week in giving Donovan McNabb the protection that he needs to succeed.

But it’s not like this should come as a surprise – if there’s one thing that Andy Reid knows, it’s the importance of fat guys. And Lord knows he’ll have plenty of time to mentor the young Peters when they’re waiting in the buffet line together…

Is Felix Jones the best man?

I know times are tough, but does the Cowboy’s new stadium really need to open its doors for weddings?

One thing’s for sure, if you get married in that craphole, don’t be calling me nine months later…

I'll never forgive myself...

December 3rd, 1982. It was a cold day in the city of Brotherly Love, with blustering winds and frozen rain falling from the sky. It was also the state championship game between the Lakeshore Wildcats and Madison High.

Lakeshore was down by 5, but they were driving deep into Madison’s territory, with only a few ticks on the clock. It was then that a young wide out named “Gerry” Leavenworth learned the importance of soft hands. As time expired, the ball flew threw the air to a wide open Leavenworth in the corner of the endzone. But the pressure was too much, the rain was too intense, and the weather too cold.

I dropped the pass.

I’d do anything to go back to that day - I learned my lesson, and “Gerry” Leavenworth doesn’t make the same mistake twice. But unfortunately, I’ll never get that opportunity.

So that’s why I think that this is such a great idea. And the fact that Andy Reid and Westbrook are involved only makes me take even more pride in the fine team that the Philadelphia Eagles are.

One of Denver's loyal fans learns how to keep up with Weapon X...

Well, it’s now crystal clear why the City of Brotherly Love bid farewell to one of our favorite players earlier this off-season: B-Dawk wanted to speak his mind. And we all know that if you’re an Eagles employee, and have anything controversial to say, you’ll disappear faster than a cheesesteak on Andy Reid’s plate.

Thanks to Hugging Harold Reynolds for letting us know what Weapon X is really thinking… 

Run, Correll! The cops are on your tail!

Lito Sheppard wasn’t my favorite player, so I didn’t care when he left my Philadelphia Eagles.  But it was hard to watch Tra Thomas walk out the door, and removing Brian Dawkins from my heart will be more difficult than any C-section I’ve ever performed.

But this guy?  Let him share a bunk bed in Folsom with Brandon Marshall, Travis Henry, or one of the other knuckleheads in this league.

I know a liar when I see one, and this guy’s story doesn’t sound convincing. A recognized drug dealer mentions his name, and Buckhalter insists that it’s just about money?  Wouldn’t a smart drug dealer go after an athlete with a few more ducats in his pocket, not an unknown third string running back? 

"Sorry, can't talk. Scrooge McDuck and I are going for a swim..."

Sure, Lurie, you might be a billionaire.

But how much does a ring cost? Because the City of Brotherly Love doesn’t give a crap how thick your wallet is. All we care about is the hardware on your fingers.

We can only hope the fat walrus is next...

So let me get this straight – the Redskins sign the best defensive free agent on the market, we let Brian Dawkins walk, and now we lose Tra Thomas? It’s enough to drive an Eagles’ fan nuts. 

So when I saw this, I was outraged.

The guy speaks his mind, and he gets fired for it? I thought the City of Brotherly Love was located in Pennsylvania, not Tibet.

"Hold me. Please."

When I heard the news that Kerry Collins had re-signed with the Titans for another two years, I couldn’t help but think about Vince Young. As great as he was at Texas, I didn’t like it when VY decided to leave school as a junior. He looked physically prepared, but his NFL career has demonstrated that he clearly wasn’t ready to handle the mental pressure of leading a team on the field. 

With that in mind, I’ve got some advice for the young men who are choosing to leave college early to pursue a pro career: it’s not too late to change your mind.

In my line of work, I see this type of thing all too often. Kids want to grow up so fast these days, with the raging hormones, the R-rated movies, the hippity-hop. But whether it’s putting out in the high school bathroom or entering the NFL, today’s young people better make sure they’re ready to take their game to the next level. Vince Young wasn’t, and there’s no turning back now.

Weapon X will surely be missed...

Today marks a sad day for the City of Brotherly Love, as our beloved Weapon X has signed with the Broncos.

Happy trails, B-Dawk. You were the chastity belt of our defense. And now that you’re gone, we can only hope that Eli and Romo don’t go sticking it in our defense however they please.

Hey! Hey! Hey! Where's the rest of the junkyard band?

There’s a new $100 million man in the NFC East, but it’s not going to change things as much as the Redskins are hoping. It’s still gonna be a three-team race, and the Skins will remain irrelevant, as they have since the days of Mark Rypien and Art Monk. 

Whether it’s Romo, McNabb, or Eli, the NFC East powerhouse teams are motored by their offenses. And taking a look at the Cardinals’ run to the Super Bowl this past year affirms that you need to put points on the board to succeed in the NFL. 

For Washington, adding a fat guy with a bad temper isn’t going to change a thing. Until they find a way to get the ball in the endzone, they’ll comfortably remain in the cellar of the NFC East.

She should know by now...I've been using this trusty little guy since '88.

Did Donovan McNabb have the right to be angry when he was benched last season? Absolutely. But does that one instance give him the right to dictate the Eagles’ off-season plans? Absolutely not.

In the heat of the battle, quick, decisive moves need to be made. And even though tensions can run high, a good teammate knows how to forgive and forget. Do I regret yelling at Nurse Anderson this morning when she handed me the plastic dioptra instead of my trusty aluminum one? You’re damn right I do. But is that reason for Nurse Anderson to walk out on me when she knows I’m double booked all afternoon?

Nurse Anderson knows better. Let’s just hope that Donovan makes the same choice.

Jerry Jones is legendary for his daring personnel decisions.

Gotta love “America’s Pastime.” Gimme a break – they care more about steroids and Selig and meaningless statistics than they do about the game itself. 

You know what I’m getting at, football season is still 206 days away, and I’m already missing our country’s most enjoyable pastime: watching the Cowboys implode.

It might not be pretty, but giving birth never is.

Since last night, the pundits have been touting Kurt Warner’s statistics, claiming that he was the best player on the field. But the numbers don’t tell the full story.

In my line of work, it’s not always about the stats or the number of babies I’ve delivered. Instead, what matters most are my in-game choices – my ability to deal with whatever is thrown at me in the heat of the moment. If a newborn’s head is stuck on the upper cleft of the labial rim, and the mother’s dilated past nine centimeters, you’re a damn fool if you think I’m not going to act decisively. I’ll charge that goal line like Big Ben, lowering my shoulder and grabbing that kid by the nape of his neck.

Roethlisberger played within his team’s system last night, and more importantly, he played mistake-free football. Heck, he handled that pigskin with more care than some of my nurses handle a newborn. I’m impressed, Ben, and if you’re looking for a way to stay sharp this off-season, I can always use a pair of hands like that in my delivery room… 

T.O.'s reality show is gonna make Momma's Boys look like Citizen Kane.

