The NBA Draft is going on, and even as you read this your friends and neighbors are looking for an opportunity to spring the perfectly-timed “I can’t believe they picked him” or “I could run the floor better than that guy” they’ve practiced in front of the mirror for weeks. If you’re on the Internet reading this chances are you don’t know a lot about the draft, but that’s okay. In this first edition of Pregame Wrapup (with a nifty banner design by DocEvil) you’ll learn everything you need to bullshit through the first five draft picks. Then, when everyone leaves, you can have the TV back to watch “America’s Top Model”, you ninny.
When talking about the Raptors you have to keep in mind that they have not been part of the league for that long. Despite their short time in the NBA, however, they have built a long-standing, storied tradition: Drafting ugly forwards. Their last two draft picks have been among the ugliest men to grace professional sports (there’s some speculation that the NBA banned reflective flooring in stadiums so Chris Bosh wouldn’t see his own reflection and try to run away from it) and they're damn proud. If they keep with their legacy the higher-ups in Toronto could find themselves with a team that looks equally at ease on a team bus or the short bus.
Take, for instance, their first-round pick from last year, Charlie Villanueva:
Fun facts about Charlie Villanueva:
Or their top pick the year before that, Chris Bosh:
Fun facts about Chris Bosh:
If they don’t trade their pick the Raptors are expected to draft yet another forward today, Adam Morrison. He is a fairly normal-looking kid but I expect he will look like this merely days after he is drafted by the organization:
Expect to see more of my work on the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling in a few months. Michelangelo used wet fresco. I use MSPaint, philistine.
Because of a deal with the New York Knicks, the Bulls will have two top-20 draft picks, numbers two and 16. Some analysts think a similar deal will transpire next year, when the Bulls trade the Knicks a bag of boiled peanuts and a couple of Archie funnybooks for their entire team and every draft pick they have until the end of the NBA. After the deal Madison Square Garden will be leveled and turned into a huge, money-filled swimming pool. Isiah Thomas will pay a Scrooge McDuck impersonator $20 million a year to swim in it, claiming the transaction is “in the team’s best interest” and that “the next person to call me crazy can come tend to the duck farm in my secret moon palace and see how goddamn crazy I am then”.
With their extra pick the Bulls are expected to up the ante and draft not one, but two hustle players. Given the recent explosion of Andres Noccioni, who is widely considered to be the league’s best foreign shooter since that Serbian bum someone drafted because he could “throw cards in a hat real good”, the Bulls know the real gravy lies in hustle, not talent. Sure, any old $16-million-a-year yokel can score 30 points and grab 15 boards a game, but for that same price they can have people who shoot lots of threes and dive into the crowd for loose rebounds! If a superstar has a bad stretch of games, fans question his talent. If a hustle player has a bad season, that’s totally different. Prissy superstars are only practicing and coming to work every single day for the paychecks, man. Hustle players play to play.
Look at the Pacers. Sure, Jermaine O’Neal is out there scoring in the post and blocking shots and shit, but Austin Croshere scored 25 points once. In a single game. And he’s white. Who cares if O’Neal does that every game? Croshere showed some fucking hustle.
Take your prima donna superstar shit any day, man. I’ll stick with my boys on the bench, hopping up and waving towels every time someone on the floor hits a shot. You can’t coach enthusiasm, brosef.
The problem with the Bobcats is that nobody outside of North Carolina knows who they are. Nobody. You could ask NBA Commissioner David Stern a question about the team and his response would be something like “Huh? Oh, right. Those guys.” Oddly enough, God would say something very similar if you asked him about North Carolina.
The Bobcats are expected to draft a forward this year. This would give them an 06-07 lineup that resembled this:
This, of course, will be a huge inconvenience to the three people who play as the Bobcats on NBA 2k6. Trying to put Emeka Okafor in a position that doesn’t play to his “strengths” (i.e. “standing there” and “occasionally shifting to the right to block a shot”) is every bit as fun and rewarding as having sex with a hole in a screen door. Others speculate the Bobcats trade their draft pick to another team, possibly for two forwards. This would allow them to spread the floor a bit more, giving Primoz Brezec room to hit that one jumper he can actually make one out of ten times or so. Whatever the case the forwards will eventually retire into the bog of obscurity surrounding North Carolina, doing small local speaking gigs until they get picked up to sell acne medication on infomercials with “former NBA stars...” tacked onto the front of their names.
You know that show Bumfights? The one where the dude pays bums to beat the shit out of each other? You know how bad you feel when you laugh but you do it anyway? That’s how most sports fans feel when they pick on the Blazers. Using my amazing talents of brevity, wit, and bulleted lists I will now sum up the franchise’s entire history in one sentence:
Given that fact even the kindest of hearts can’t help but snigger at the Blazers. The story has spanned the globe and taken many forms, kind of like the world’s most tragic e-mail chain letter. People in third world countries, many of whom have never even heard of the NBA, often sit around their huts cackling at tales of a foolish tribe that picked a dressed-up lion turd over a brick of gold. Doctors often pull patients out of year-long comas by whispering “Sam Bowie” in their ears. Restaurants around Oregon offer things like “The Sam Bowie Special”, where you come in and order a good steak but instead you get a nasty old hamburger someone found in a cooler and then when you complain about it the chef comes and punches you in the balls.
