Monday, April 16, 2007
Doubling-Down on Red (Bull)
By SG2.0
As painful and embarrassing as this is to admit, this past weekend was SG2.0's first trip to the wonderfully wild world of Las Vegas, Nevada.
Of course I have my excuses for not having gone before.
For one, I lived on the East Coast for the first 24 years of my life.
Secondly, my bank account rarely made it's way into the three digit range for the first 24 years of my life.
Thirdly, I knew that I would drink enough Red Bull and Vodka's over the course of one weekend to kill a baby cow.
(No word yet on how baby cows get access to Red Bull and/or Vodka)
Now, I've been known to place a wager or two, or three, in my lifetime. And I've lost some chump change here and there.
But after watching some of the glorious pieces of trash that nestle up to various black jack and roulette tables in the gambling capital of the world the past few days, I won't really feel so bad the next time I finish dead last in my fantasy baseball league after losing a measly $10.
Most of the guys I speak of straight up reek of near-dead hookers and feet.
They parade around in 25-year-old blue leisure suits and model their mustaches and hair as if they were trying to emulate what Sanjaya will look like in the year 2029.
And yet somehow these guys, that look one missed shower away from living out of a card-board box, can pony up three to four thousand dollars at the drop of a hat.
Where did I go wrong in life?!
Who knew the secret to becoming wealthy is looking somewhat like former WWF manager Harvey Whippleman?
But hey, I guess you already know that Vegas is filled to the brim with sleaze.
Instead I would like to officially announce that I can no longer drink alcohol.
My typical Saturday hangover used to be resolved simply by washing my mouth out with Listerine approximately10,000 times and fighting off the urge to gag while I stuffed my face with UConn’s finest clam chowder and attempted to forget about what the “slightly overweight” girl from the night before tasted like.
God I miss college.
Nonetheless headaches and lack of energy were not included in this deadly deal.
And now my typical Saturday hangover is not resolved whatsoever.
Instead it lasts all day and all night and I proceed to freak out everyone that I come in contact with.
Whenever my buddy “Spring Chicken” took one look at me he would simply repeat the infamous Family Guy line, “Men be acting all like Zombie’s at the mall.”
Did it make sense other than the zombie reference? No.
But it served it’s purpose. I WAS acting like a zombie and, quite frankly, I felt like one.
On Saturday night I was so fatigued that I couldn’t even appreciate the fact that I was standing just a block away from the site of the worst WrestleMania of all time.
(That would be WM IX at Caesar’s Palace for those of you that are interested. Any event that features Doink the Clown versus Kona Crush in a prominent match is one that I choose to forget, thank you very much).
My Vegas partners and I had arrived that Friday night (the 13th as luck would have it) at approximately 11 p.m. and didn’t go to bed until approximately 7:30 a.m. on Saturday morning.
It was obviously a good night, in which I drank enough Red Bull and Vodka’s to kill a baby sea lion and smoked more cigarettes than I had in the past decade.
(No word yet on how baby sea lions get access to Red Bull and/or Vodka).
But with that said, it was no excuse for my pathetic performance the next day.
And now’s about the time where Simmons would say something witty like, “Vegas baby, Vegas.”
For now I’ll refrain.
Got a question, comment or mailbag question for SG2.0? E-Mail him at: Sportsguy2.0@hotmail.com
By SG2.0
As painful and embarrassing as this is to admit, this past weekend was SG2.0's first trip to the wonderfully wild world of Las Vegas, Nevada.
Of course I have my excuses for not having gone before.
For one, I lived on the East Coast for the first 24 years of my life.
Secondly, my bank account rarely made it's way into the three digit range for the first 24 years of my life.
Thirdly, I knew that I would drink enough Red Bull and Vodka's over the course of one weekend to kill a baby cow.
(No word yet on how baby cows get access to Red Bull and/or Vodka)
Now, I've been known to place a wager or two, or three, in my lifetime. And I've lost some chump change here and there.
But after watching some of the glorious pieces of trash that nestle up to various black jack and roulette tables in the gambling capital of the world the past few days, I won't really feel so bad the next time I finish dead last in my fantasy baseball league after losing a measly $10.
Most of the guys I speak of straight up reek of near-dead hookers and feet.
They parade around in 25-year-old blue leisure suits and model their mustaches and hair as if they were trying to emulate what Sanjaya will look like in the year 2029.