As though my disgust over the Eagles’ failure to reach the Super Bowl wasn’t enough, insult was added to injury this morning when I read that the cancer of the NFL, Terrell Owens, has been given a reality show on VH1. I don’t know what stupid media executive dreamt this one up, but I haven’t been this angry since I was forced to watch two Mannings in a row hoist the Lombardi trophy.

I got a better idea for you, VH-1. How about a show based around an aging gynecologist who juggles the demands of a busy career while maintaining his devotion to a higher calling: the teachings of Randall Cunningham. You can bet that I’d have the popcorn out and Tivo queued up for that one.

One thing that Dr. Gerard Leavenworth doesn’t do is miss an opportunity.

Dorothy Jones was always a looker.

In the winter of 1981, when I was still a pimple-faced med student, I was approached by the prettiest girl in my class, Dorothy Jones, to help her study for the big exam. My friends told me that I had no chance – I’d never even kissed a girl – but that evening I showed up with a dozen long stem roses and sprayed my textbook with cologne.

This past weekend, the Eagles were also presented with an opportunity. But from a missed extra point to a fumble in the red zone, we gave the game away. That’s five trips to the NFC Championship in the last eight years, and not a single ring to show for it.

Fortunately for Dorothy Jones, I’m nothing like the Eagles in this regard. I had one opportunity, and I have one ring to show for it. Today, Dorothy Jones is known as Dorothy Leavenworth.

Donovan knows how to get balls deep.

As I watched my beloved Eagles dominate the Giants yesterday, a myriad of thoughts rushed through my head. Should I book my flight to Tampa? Is Eli really missing a chromosome? But the one that stood out the most was that in order to win, you gotta stuff it up the middle.

I learned the importance of controlling the middle from my professional life. Not every childbirth is as smooth as Donovan’s head, and I’ve spent countless deliveries trying to find my rhythm. But once I get my hands dirty and take control of the middle, there’s no stopping me.

Because the D-line made it impossible to penetrate the middle, and the O-line gave Donovan the thrust he needed to score that first touchdown, we were in control throughout. This Eagles team reminds me of a nasty case of the clap – it’s gonna take more than some ointment and bed rest to get this case of “Gang Green” to go away.

Is this what Giants fans feel like?

Every Sunday night, after putting on my Randall Cunningham pajamas, I toss and turn, as images of yet another frustrating Eagles performance run through my head. I’m up all night pacing throughout the house, sometimes even trying to calm my nerves with a glass of warm milk. On Monday morning, it’s more of the same – my nurses know to stay out of my way, and, of course, my secretary never schedules early morning appointments.

But last night was different. I laid down at 10 pm, and when I looked at the clock, it was after 6 in the morning. Was someone playing a trick on me? 

I got out of bed, and for the first time since Labor Day, my lower back didn’t give way when I went to the bathroom. When I got to work, I had a spring in my step, even surprising my secretary with a fresh baked danish from the cafeteria. And I didn’t even mind that my first patient walked in with a violent yeast infection.

That’s when I realized, the Eagles victory over the Vikings had left me with a feeling that I hadn’t felt since September: happiness. 

 

 

Try not to collapse in the shower, okay?

Being a highly respected OBGYN, I’m not one to believe in Santa Claus or Christmas Miracles. But this year, with my beloved Eagles needing the gifts of all gifts, I decided to roll up the scrubs and take one for the team. Not only did I draft a hand written letter to Santa asking for the Eagles to make the playoffs, but I even left out a box of Grandma Leavenworth’s famous chocolate chip cookies for St. Nick.

On Christmas Day, I wondered if Santa had gotten my wish, but I’d have to wait until Sunday. And when the games started, it became clear that Santa received my letter. The Oakland Raiders pulled off an improbable upset of the Bucs, the Texans beat up on the Bears, and all of a sudden the Eagles controlled their own destiny. All they had to do was beat the hated Cowboys. And beat them they did. Donovan played like the QB we have all grown to love, and Andy Reid actually decided to use the ground attack for a change. The Eagles controlled every second of the game, dominating Dallas 44-6.

In the end it was truly a Christmas Miracle, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I delivered the Smith Brothers in ‘74. All six of em, in four hours. Pure perfection.

Trust me, I know the red zone.

Sure, a 30-10 victory looks good on paper. But last night, the Green Machine failed when it counted most, scoring only two touchdowns on seven chances in the red zone.

What Coach Reid needs to understand is that the red zone is not only the most fertile area on the field, but it is also the most sensitive. And if you don’t approach this mystical area with confidence, you’ll never score.

This wildcat, pass-happy, unorthodox style of play has to end. It’s simple physics: to score in the red zone you gotta pound, pound, and pound some more, spreading that defense out until it opens right up. And if the Eagles want to make a successful playoff run, they’re gonna have to trust that Westbrook has the stamina to score three, maybe four, times every game.

All eyes were on Orrin Hatch yesterday, the curmudgeonly Senator from Utah, whose hatred of the BCS system has somehow made national news. His inaccurate portrayal of my organization has led to negative press coverage, a looming antitrust suit, and a stomach ulcer that’s giving me terrible gas. So, needless to say, I hate that Mormon-lover more than blended scotch.

The song remains the same, Senator...

But fortunately here at the BCS, we pay no attention to politics and we treat public opinion like the speed limit: we don’t listen to it. So it was no surprise yesterday afternoon, when the Mountain West Conference signed an agreement binding them to the BCS through 2013. Senator Hatch’s plan to create an eight-team playoff system is now officially buried for four more years, and my employees can go back to their number-crunching and complex algorithms with a renewed sense of job security.

Still, the Mountain West’s official statement shows they’re unhappy, and they’re somehow unwilling to admit that this fight is over. I run this operation with an iron fist; there won’t be anyone who isn’t towing the company line. And if Hatch or the MWC brings up playoffs again, I’ll make them disappear faster than a gypsy in Stalinist Russia.

"This is the dance I do when I'm watching real sports."

Normally, I’d rather watch re-runs of Mr. Belvedere than tune into an NBA game. But this time of year, it’s hard to avoid. LeBron this, Kobe that…it gets sickening. Just get it over with — we all know who’s gonna be in the finals.

Or so I thought. This past weekend, the failure of a playoff system was once again brought into focus as the two teams that everyone and their mother is rooting for met some stiff competition. But besides the fact that the NBA playoffs are on the brink of becoming something that no one outside of Denver and Orlando cares about, something that Stan Van Gundy said took the cake: 

“This isn’t the BCS. People don’t get to vote for who they want to play. We’re not in that ridiculous system. This is real sports here where you get to decide it on the court.”