The Blazers were expected to have the number one or two pick in the draft this year, but when the names were drawn they ended up at fourth. This brings to mind jokes like “the Blazers even suck at getting draft picks” and “drafting high school players only works if you have the talent to develop them”, but I’m mature and I’ll refrain from that stuff. Instead I’ll be an adult and end with one parting comment: Pee poop caca pussy.
Honestly, any club that features Al Harrington as a team centerpiece needs to be demoted to a kiddie-ball league for a couple of years. This would help in two ways. First, the Hawks could undoubtedly find a sixth-grader with more talent and less ego than Harrington. Second, the league would experience a relaxing sensation akin to taking a giant Sunday morning dump.
And while we’re on the subject of bad business moves and Al Harrington: When the Hawks traded Stephen Jackson for Harrington they made a deal that involved offloading Jackson and still came out on the losing end. Jackson is a tumor on the ass of the NBA. A big pulsating blob of stupid that will inevitably explode and coat a city block in a dark mire of idiocy and overconfidence. If I ran a team and I traded Stephen Jackson for a busted vending machine that only dispensed flat Mr. Pibb I’d consider myself ahead of the game. Jackson does not play basketball. Instead, he simply argues with referees the entire game, possibly about how well his headband matches his stylin’ mustache. But past all that I’d rather have Stephen Jackson – hell, a whole team of Stephen Jacksons – than I would Al Harrington.
Who will the Hawks draft? What will they do with him? The one correct answer is this: Nobody gives a fuck. Why? Because short of a major relocation (possibly to the surface of the sun), the Hawks will never be a solid ball club. Good job, Al Harrington. You managed to ruin Atlanta’s reputation. If that doesn’t make you feel like shit I don’t know what will.
Griffey, Jones honored at funny voice awards
DENVER – An MLB all-star and a top NBA sixth man were honored yesterday, but not for accomplishments in their respective sports. Instead, Reds slugger Ken Griffey Jr. and Pacers guard Fred Jones were recognized by the Funny Voice Association at the fifth annual Funny Voice Awards.
“It’s an honor,” Griffey, who edged out Tiger Woods in the “Adult Male who Sounds Like a Little Girl” category, said. “I’ve won a lot of awards in my life and this is going up on my mantle with all the All-Star trophies.”
Griffey, who left the event after injuring his hamstring during his acceptance speech, said he was open to representing the association in the future.
“Any man can hit a home run,” he said. “To be honored for something that God saw fit to give me – that’s where the real love is. Ya’ll can hit me up on my AIM if you want. The name’s TwinkleFairy03.”
Although Griffey was the event’s big name Jones came away the evening’s top winner. The high-flying guard picked up the association’s most prestigious title, the “Chewbacca Roaring through a Broken Saxophone” award.
“Raar,” Jones said after the ceremony. “Auuugh muuf blooooooo rargh. Bwaaaggggaaaah.”
Roethlisberger “knocked retarded” in motorcycle accident; challenges car to charity boxing match
PITTSBURGH – In the aftermath of a motorcycle accident “scared the bejesus” out of Steelers Coach Bill Cowher, Big Ben Roethlisberger made a couple of comments he wishes he could take back.
Roethlisberger, quarterback for the Steelers, told reporters the day after his accident that the car that hit his motorcycle “took a cheap shot” and that he “could whoop its ass in a fair fight.”
The accident, which transpired earlier this month, was far less severe than early accounts indicated. Although rumors of severe injuries to Roethlisberger’s knees and back ended up untrue, initial reports caused the city of Pittsburgh more fear and confusion than that one time someone on ESPN accidentally referred to the Pirates as “a good team”.
“It was dirty,” Roethlisberger told reporters from his hospital bed. “A low blow. Give me a fair start and I could whoop that car’s ass into the ground any day of the week. Hell, I’ll fight it for charity once I’m up and out of here.”
“He’s still having mild delusional symptoms,” Chief Surgeon Dale Atkinson said after the debacle. “In layman’s terms it knocked him retarded. It’s a temporary thing but right now it’s best not to believe anything he says. Yesterday he took a swing at a lunch cart – he swore it was the car coming back to finish the job.”
Roethlisberger has since retracted the statements and his challenge. He is expected to make a full recovery in time for Steelers training camp, and has asked the media to direct all questions to “that goddamn car since it started all this shit”.
Okay, I know the Heat won the championship. I know that by making him the first Crybaby Bitch of the Week I’m undermining all other Crybaby Bitches of the Week, since he’s not only the biggest ninny pussy faggot in pro sports but the entire world. I know that there are other, less substantial crybabies all over sports.
But I also know this: Despite the trip to the finals, despite the undue fame his overrated ass is getting, somewhere, for some reason, Antoine Walker is bitching about something. Maybe his championship ring is too tight on his pudgy little fingers. Maybe the turkey on his club sandwich is too cold. Maybe his reflection in the championship trophy isn’t flattering enough for his bulbous, lumpy, ET-looking head. Whatever the problem, even as I put these words on the page his face is scrunched up in that “I just bit into a lemon with a razor in it” look and he is, without a doubt, throwing a hissy bitch fit about something.
For these reasons and many more I’m proud to present him with the very first Crybaby Bitch of the Week award. Keep them tears coming, Antoine! The rest of the team sure gets thirsty doing all the work!
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Pope Francis, the best Pope, has a number of upcoming encyclicals to change the way Catholics view the world.
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