And yet somehow these guys, that look one missed shower away from living out of a card-board box, can pony up three to four thousand dollars at the drop of a hat.
Where did I go wrong in life?!
Who knew the secret to becoming wealthy is looking somewhat like former WWF manager Harvey Whippleman?
But hey, I guess you already know that Vegas is filled to the brim with sleaze.
Instead I would like to officially announce that I can no longer drink alcohol.
My typical Saturday hangover used to be resolved simply by washing my mouth out with Listerine approximately10,000 times and fighting off the urge to gag while I stuffed my face with UConn’s finest clam chowder and attempted to forget about what the “slightly overweight” girl from the night before tasted like.
God I miss college.
Nonetheless headaches and lack of energy were not included in this deadly deal.
And now my typical Saturday hangover is not resolved whatsoever.
Instead it lasts all day and all night and I proceed to freak out everyone that I come in contact with.
Whenever my buddy “Spring Chicken” took one look at me he would simply repeat the infamous Family Guy line, “Men be acting all like Zombie’s at the mall.”
Did it make sense other than the zombie reference? No.
But it served it’s purpose. I WAS acting like a zombie and, quite frankly, I felt like one.
On Saturday night I was so fatigued that I couldn’t even appreciate the fact that I was standing just a block away from the site of the worst WrestleMania of all time.
(That would be WM IX at Caesar’s Palace for those of you that are interested. Any event that features Doink the Clown versus Kona Crush in a prominent match is one that I choose to forget, thank you very much).
My Vegas partners and I had arrived that Friday night (the 13th as luck would have it) at approximately 11 p.m. and didn’t go to bed until approximately 7:30 a.m. on Saturday morning.
It was obviously a good night, in which I drank enough Red Bull and Vodka’s to kill a baby sea lion and smoked more cigarettes than I had in the past decade.
(No word yet on how baby sea lions get access to Red Bull and/or Vodka).
But with that said, it was no excuse for my pathetic performance the next day.
And now’s about the time where Simmons would say something witty like, “Vegas baby, Vegas.”
For now I’ll refrain.
Got a question, comment or mailbag question for SG2.0? E-Mail him at: Sportsguy2.0@hotmail.com
Labels: SG2.0 in Vegas
Monday, April 09, 2007
The State of the WWF Address
By SG2.0
Yes another WrestleMania has come and gone without much pomp and/or circumstance.
Of course if "Pomp and Circumstance" (Macho Man Savage's theme song for the unfortunate and less-informed) did play at WM 23, the roof would've blown off of Ford Field.
I mean where were all the surprises?! This was WrestleMania wasn’t it?
Long gone are the days when Papa Shango would inexplicably interfere in a Sid/Hogan WM main event, leaving the entire world wondering why in the f*** that just happened.
And long gone are the days when the Ultimate Warrior’s cocaine-rush theme song would hit during the same match, followed by Jim Hellwig himself clotheslining Papa Shango “over the top rope and onto the floor” (thank you Howard Finkle) … leaving the entire world wondering why in the f*** that just happened.
Those types of moments just don’t happen anymore. And you can certainly forget about painfully ugly women actually crying in the audience like they did when Savage and Elizabet reunited at WM VII. We’re light-years past THAT!
I mean was there one moment that left you saying,"Wow, didn't see that one coming,” other than the improbable return of the "Dr. of Style" Slick (which certainly caught my attention)?
Of course, I’m sure the whole Slick thing was a one-time deal.
But would it really have been so hard for Vince to pick up the phone and call a certain household in Sarasota, Florida?
Calling Mr. Poffo.
Just forget Hogan slamming Andre for just one moment for Christ sake.
I mean we were at the 20th anniversary of the freakin’ match that defined wrestling as we know it. You know the one that changed this pseudo-sport forever, as I am obviously referencing the famed Savage-Steamboat classic from WM III in, of all places, Detroit, MI.
And, of course, where was WM 23, you ask?
Detroit!
And who was backstage, doing basically nothing, all night long? Ricky Steamboat!
Without question it had all the makings for one of the most memorable nights in the history of Vincent McMahon’s federation. But he simply dropped the ball.
I mean you could have even had The Undertaker attempt to resurrect the corpses of both Miss Elizabeth and the aforementioned Andre Renee Rousnoff for good measure.
But that would've just made too much sense.
Vinny Mac dropped the ball once again. And I can't say I'm the least bit surprised.