Real sports, Stan? Funny — I thought that real sports had actual rules and officiating that made sense. Next time you want to see what true competition looks like, come on up to Columbus in mid-November. And don’t worry, they make Buckeyes sweatshirts in XXXL.

"We're gonna run the Dublin double-clutch on two..."

First he wanted to reform healthcare, then it was the BCS system, and now it’s Notre Dame’s football program? That’s right, our wonderful President has promised that, if elected to a second term, he will turn Notre Dame’s football team around.

Let’s face it, outside of South Bend, no one gives a rat’s ass about the Fighting Irish. Sure, my great grandfather was a Notre Dame fan…during the great depression. And his favorite food was a mayonnaise sandwich. Me, I prefer seared ahi with a side of the spread offense.

What Mr. Obama fails to realize is that the beauty of the BCS system is that it keeps Notre Dame in its place. And as long as I’m running this show, that’s how its gonna stay, no matter how much “community organizing” goes on in South Bend.

Brackets, like Dick Vitale, are retarded.

We all know the flaws of a playoff system — the best teams never face off, and you’re just as likely to pick the winner at random as you are with an educated guess. So when I saw this site, which allows you to make a bracket for anything, I couldn’t help but get a little annoyed. I thought we didn’t have to hear about “bracketology” again until the snoozefest known as March Madness 2010.

But to make matters worse, some of the brackets that people have created are utterly mind-boggling. I mean, how in the world do “Giant Robots” win the Pirates v. Ninjas bracket? That would be like a Mountain West team winning the BCS. It just doesn’t happen.

And for the record, the best Hootie and the Blowfish song is definitely “Drowning,” not “Let her Cry.” That song was way overplayed.

John Swofford, left, is a handsome and knowledgable man. The guy on the right is a douche bag.

The economy is in the shitter. The swine flu is everywhere. And the housing crisis continues. Yet Congress still has the time to talk about College Football. Normally, I’d be flattered. But not under these circumstances.

Today, Congress heard from my esteemed colleague and BCS coordinator John Swofford, who spoke to the merits of the current system. But many of the Congressmen, including Rep. Joe Barton of Texas, were skeptical. According to ESPN.com:

“It’s like communism,” Barton said at the House Energy and Commerce Committee’s commerce, trade and consumer protection subcommittee hearing. “You can’t fix it.”

Barton, the top Republican on the committee, quipped that the BCS should drop the “C” from its name because it doesn’t represent a true championship.

“Call it the ‘BS’ system,” he said to laughter. 

Very funny, Barton. Let’s play another little wordgame. Rearrange the letters of Congress, and you get “Cons Erg.” Latin for Go Fuck Yourself.

Now you get back to fixing the economy, and I’ll get back to wiping my ass with my Utah Utes jersey.

The best thing since the push-up bra.

It may not be fashion week, but yesterday was a huge day in the world of women’s attire.

That’s right, I’m referring to the sexy new line of underwear that has the (tramp) stamp of approval of the biggest hunk in College Football, Tim Tebow. And with Timmy T coming back for one more year with the Gators, the timing couldn’t have been better. Goodbye Percy Harvin, hello sexy underwear.

For the low price of $8.50, you too can show your pride where it counts. But please buy a few pairs. The guys around the office tell me that crusty panties are a big turn-off…even when they’re endorsed by a God-fearing QB.

Lemme guess, you're still a virgin...

Well that was the cherry on top of a month-long shit sunday. That’s right, I’m talking about last night’s enthralling finale to the College Basketball season. 

I honestly tried to get excited for this game – you had the hometown underdogs, attempting to resurrect their city, against the preseason favorite. But it didn’t take five minutes to show the nation why “March Madness” is a load of crap.

The only thing that happened this month is that the best teams never played each other. Sure, Tyler Hansbrough seems like a terrific guy. But the last thing I want to see is a geeky 6’8’’ white boy looking like Wilt the Stilt, as he matches up against a 6 footer from Flint, Michigan. It’s time for College Basketball to take a hint from the healthiest NCAA sport in the nation, and pit the best against the best to determine a champ.

NCAA Basketball needs to embrace the BCS System.

Every year at this time, it’s the same thing. I wake up in the middle of the night, rush to my bathroom, and violently throw up - typically a mix of scotch and bananas. No, it’s not my acid indigestion acting up…it’s March Madness.

I’ll tell you what’s “madness” – having a bracket of 65 teams that must compete to determine the winner of a tournament. Time and time again, I’ve sat down with my colleagues over at NCAA basketball, and I’ve told them about the intricacies and accuracy of the BCS system. I’ve pointed their attention to our proven track record. But do I get a call when March rolls around?

The BCS has all the tools at its disposal. Whether it’s the mega-computers that run our numbers (as well as Mason’s porn server) or the cornucopia of useless graphs that justify our rankings, we can easily help you mess up a simple tournament.

You have my number. 

Yet another reason to hate the Mountain West.

Like the 1993 Robert Redford snooze-fest of the same name, the Mountain West Conference recently made an indecent proposal to change the BCS’ structure.  However, unlike the film, it contained no gratuitous shots of Demi Moore’s voluptuous rack. I’ll spare you the details on what’s been proposed, but I will deliver a message that I’ve been handed straight from the desk of my esteemed boss, Mr. Harold Billingsworth:

“Unfortunately for you commie pricks, you don’t have a say in the matter.  Is this what they teach you in the Mountain West? I guess the education is as shitty as the football. Now I’ve got some calls to make, and my masseuse arrives at 2:00 PM sharp, so get the fuck out of my office.”

That's the winning smile!

With his second Super Bowl championship in five years, Ben Roethlisberger has not only cemented himself as one of the greatest quarterbacks of our era, he’s also signaled a shift in how prospective NFL quarterbacks should be evaluated.

Troy Aikman had a winning smile, and Tom Brady sure looks handsome in the pocket, but Big Ben proves that you don’t need to be a former Abercrombie model to be America’s golden boy. Roethlisberger is built like a construction worker, waddles more than he runs, and is best motivated with coffee cake. But he’s also a two-time champ, and you can’t take that away from him.

I can think of another ugly fat ass who’s won two championships…and his name is Tim Tebow. And if the NFL scouts put two and two together, he might not be drafted as a Tight End in the 5th round.

I'm going pro, bitches!

Point:  The Treasury Department should take notice: there’s one American who’s bracing himself for “The Great Recession,” and his name is Mark Sanchez. By declaring himself eligible for the NFL draft this morning, Sanchez is betting that he can beat out Georgia’s Matthew Stafford and be the first QB selected in the 2009 draft, likely netting himself a hefty paycheck. Not one to gamble away his chips, Sanchez knows when to back away from the table and cash out, and that’s exactly what he’s doing.

Harold Billingsworth is a world-renowned businessman, economist, and CEO of the BCS Committee.

Couterpoint:  Sanchez, tu es loco. Haven’t you learned that playing quarterback at USC means you get handed more ass than a donkey farmer? First there was Palmer, then came Leinart. Shit, John David Booty was known as the “Casanova of Century City” and he couldn’t even form a coherent sentence. As an aging playboy myself, I can tell you that the opportunities don’t get any better, especially when you’re a second string QB for the Chiefs. Take it from me, Kansas City isn’t L.A.

Mason McDermott is an internationally recognized skirt-chaser, misogynist, and the BCS Committee’s Vice President of Business Development and Internal Affairs.

This is almost as exciting as a midseason matchup between Air Force and Wyoming.

To all of you who have emailed me regarding the Utah situation: shut the fuck up.

Must I remind everyone that they’re preaching about a team from the Mountain West Conference? The Runnin’ Rebels, the Lobos, the Horned Frogs…what is this, intramural softball? When the Utes barely beat New Mexico, no one made a fuss. But now that Utah’s ranking is the hot thing to complain about, like gas prices or the Bush administration, my inbox is flooded.

So if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. I got an early tee time and Tebow hates when I’m late.

Tonight’s championship game pits the two best quarterbacks in the land against each other – Tebow vs. Bradford.

This guy's got confidence...

The last time a matchup of this magnitude occurred, it was during the spring semester of my senior year at Arizona. Our fraternity was hosting its annual “pimps ‘n’ hoes” theme party, and one of my pledges (a cocky freshman who flaunted his banana hammock at every opportunity) was determined to take the lovely ladies’ attention away from yours truly. 

Ultimately, it came down to one simple trait: confidence. I approached every gin-swilling sorority sister in the room with a fire in my eyes, and before I knew it, I was tearing through poonan like the Pac-10 tore through the bowl season.

So, Mr. Tebow and Mr. Bradford, play with confidence. Lord knows I did. But just remember to soap and rinse thoroughly after the dust settles. I didn’t, and the rash lasted for a whole month.

Does someone need a tummy tuck?

I’ve never understood why fans get so upset when their team is labeled the underdog. So far, in the 12 major bowl games, the “underdogs” have a record of 9-3. In fact, the only game in which the favorite outplayed their opponent was when USC dominated Penn St. in the Rose Bowl.

Having studied the male psyche for years, from dating Pete Carroll to that regrettable one night stand with Charlie Weis, this comes as no surprise to me. If you tell a girl that she’s fat and ugly, she’ll probably start to believe it, even if she looks like Marisa Miller. On the other hand, tell a guy that he’s worthless, and even if he’s a pre-rehab Kevin Federline, he’ll try to prove you wrong.

It’s time for the angry sports radio calls to stop, the frustrated fans of the Pac-10 to settle down, and the Michigan Wolverines to realize that this year was a blessing in disguise. If you’re the underdog, you’ve got a lot more going for you than you may think.

 

 

Respect your elders, bitches!

Sure, I’ve had my disagreements with Joe Paterno in the past, but when I heard that he signed a three-year extension with Penn St., I couldn’t help but be happy for the old man.

JoePa symbolizes many things – tradition, sportsmanship, respect for the game. But most of all he is a leader that anyone in a position of power can relate to. Here’s a guy who can’t wipe his own ass, speaks less coherently than Bob Dylan after three hits of acid, and still refers to his starting QB as “that colored boy.”

So I want to extend a hearty congratulations to the geriatric general, and maybe next year the preseason rankings will favor the elderly.

It’s award season, from the Heisman to the Golden Globes, which means it’s time to name Mason McDermott’s “Dumbass of the Year.” Steeped in tradition, this coveted title is fit only for someone who reaches a maximum level of douchebag-ery. Past winners include Lee Corso, Charlie Weis, and Kevin Federline.

And this year, it goes to none other than our very own Ned Baxter!

If last week’s blog entry predicting Colt McCoy to win the Heisman wasn’t enough, just glance back through the season. Whether it was his failure to see the Gators’ potential, or calling for Texas Tech to be ranked #1, Ned’s opinions have been absolutely worthless.

So here’s to you, Ned! You’re a total fucking dumbass! I hope you enjoy an off-season full of TV dinners and not getting laid. 

 

 

Does someone feel left out?

When the 2008 Heisman finalists were announced this past week, I realized that this award has become a consolation prize for whoever feels most neglected by the BCS Committee.

You guessed it, Colt McCoy’s gonna be taking home the hardware, not because he has the best numbers in the nation, but because Texas isn’t playing for a National Championship. Cry me a Rio Grande, Longhorn fans.

To make matters worse, the most outstanding player in College Football, Graham Harrell, wasn’t even nominated. The guy throws for almost 5,000 yards, tosses 41 touchdowns, and he’s still not in the running? That’s almost as illogical as inviting a Mountain West team to a BCS game. Oh, wait…

Even though we decided upon a whole slew of bowl games this past weekend, everyone is still talking about our decision to put Oklahoma in the Big 12 Championship. Well guess what? It wasn’t our decision. It was my decision. And I stand by it.

In the heat of battle, a leader has to take charge. Did Ike ask for permission to storm the beaches of Normandy? Did Stalin consult his wife before he murdered millions of Ukrainians? Did Slater ask Zack if he could date Kelly Kapowski? No – when decisions have to be made, a strong leader needs to make them.

Besides, who said picking out of a hat isn’t the best method? What were you expecting? Rock, paper, scissors?

Recently everyone’s been asking me: should College Football move to a playoff system? Normally I’m someone who welcomes diversity – cheese or pepperoni, two-point conversion or extra point, missionary or doggy-style – it’s a part of what makes our nation so great. But let’s examine the situation in full.

That's what I'm talking about...

The beauty of college football is that each game counts. The tension runs high as a team’s season can be won or lost every week. With this tension comes non-stop debauchery, and as fans, we get to enjoy it all season long. In a playoff system, there’s only three weeks in which the games matter. Who wants one fun month (I’m looking in your direction March Madness) when you can have a whole semester full of dollar drafts, late-night pizza, and waking up next to a cheerleader whose name you forgot?

If you’re still not sold, come join me for a game. Maybe then you’ll understand why the boozing and whoring that surrounds College Football has become part of the fabric of sports in this country – and why I don’t want to see it change.

Last week I sat down with Coach Pete Carroll of the USC Trojans to give him a detailed analysis of our most recent rankings. Normally, I would do anything to sit across from Coach Carroll, with his dimples and salt and pepper mop…but having to be the bearer of bad news is never fun.