Going back to my age-old theory that Saturday Night Live, the NBA and the WWF (no, I still have not gotten over the whole name change thing) have five-year transition periods where they peak and valley, it would seem like the WWF is prepared to take a big step forward after basically blowing for the past six years or so.
But not so fast. With no competition driving them like it did from 1996-2001 (WCW), the WWF has become both stagnant and stale (is that redundant?).
And there are currently no signs (barring the notion that TNA could compete with them head-to-head on Monday Nights soon) that things are headed in the right direction.
My proposed five-year theory of unadulterated diarrhea followed by a wrestling utopia may have to be increased to seven years, eight years, or even (gulp), a decade.
Of course, when I one day land my dream job of becoming a full-time WWF announcer/writer, we won’t have to have said conversation.
So here is, in the briefest fashion I know possible, three simple ways for the WWF to be the ratings giant it was from 1987-1992 and 1996-2001.
3. Don’t be threatened by the past
Casual wrestling fans, a.k.a. half of the population of people that would tune in during the glory years, don’t know who Bobby Lashley, Chris Masters or even John Cena is.
They will, however, leave the channel on USA if they see Roddy Piper, Steve Austin, Goldust, Slick, Shawn Michaels, Bret Hart, Hulk Hogan or Ax and Smash from Demoliton.
Age is no matter is wrestling.
Now I’m not saying we need to go the ol’ WCW route and completely forget about all the young talent. That would be just silly. But I do believe the WWF should utilize old talent in almost every segment.
People enjoy nostalgia, which was why Hogan’s WWF comeback a few years ago went over so well.
That’s why I have thoroughly enjoyed Randy Orton over the past few years because he is always involved with a “legend” (although I believe this term is thrown around a bit too loosely these days. I mean Greg “The Hammer” Valentine gets inducted into the Hall of Fame before both Savage and the Ultimate Warrior?!
Ummmm ... did this Ric Flair wanna be ever win a belt of importantce? I think not!
Someone needs to see if the late Gorilla Monsoon has a son or something, if only so he can close every Hall of Fame induction ceremony with a proverbial: “WILL YOU STOP!” directed toward that completely idiotic Hall of Fame committee, or as their also known by…Vince, Stephanie and Hunter).
What would have been so wrong with Shawn Michaels winning the title from Cena at WM?
Win or lose, Cena’s still gonna have a strong fan base comprised of wiggers and 14-year old girls.
So they don’t need to worry about a loss in t-shirt sales (which apparently is all that Vinny Mac cares about these days).
2. Create some friggin storylines!
It’s hard to believe it’s been over five years since Mae Young gave birth to a hand and The Undertaker nailed Stephanie McMahon to a cross while attempting to marry/sodomize her.
I mean what makes the WWF so great in the first place, is that it’s f***in’ fake! You can have cheesy storylines and get away with it!
You can bend the rules of real life!
You can have wrestlers, female and male, get brainwashed, abducted and/or sodomized. That’s the beauty of this sport!
The closest thing they have to a good storyline right now is whether or not Shawn Michaels is going to super-kick John Cena's face off.
Please!
I mean where do they hire these writers from?! F***in’ Vince Russo University?!
I am completely sick and tired of watching Chris Masters occupy .2 seconds of television time, never mind an entire, drawn-out segment of him fumbling his words and strapping on a less-than-impressive full nelson that I'm pretty sure Bobby "The Brain" Heenan could escape from now! And he's currently border-line retarded!
I mean they utterly trash the Ultimate Warrior in the 2005 DVD classic “The Self Destruction of the Ultimate Warrior,” by basically stating that “he was one of those guys that drank a couple protein shakes and lifted a couple weights and then said, ‘Hey! I wanna be a wrestler!”
At least the guy had some charisma and was involved in a few good-great storylines.
I believe the night prior to WM 23, their three World champions were Bobby “Change the Channel” Lashley, Dave “Bathroom Break” Batista and John “I garner no mainstream attention” Cena.
All three of those guys wouldn’t sniff a WWF ring if they didn’t look like the spawn of an unholy marriage between Lou Ferrigno and Tony Little (although don’t tell that to “The Genius,” he might get jealous).
In the case of great WWF champions, size really doesn’t and shouldn’t matter. I mean you’re not going to strap the WWF title on Gilberg all of the sudden. But, on the other hand, it shouldn’t be a prerequisite that a WWF champion must make Barry Bonds look like Craig Grebeck.