I delivered the message over a seared ahi salad at the Water Grill: no matter what the Trojans do this year, there’s no way they’ll make the title game. I assured him it wasn’t his fault, the Pac-10 is just too weak.

Like any good coach, Carroll pleaded for his team, even offering to donate his million dollar salary to charity if the BCS would roll the dice on the Trojans. As he passionately made his case, I couldn’t help but get lost in his dreamy blue eyes. This Trojan could sneak his horse into my city any day.

The offer’s on the table, Pete. If you want to play for a national championship, you know what you need to do…

As the CEO of the heralded BCS Committee, I was greatly disturbed when I heard President-elect Barack Obama, during his interview on Monday Night Football, suggest that College Football needs a playoff system. It’s one thing for bitter old men like Joe Paterno and Pete Carroll to take issue with the BCS. It’s a different story coming from the future head of our great nation.

The BCS system is tried and true, a time-tested method that has always produced a clear national champion. Sounds awfully similar to the Electoral College…which conveniently selected Barack Obama as our Commander in Chief.

So I ask you, Mr. Obama, how would you feel about going to a playoff format? After working through the summer and fall, you’d face Dennis Kucinich in the first round, follow up with Hillary Clinton on the road, and close with John McCain at a neutral site. And as you learned last week, anything can happen on any given day.

Now let me ask you, do you still think playoffs are a good idea?

Halloween Weekend. I was in Jacksonville for the Florida—Georgia game, and it only solidified my theory that the SEC is the best conference in the NCAA. Sure, the game was a blowout, not too exciting. But I’m talking about the girls. Thousands of them, wearing next to nothing…dressed as slutty nurses, slutty nuns, slutty Sarah Palins. Sex appeal was the name of the game, and anything with two tits and a pair of legs seemed to be winning.

After taking 3^rd prize in the costume contest Saturday night (I was Lee Corso), I ended up at the Holiday Inn Express with three Gator girls and a little Georgia peach named Amber. Let me tell you, the bathtub in room 304 has never seen so much skin!

Can there really be a debate about which conference is the best? Trust me, this kind of debauchery doesn’t go on at the Red River Classic.

A few weeks ago, I got to wondering: how the hell did I catch so many touchdowns in my prime? I mean, seventeen TD receptions the year I got the Heisman? That’s downright ridiculous.

After a few days of studying tape, becoming what JC would call “a student of the game,” one thing became abundantly clear: my success was directly related to the fact that I played in the famed “Spread Offense.”

And then it dawned on me — my success on the bedroom depended on the “Spread” as well…

Sure, talent helps. But if you’ve got the right gameplan, you can penetrate any defense.

This afternoon I was extremely happy to hear the news that Michael Vick was conditionally reinstated into the NFL by commissioner Roger Goodell. But this isn’t the first time that I’ve heard the word “conditional” used, and lemme tell you…this sorta thing doesn’t always end well.

C'mon, Mike. That shit ain't gonna fly.

It was the summer of ‘02, and I’d been dating Candi Apple, a legendary dancer at the Spearmint Rhino. Things were great: the sex was mind blowing, she knew when to shut up, and the bitch made the best damn spare ribs I’ve ever tasted. So about three weeks into it, when Candi gave me the go-ahead to “enter through the back door,” I was on cloud nine.

A few days later, after a long night out with the guys, I came home to find Candi waiting for me in my bed. She was asleep, but still looking fine as hell in her crotchless panties and silk nightie. Needless to say, I’d had a few drinks, and when I tried to go through the back door without waking her up, the sweet Candi Apple turned sour, and I damn near lost my third leg.

So while things are looking up for Mike Vick with today’s news, let me be the one to serve as a cautionary tail. Tread lightly, Mikey. And no, cockfighting is not okay.

After three weeks in jail, even Star Jones looks good.

As an alumnus of Florida State, I’ve known a lot of people who’ve gone to jail. And generally, when someone gets out, there’s some sort of celebration. Whether it’s a party or a barbecue, it’s important to bring friends and family together over some ribs, chicken and, of course, spiked Kool-Aid.

But that’s not to say that things go back to normal once you’re free. The experience of prison makes you appreciate a lot of things, such as a home-cooked meal or taking a shower without an obese Mexican dude asking if he can soap your thighs. But there’s no question as to what prison makes you miss the most: a woman’s touch. Don’t matter if they’re short or tall, black or white, round or extremely round…being in jail will open your eyes to the female body in ways you never before imagined. Your gap-toothed neighbor will suddenly resemble Pam Grier. You’ll get turned on by the cover of National Geographic. And you’re friends will most definitely be shocked when you refer to Star Jones as a “fine piece of ass.”

So, what advice do I have for Donte Stallworth? Stuff a grand in your pocket, sandwich yourself between two Ukrainian strippers, and don’t look back. You’ll remember why being a free American man is worth staying within the law.

Chad Ochocinco and Carson Palmer are the Cincinnati Bengals’ version of The Odd Couple, but this offseason may help them turn things around. Although the media may laugh off Chad’s recent assertion that he will move in with Palmer this summer to work on their chemistry, I can tell you that he’s on the right path.

"Carson, please touch me where I pee. Tenderly."

Before JC unexpectedly entered my home, my entire life was out of wack. I blew through my signing bonus, had an insatiable appetite for booze and couldn’t shake my addiction to strippers. But after he moved in and we spent some time analyzing my problems, I quickly righted the ship.

To be honest, the whole quitting strippers thing hasn’t quite happened yet (and a special shout goes out to Sabrina), but I can tell you from experience, Ochocinco is on to something. When you live with someone, you truly get to know them, and that’s exactly what Palmer and Ochocinco need.

Speaking of getting to know someone, does anybody know a good masseuse? JC’s got me rubbing his feet every night before bed, and it’s just disgusting.

When I first came into the league a few years back, I was unlucky enough to be drafted by a ruddy faced old bastard named Tom Coughlin. And it didn’t take long for me to realize that his coaching style was not for me. Gone were the days of smoking a blunt with the Florida St. D-line, as Tommy Boy preached on about “drug tests” and “conditioning,” working me like a drill sergeant.

So when I heard the news that Colonel Coughlin was headed over to Iraq to speak to the troops, I wasn’t surprised at all. He wants to honor the “real heroes” and I say, more power to him. Lord knows that now that we got a peace-loving brother in the Oval office, we need someone to crack the whip.

Tom Coughlin may have a Super Bowl ring, but he belongs on the Iraqi battlefield, not the NFL sideline. It’s the National Football League. Not the No Fun League.

The state bird of Texas

A few months ago, I wrote off Jerry Jones for cutting Pacman Jones and Tank Johnson, two Cowboys players who had a penchant for mixing it up with law enforcement. This wasn’t the Jerry Jones I grew up with…the Arkansas hellcat who bet on players like a riverboat gambler. Where was the appetite for risk that had made him such a successful owner to begin with?

Well, after a night of carousing at the George Strait concert at the opening of the Cowboy’s new stadium, Jerry Jones returned to his old form and opened the door for Pacman to be given a second fourteenth chance. In the wee hours of Sunday morning, after the concert was over and perhaps after Jerry had had a few too many, he reportedly asked a writer from the Fort Worth Telegram: “Would you beat me too bad if I brought Adam back?”

If I’d have known that all it took was a some social lubricant to grease the wheels, I’d be on the next plane to Dallas with a bottle of Tanquerey and a couple of tumblers. Hell, I’d even bring some of that medicinal shit so Jerry could really open his mind. Barry Switzer, Deion….does anyone have Leon Lett’s number?

One of my interests outside of sports is the law, specifically, understanding my own god-given rights and keeping my personal property, well, “personal.” The authorities better have a warrant if they wanna open the locked glove compartment in my Benz, y’know what I mean?

See Ryan Pass. See Ryan Run. See Ryan Flee.

Because a certain dog-fighting quarterback was released from prison this past week, no one paid attention when news broke that former Chargers QB Ryan Leaf was being brought up on burglary and drug charges. Like Mr. Vick before him, I figured it would just be another guilty plea and a reduced sentence. 

But never in my wildest dreams did I think that the fool would flee to Canada. Ain’t you ever heard of Leonard Peltier? Judges don’t take kindly to running off like that, dumbass.

I was caught off guard this morning when I heard that former NBA player Corie Blount was sentenced to a year in jail after police intercepted 11 pounds of marijuana being sent to him. I’d heard about the whole ordeal a while back, but the news that police also stumbled across another 18 pounds stashed away in his closet got my attention.

The less Blounted days

From ESPN:

Judge Craig Hedric rejected Blount’s claim that the marijuana was intended for personal use and to share with friends.

“Cheech and Chong would have had a hard time smoking that much,” Hedric told Blount.

What’s up, C-Blount, I can’t get an invite? Hook D-Good up, you bogartin’ son of a bitch…

As a man who respects a bit of freestylin’, from Method Man to Muhammad Ali, I take note when someone makes their point in verse.

So when I heard Floyd Mayweather, Sr. make some bold predictions last week, I called my boys in Vegas and bet the farm on Ricky “The Hitman” Hatton. No one ever lies when they’re jive-talkin’, right?

Well, I learned my lesson the hard way. Never, ever, ever listen to Floyd Mayweather, Sr. (Ever.)

Weird things happen when you stop smoking weed. Bad movies seem, well, bad. Cypress Hill loses a bit of its luster. And when I quit the green, I was so outta wack that I didn’t visit a stripper for a week and a half.

Cold turkey is a bitch.

So after Percy Harvin’s positive drug test at the NFL combine, it’s clear to me why the former Gator wideout is in the hospital for “dehydration.” I’m sorry, Percy, but I’ve got some bad news. Cheeseburgers aren’t going to taste as cheesy anymore. Your friend T-Bone won’t be as funny. And your skill level at Madden will plummet.

But don’t worry, in time, you’ll start to feel normal again…you just won’t be on a first-name basis with the guy who works at Jack in the Box anymore.

Jason Williams, you're screwed.

I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with the law. Just last month, I got ticketed in Tijuana for having a trunk load full of eleven Mexican strippers. The legal limit’s eight…who knew?

But one thing that Darnell Goodman has certainly never done is gotten himself tasered.

Good luck, JW. You’ll need it.

 

Andre's issues involve donuts, not drugs.

With the NFL Draft only days away, I’ve been surprised by the lack of conversation about players who have “character issues,” and Andre Smith running a shirtless 40 doesn’t count. Todd McShay and his finely coiffed friend, Mel Kiper, have been eerily quiet on the issue, which leads me to a personally troubling question: where have all the felons gone? 

Let’s take this away from football for a second – did my Grammy’s ham’n’pea soup taste right without that sprinkle of paprika? Hell no. And is the Spearmint Rhino as enjoyable as it can be if Diamond’s not working? Not even close. A player like Ray Lewis or Pacman Jones can ignite a team and hotbox a car in one fell swoop, so don’t let the media convince you that these larger-than-life players are only a distraction. 

So I ask the Draft Class of 2009: where are all the childish mistakes and errors in judgment? 

When my good friend Don over at With Malice suggested I get involved with the NBA’s Unsung Player Day this April 5th, I found myself thinking of only one guy: Mark “Mad Dog” Madsen. Why is he D-Good’s choice? It’s not because he’s a former Laker. And it’s not because he’s a brother who’s better known for his celebratory dance moves than for his accomplishments on the hardwood, though that is something to be admired.

White men can't jump...but they sure can dance!

It’s because, while y’all may not realize it, the Mad Dog and I have a lot in common.

A graduate of Stanford University, Madsen learned to play a focused, organized game, typical of his alma mater. Known as a bruiser and grinder, Madsen developed into a hard-working defender who never backs down from a challenge. A graduate of Florida State University, I learned to play a cheating, haphazard style, typical of my alma mater. Known as a bumper and a grinder, I even created my own special touchdown dance, coined the “Criminole,” as a testament to my fellow ex-convicts teammates.

Another similarity is our common love of languages. Madsen is fluent in Spanish, after serving a two-year mission abroad in Spain. Whether it’s frequenting the tapas bars in Minneapolis or just conversing with the towel boy, Madson is your man.  Similarly, D-good is fluent in the language of love, as I’ve lived in Los Angeles my entire life. Whether it’s the putas in East Hollywood or the girls in Little Armenia, no one can find a stripper faster than me. And if y’all ain’t ever heard a girl scream your name in Cambodian, I highly recommend it.

So spark one up, and throw the Mad Dog a bone – it’s Unsung Players Day, bitch!

You could very well get stabbed, Commissioner.

Commissioner Goodell, the major networks, fans – everyone’s excited about the discussions taking place right now to expand the NFL season beyond sixteen games. But as my girl used to say - “keep yo dick in yo pants” - so let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. The collective bargaining agreement with the players’ union is yet to be ironed out.

To be clear, most NFL players don’t have a problem being asked to work more. But a lot of dudes will have a problem if they’re not going to see that cheese.

Let’s take this away from football for a minute. Imagine that you’re my cousin, Bebo , who hails from the South Bronx. You tell him that he’ll be working an extra two hours per shift at the recycling plant and he’ll knife you before you finish the sentence. Ray Lewis’ reaction could very well be the same.

"For $20 more, I'll take off my pants."

Lately, it’s been open season on A-Rod. And he deserves most of it. That’s what you get for letting a Dominican penetrate your ass. 