1. Immediately hire Teddy Hart, The Shockmaster, Goldust, Cody Rhodes, Sean Cena and Gorilla Monsoon’s son (if he has one)
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in all of their cases. God forbid the WWF incorporate some semblance of charisma into their product.
So with all that said, I feel like I finally have a huge load off my chest (wow, that sounds extremely gay).
Until next time.
And remember, in the words of the late Bad News Brown: “The only good news, is bad news.”
Do you have a mailbag question or reply for Sports Guy 2.0? E-Mail him at: SportsGuy2.0@hotmail.com
By SG2.0
Yes another WrestleMania has come and gone without much pomp and/or circumstance.
Of course if "Pomp and Circumstance" (Macho Man Savage's theme song for the unfortunate and less-informed) did play at WM 23, the roof would've blown off of Ford Field.
I mean where were all the surprises?! This was WrestleMania wasn’t it?
Long gone are the days when Papa Shango would inexplicably interfere in a Sid/Hogan WM main event, leaving the entire world wondering why in the f*** that just happened.
And long gone are the days when the Ultimate Warrior’s cocaine-rush theme song would hit during the same match, followed by Jim Hellwig himself clotheslining Papa Shango “over the top rope and onto the floor” (thank you Howard Finkle) … leaving the entire world wondering why in the f*** that just happened.
Those types of moments just don’t happen anymore. And you can certainly forget about painfully ugly women actually crying in the audience like they did when Savage and Elizabet reunited at WM VII. We’re light-years past THAT!
I mean was there one moment that left you saying,"Wow, didn't see that one coming,” other than the improbable return of the "Dr. of Style" Slick (which certainly caught my attention)?
Of course, I’m sure the whole Slick thing was a one-time deal.
But would it really have been so hard for Vince to pick up the phone and call a certain household in Sarasota, Florida?
Calling Mr. Poffo.
Just forget Hogan slamming Andre for just one moment for Christ sake.
I mean we were at the 20th anniversary of the freakin’ match that defined wrestling as we know it. You know the one that changed this pseudo-sport forever, as I am obviously referencing the famed Savage-Steamboat classic from WM III in, of all places, Detroit, MI.
And, of course, where was WM 23, you ask?
Detroit!
And who was backstage, doing basically nothing, all night long? Ricky Steamboat!
Without question it had all the makings for one of the most memorable nights in the history of Vincent McMahon’s federation. But he simply dropped the ball.
I mean you could have even had The Undertaker attempt to resurrect the corpses of both Miss Elizabeth and the aforementioned Andre Renee Rousnoff for good measure.
But that would've just made too much sense.
Vinny Mac dropped the ball once again. And I can't say I'm the least bit surprised.
Going back to my age-old theory that Saturday Night Live, the NBA and the WWF (no, I still have not gotten over the whole name change thing) have five-year transition periods where they peak and valley, it would seem like the WWF is prepared to take a big step forward after basically blowing for the past six years or so.
But not so fast. With no competition driving them like it did from 1996-2001 (WCW), the WWF has become both stagnant and stale (is that redundant?).
And there are currently no signs (barring the notion that TNA could compete with them head-to-head on Monday Nights soon) that things are headed in the right direction.
My proposed five-year theory of unadulterated diarrhea followed by a wrestling utopia may have to be increased to seven years, eight years, or even (gulp), a decade.
Of course, when I one day land my dream job of becoming a full-time WWF announcer/writer, we won’t have to have said conversation.
So here is, in the briefest fashion I know possible, three simple ways for the WWF to be the ratings giant it was from 1987-1992 and 1996-2001.
3. Don’t be threatened by the past
Casual wrestling fans, a.k.a. half of the population of people that would tune in during the glory years, don’t know who Bobby Lashley, Chris Masters or even John Cena is.
They will, however, leave the channel on USA if they see Roddy Piper, Steve Austin, Goldust, Slick, Shawn Michaels, Bret Hart, Hulk Hogan or Ax and Smash from Demoliton.
Age is no matter is wrestling.
Now I’m not saying we need to go the ol’ WCW route and completely forget about all the young talent. That would be just silly. But I do believe the WWF should utilize old talent in almost every segment.
People enjoy nostalgia, which was why Hogan’s WWF comeback a few years ago went over so well.
That’s why I have thoroughly enjoyed Randy Orton over the past few years because he is always involved with a “legend” (although I believe this term is thrown around a bit too loosely these days. I mean Greg “The Hammer” Valentine gets inducted into the Hall of Fame before both Savage and the Ultimate Warrior?!