But that’s no reason to come down on him about his recent photo shoot for Details Magazine. 

As something of an Adonis myself, I know why A-Rod posed for Details: because he looks fly as hell. Shit, if I had green eyes like that, I’d do a photo shoot where there’d be more than just kissing the mirror and a bare midriff involved.  So for all the haters out there – stop bitching and moaning…it’s not A-Rod’s fault you’re fat and ugly.

A cloud of smoke follows this guy wherever he goes.

You gotta love a brother who gets pulled over with alcohol on his breath and weed crumbs in his car, and still doesn’t even get a slap on the wrist.

You ain’t gotta be squeaky clean, just clean enough. Hit me up, Reggie Williams. I’ll party with you any day of the week.

The smell of fish and skunk is overwhelming...

We knew that he could catch touchdowns and set fire to the crowd. But who knew that Randy Moss could catch big ass fish while burning down a Swisher?

Thanks to Shutdown Corner, for showing us how multi-talented a brother can be.

It hurts to admit it, but I’ve lost faith in the Cowboys. With players like P-Jones, Tank Johnson, and now T.O. being shown the door, it seems that Jerry Jones has lost his appetite for star personalities. But beyond that, Jerry Jones has lost his goddamn mind, and hopefully, my cell phone number.

The Cowboys roster is now filled with a choke artist of a QB and a bunch of no-names – not the guys who make headlines and sell jerseys. This ain’t “America’s team” no more. Shit, there’s more diversity in the White House.

As for you, T.O. – I suggest you come visit me in L.A., and we’ll do some training together: wind sprints, stairs, maybe we’ll even set up the bench press in my driveway.  This way, when Al Davis gives us a call, we can hop on the next flight to Oaktown and be donning the silver and black in a matter of hours. 

She trusts me...

As more details of A-Rod’s steroid use are revealed, I’m alarmed that no one has picked up on what is truly at the root of the problem: you gotta trust the person who’s sticking something in your butt.

In my own experience, I’ve found that it takes real perseverance to get one of my partners to trust me back there. It’s not unusual for me to rack up a bill at Mr. Chow’s and then sit courtside at Staples with a lady before being invited in through the backdoor. Believe me, if Arby’s and a forty is all it takes to put it in her butt, it’s not somewhere you want to be in the first place.

One thing you can’t take away from America’s Team is that, year in and year out, they lead the league in alleged criminals on the squad. And with Terrell Owens’ recent outreach to Ray Lewis, the team looks to maintain its dominance in this often overlooked, but extremely important, statistical category.

Ray-ray loves taking pictures! Someone tell this guy when the Cowboys team photo is!

Forget the turnover ratio, I’m talking about the ex-con ratio. And as a Florida State “Criminole,” I know how important this stat can be.

Fact is, any successful team needs some color in the locker room to take their game to the next level. The’06 Patriots were good, but add Randy Moss to the mix, and they almost went undefeated in ‘07. The Trail Blazers of the mid ‘90s would light up the competition on the court, then light up the blunt in the Range Rover. And the ’86 Mets serve as proof that cocaine is indeed a performance enhancing substance. 

Jerry Jones knows that creating a champion is like creating a delicious bowl of soup – you gotta add just the right amount of spice. And to think, after the release of Tank, and my man P-Jones, I thought the Cowboys lost their touch…

Dear Reggie,

How can someone have such a big mouth and still be so damn skinny? 

"Please stop making fun of my neck. I've heard all the giraffe jokes in the book."

I never really liked you when you played – your freakishly huge Adam’s apple always bothered me – and let’s face it, you’re currently one of the worst NBA analysts in the business. But when you came down on the fans at Madison Square Garden for applauding Kobe’s 61 point performance, you went too far. What are you, jealous?

Poor, Reggie. If you’re that sensitive, I wouldn’t recommend watching tonight’s game when a superstar famous for wearing his Yankee hat in Cleveland comes to the Garden. If they rolled out the red carpet for Kobe, I’m thinking King James’ got at least a few handjobs coming his way.

Sincerely,

D-Good

Seriously, pass the Visine. I can't open my eyes!

I just don’t understand why the recently released picture of Michael Phelps hitting a bong is such a big deal. After the DUI at age nineteen, wasn’t it clear that the brother had a wild side? And who goes to a house party and doesn’t get high? A loser, that’s who. Not the greatest Olympic athlete of all time.

By toking up, my boy was doing nothing more than trying to level the playing field. You think Jordan was sober when he won championships four, five, and six? You think Tiger was clean when he won the Masters? Guys that good need to find a way to make it exciting, to give their opponents’ a fighting chance. Shit, I spent half my Heisman season higher than a kite.

Sure, HGH is wrong. Steroids are for cowards. And after seeing the way that Lawrence Taylor terrorized the NFL in the late 80s, it’s clear that cocaine gives athletes an edge. But a little bit of weed? Puff puff, pass.

Yet another reason I love my iPhone.

Normally, D-Good approaches the media with caution – they’re always out to get a brotha like me. But when I heard that the folks over at With Malice were interested in an interview, I couldn’t resist. 

First off, the site is one of the best basketball blogs out there. Second, they flew me to Japan for the interview, and I love me some sashimi – JC’s been encouraging me to eat more raw foods. And when they told me they’d be sending a few of Japan’s finest strippers to my hotel room as a welcoming present, it was a done deal.

Check out With Malice to see my interview.

You gotta be feeling pretty good right now, President Obama. You’re a revolutionary force in politics. You’re being heralded as the “hope of our time.” And you’ve been given the keys to a dope mansion on Pennsylvania Ave. But let me give you a few tips on how to make your transition as smooth as possible.

"Cross me once, I'll let it go. Cross me twice, I'll Barack your balls."

1) Avoid the temptation to “break in” the new surroundings: Back at FSU, I christened my new apartment by throwing an intimate party for three hundred of my closest friends, teammates, and strippers. But when the cops arrived, it was anything but fun. Who knew that KY Jelly could catch fire like bacon grease? Not D-Good.

2) Leave the old neighborhood behind: I know you’re something of a “community organizer,” Barack, but Maurice, Knuck-Knuck, and the rest of your boys from the neighborhood will still be there for you when you’re out of office.

3) Keep a low profile: In the sports world, any brother with personality is said to have “attitude issues.” I’m not saying it’s fair, but at the same time, I realize now that my decision to show up at the 2002 NFL Draft accompanied by Flava Flav was ill-advised. 

You’ve got a busy four years ahead of you, but I’m confident that you’ll be fine. Just don’t take your wife for granted – she’s not a pushover like Hillary.

Sure, we all learned our lesson about “making it rain” when Pacman went a little too far in Vegas last February. But these latest allegations, I just don’t understand.

JC is so damn jealous of that hair.

Lemme get this straight – my boy didn’t shoot nobody, right? And is it a crime to tell someone to keep their hands off your lady? Last time I checked, that was called chivalry. I know Pacman hasn’t always been a perfect angel, but this ESPN story is nothing more than the media trying to drum up trouble.

And they’ve succeeded.

Jerry Jones, I thought you were gangsta. To throw Pacman to the curb like this is a cowardly move, and next time you call me lookin’ for weed, I ain’t calling your sorry ass back. As for you, P-Jones, if you need a place to stay in these trying times, hit me up – it’s been too long anyway. Speaking of which, JC wants to know where you’re getting your hair done these days. That shit is the bomb. 

These triplets went to town on me.

Dear Charles Barkley,

You just love criticizing people, don’t you? Sitting up in your ivory tower at TNT, in between dominating the catered buffet and playing grab-ass with Ernie Johnson, you think you can tell everyone how to live their lives. First, you lambast Auburn University for their failure to hire an African-American as their head football coach. Then you blame Lebron James for creating the media circus that’s erupted over his impending free agency.

But with your recent DUI, you’re the one on the hot seat, provided your fat ass can fit in it.

Sure, it’s easy to forget about a stop sign when a white girl has her head in your lap, but let D-Good offer you a little bit of advice, something JC taught me. Use the backseat, mothafucka! Take it from me, getting head feels the same whether you’re in a movie theater, the VIP room, or an igloo. That’s right, an igloo. Eskimo bitches are crazy.

Sincerely,

D-Good

 

 

This guy knows how to have a good time...

I’m gonna say it upfront: Darnell Goodman is a fan of Shaun Ellis.

Sure, Shaun got busted last month with a bunch of weed, but I heard it was that Hawaiian stuff, so you got to at least applaud him on his tastes. Plus, he apologized – took it like a man. So when Shaun throws a snowball into the stands while running off the field in Seattle this past Sunday, that shouldn’t be a big deal, right?

Wrong. Shaun was fined $10,000 for his shenanigans in the snow. I guess even in these tough times, there ain’t nothing in this world that’s free…not even a good laugh.

Personally, I don’t see a problem with Shaun giving the fans a taste of their own medicine. Y’all may not know, but fans can be annoying as hell – it’s one thing to talk shit from the stands, but stand face-to-face with Shaun Ellis and make fun of his auntie or his baby momma, and you’re lucky if all you get is a snowball fight. When I saw Shaun toss that iceberg into the stands, I cracked up. The last time I laughed like that was the first time I saw Friday…but that cost me 5.50 at the Magic Johnson Multiplex.

 

 

Who wants sloppy seconds?

 

 

This week, when it was announced that Sean Avery would not be returning to the Dallas Stars due to his anger issues, I was shocked. Sure, my boy said his ex-girlfriend would bang any dude with a pair of skates and a name that rhymes with Federov, but since when did calling it like you see it become a crime? His suspension aside, the way his teammates have acted is what really bothers me.

A teammate is supposed to be your friend, your confidant, your brother in arms. They’re the guys you call when a stripper overdoses in your limo, or when you got twins waiting to do the nasty up in your hotel suite.  And when you air your dirty laundry, a real teammate is there to help fold that shit and set things straight.

So while Sean rides out his suspension, I hope his teammates take some time to think about how they’ve treated one of their own. But most importantly, let this be a lesson to us all: white folks are outta their goddamn minds.

For a superstar like me, life isn’t a ball of yarn – it’s a war zone. I got homeboys hitting me up for cash all the time and women trying to become my baby mama on a nightly basis. When I go out, it feels like I’ve got a target on my back. 

So naturally, I agree with Joey Porter: if you’re a high profile athlete you absolutely need protection. But when Joey Porter referred to the “little buddy” he carries, he had it all wrong. 

Instead of packing heat, I pack JC – he shines the light wherever I go. But if you cross him, that crazy mothafucka will strike down on you harder than any glock you can fit in your sweatpants.

Face it, Tom. You need D-good on your side.

Dear Tom Coughlin,

As JC and I watched your receivers drop ball after ball this Sunday, it became clear that Eli’s gonna need a reliable target down the stretch. Someone who isn’t afraid to lay out over the middle and look pretty while doing it. Someone like D-Good.

Now I know you’ve heard things about me, but JC can assure you that I’ve cleaned up my act. That’s right, the new Darnell trains hard, eats right, and hasn’t been to the strip club in four days. With me in the mix, I’m so confident we’ll win a ring that I won’t even hit the Latin Quarter till the season’s over. And don’t worry, I won’t bring Pierce with me.

Respectfully yours,

Darnell Goodman

This morning I was fortunate enough to sneak into my buddy Greg’s basement so that I could adjust my squad on his computer. It had been a few days since I’d gotten online, and I happened to notice that I was approaching the Innings Pitched limit — I would only be able to start pitchers in favorable situations for the rest of the year. Seeing that Mark Buehrle was playing the Rays, and he was only two starts removed from an 8-run outing, I decided to keep him on the bench.

Unless you are living under a rock, you know how this ends. And believe me, it’s not pretty.

I’d thought that I hit rock bottom last fall when the Browns benched Derek Anderson and I had to start turning tricks in public bathrooms just to get by. But this is a new low in my fantasy career, and let’s face it, my life. Not only did I miss a perfect game, but I broke the window on the way out of Greg’s basement, and that’s gonna run me at least three months worth of panhandling. His wife is a real bitch.

"I paid good money for those flower pots..."

Last September, things weren’t looking so hot for me. I’d lost my job because I was “preoccupied” with my fantasy squad and my wife had kicked me out because I was more interested in discussing yards-per-carry than the baby she was carrying. But it was when Tom Brady went down with a torn ACL in the first game of the season that I knew I’d officially hit rock bottom.

Apparently ruining my life wasn’t enough, as now Brady’s causing problems for Dennis Paiva, of Malden, Mass. I’m no longer the the only one who’s forced to panhandle and prostitute himself because of old Tommy boy, and to make matters worse, this time his victim is a senior citizen.

A few months ago, Paiva happened to be driving through the Back Bay, looking for discarded items. Seeing a few metal flower pots by a trash area, he loaded them into his truck, and sold them for a decent profit. But what seemed like a harmless act to him has since mushroomed into a $4,000 fine, as Paiva learned that the flower pots belonged to Brady, and he’d been caught on camera “stealing” them.

Now, Paiva says he has no choice but to panhandle to pay Brady back…even though Tom is is making $30 million this year in salary and endorsments. Is it fair? Absolutely not. But in the charmed life of Tom Brady, unless your name is Wes Welker, you’re nothing more than a bum on the street.