Ummmm ... did this Ric Flair wanna be ever win a belt of importantce? I think not!
Someone needs to see if the late Gorilla Monsoon has a son or something, if only so he can close every Hall of Fame induction ceremony with a proverbial: “WILL YOU STOP!” directed toward that completely idiotic Hall of Fame committee, or as their also known by…Vince, Stephanie and Hunter).
What would have been so wrong with Shawn Michaels winning the title from Cena at WM?
Win or lose, Cena’s still gonna have a strong fan base comprised of wiggers and 14-year old girls.
So they don’t need to worry about a loss in t-shirt sales (which apparently is all that Vinny Mac cares about these days).
2. Create some friggin storylines!
It’s hard to believe it’s been over five years since Mae Young gave birth to a hand and The Undertaker nailed Stephanie McMahon to a cross while attempting to marry/sodomize her.
I mean what makes the WWF so great in the first place, is that it’s f***in’ fake! You can have cheesy storylines and get away with it!
You can bend the rules of real life!
You can have wrestlers, female and male, get brainwashed, abducted and/or sodomized. That’s the beauty of this sport!
The closest thing they have to a good storyline right now is whether or not Shawn Michaels is going to super-kick John Cena's face off.
Please!
I mean where do they hire these writers from?! F***in’ Vince Russo University?!
I am completely sick and tired of watching Chris Masters occupy .2 seconds of television time, never mind an entire, drawn-out segment of him fumbling his words and strapping on a less-than-impressive full nelson that I'm pretty sure Bobby "The Brain" Heenan could escape from now! And he's currently border-line retarded!
I mean they utterly trash the Ultimate Warrior in the 2005 DVD classic “The Self Destruction of the Ultimate Warrior,” by basically stating that “he was one of those guys that drank a couple protein shakes and lifted a couple weights and then said, ‘Hey! I wanna be a wrestler!”
At least the guy had some charisma and was involved in a few good-great storylines.
I believe the night prior to WM 23, their three World champions were Bobby “Change the Channel” Lashley, Dave “Bathroom Break” Batista and John “I garner no mainstream attention” Cena.
All three of those guys wouldn’t sniff a WWF ring if they didn’t look like the spawn of an unholy marriage between Lou Ferrigno and Tony Little (although don’t tell that to “The Genius,” he might get jealous).
In the case of great WWF champions, size really doesn’t and shouldn’t matter. I mean you’re not going to strap the WWF title on Gilberg all of the sudden. But, on the other hand, it shouldn’t be a prerequisite that a WWF champion must make Barry Bonds look like Craig Grebeck.
1. Immediately hire Teddy Hart, The Shockmaster, Goldust, Cody Rhodes, Sean Cena and Gorilla Monsoon’s son (if he has one)
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in all of their cases. God forbid the WWF incorporate some semblance of charisma into their product.
So with all that said, I feel like I finally have a huge load off my chest (wow, that sounds extremely gay).
Until next time.
And remember, in the words of the late Bad News Brown: “The only good news, is bad news.”
Do you have a mailbag question or reply for Sports Guy 2.0? E-Mail him at: SportsGuy2.0@hotmail.com
Labels: State of WWF
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Whispy mustache's and Pony Tails
By SG2.0
Anyone else notice the mind-blowing coincidence of Simmons railing on Oden...only for Oden to make Florida humble on college basketball's grandest stage?
And then how he performed verbal (the written equivalent of oral) on Joakim Noah...only for Noah to get abused down low by Oden on college basketball's grandest stage?
Now, I know he thinks he's an expert on the college game all of the sudden (after years of loathing it). And I do realize that Florida ultimately won the game (which is usually the end all and be all of how I judge players).
But after reading Simmons' Oden hate-fest that afternoon, I truly started to believe him that Oden really wasn't that great and that the Celtics should all but go to bed with Kevin Durant's mom (even though Danny Ainge may have already. In fact, being a mormon/BYU grad, you can bet that Papa Durant is double checking on that pre-nup as we speak. Don't put it past Danny to bag wife No. 4).
(Slowly segwaying away from Danny Ainge's sex life...And no, there is no need to mention Tree Rollins, Marv Albert, biting incidents or stained 1979 Toronto Blue Jays uniforms).
Monday night was Oden's coming out party and I enjoyed every second of it. With every touch of the ball, I got "that feeling" in my stomach.
It's the kind of thing where you forget about watching every other player on the court and just focus in. Your mind keeps screaming, "Throw it inside to Oden," or as I used to think "Save the last shot for Jordan."
Even if you don't like the player (I never loved Jordan, I just appreciated him immensely. Plus I was too young during Bird's glory years), you want them to have the ball. You get exited for when they're about to do basically anything.
I felt that same way when watching Durant earlier this year. But Monday night was different. Monday night was when Oden became a man in front of America (although he could have quite possibly become a man a good .34 seconds out of the womb).
On the other side of things was "a man" with a pony tail jumping up and down with his Swedish supermodel of a mom.
How something regarded as "so hot" could produce something "so hideous" is a different discussion for a different day. But, at the end of the day, Joakim Noah looked like a fool. It didn't really matter that he was the face (look away) of a team that just won back-to-back National Championships.
His antics at the end of the game were both frightening and more importantly, awkward. In fact, for once, I felt like Billy Packer. You know, an old, liver-spotted man who always tells the kids to "keep the noise down."
Uncomfortable times for all involved.
But after I took my "Joakim shower" (the equivalent of a rape shower only it occurs after viewing Noah on a TV screen for .2 seconds), everything was right with the world.
I'm now 100% sure Oden will be great. I was already 100% sure Durant will be great.
There's currently a 38.9% chance the Celtics will once again be great.
May 22 is right around the corner...I never thought preparing myself for a Grade A heart attack would be so much fun.
E-Mail: SG2.0@hotmail.com if you feel the need to trash him for any reason what-so-ever. It's also a good avenue to get your question answered in the next SG2.0 mailbag!
By SG2.0
Anyone else notice the mind-blowing coincidence of Simmons railing on Oden...only for Oden to make Florida humble on college basketball's grandest stage?
And then how he performed verbal (the written equivalent of oral) on Joakim Noah...only for Noah to get abused down low by Oden on college basketball's grandest stage?
Now, I know he thinks he's an expert on the college game all of the sudden (after years of loathing it). And I do realize that Florida ultimately won the game (which is usually the end all and be all of how I judge players).
But after reading Simmons' Oden hate-fest that afternoon, I truly started to believe him that Oden really wasn't that great and that the Celtics should all but go to bed with Kevin Durant's mom (even though Danny Ainge may have already. In fact, being a mormon/BYU grad, you can bet that Papa Durant is double checking on that pre-nup as we speak. Don't put it past Danny to bag wife No. 4).
(Slowly segwaying away from Danny Ainge's sex life...And no, there is no need to mention Tree Rollins, Marv Albert, biting incidents or stained 1979 Toronto Blue Jays uniforms).
Monday night was Oden's coming out party and I enjoyed every second of it. With every touch of the ball, I got "that feeling" in my stomach.
It's the kind of thing where you forget about watching every other player on the court and just focus in. Your mind keeps screaming, "Throw it inside to Oden," or as I used to think "Save the last shot for Jordan."
Even if you don't like the player (I never loved Jordan, I just appreciated him immensely. Plus I was too young during Bird's glory years), you want them to have the ball. You get exited for when they're about to do basically anything.
I felt that same way when watching Durant earlier this year. But Monday night was different. Monday night was when Oden became a man in front of America (although he could have quite possibly become a man a good .34 seconds out of the womb).
On the other side of things was "a man" with a pony tail jumping up and down with his Swedish supermodel of a mom.
How something regarded as "so hot" could produce something "so hideous" is a different discussion for a different day. But, at the end of the day, Joakim Noah looked like a fool. It didn't really matter that he was the face (look away) of a team that just won back-to-back National Championships.
His antics at the end of the game were both frightening and more importantly, awkward. In fact, for once, I felt like Billy Packer. You know, an old, liver-spotted man who always tells the kids to "keep the noise down."
Uncomfortable times for all involved.
But after I took my "Joakim shower" (the equivalent of a rape shower only it occurs after viewing Noah on a TV screen for .2 seconds), everything was right with the world.
I'm now 100% sure Oden will be great. I was already 100% sure Durant will be great.
There's currently a 38.9% chance the Celtics will once again be great.
May 22 is right around the corner...I never thought preparing myself for a Grade A heart attack would be so much fun.
E-Mail: SG2.0@hotmail.com if you feel the need to trash him for any reason what-so-ever. It's also a good avenue to get your question answered in the next SG2.0 mailbag!
