Breaking Down This Donald Sterling Fiasco

So unless you’ve been hibernating in a bomb shelter somewhere in New Zealand, you’ve probably heard about the controversy surrounding Donald Sterling; specifically, the comments he made during a phone conversation with his girlfriend. Since the recording’s initial release, seemingly everyone and their mother (including Magic JohnsonMark Cuban, and Barack Obama) have publicly expressed their condemnation regarding Sterling and his actions—Well, except for me…

To clarify, I elected to hold off on discussing this story for a couple reasons: a.) the media routinely blows this type of stuff out of proportion and b.) prior to this whole Stiviano fiasco manifesting itself, I honestly didn’t know much about Sterling aside from the fact he was fat and owned the Los Angeles Clippers. However, considering the overwhelming amount of evidence that has surfaced, there’s only one conclusion left for me to draw: Donald Sterling is a decrepit, parochial douchebag.

In fact, following a few Google searches, I wholeheartedly think this dude might be the most morally reprehensible sack of shit on the market right now. It’s almost impressive how racist this dude is; moreover, his track record—which includes lawsuits against the US Department of Justice, former Clippers executive Elgin Baylor, Sterling’s estranged wife Rochelle Sterling, as well as (in a fit of irony) an outstanding relationship with the NAACP—is nothing short of preposterous.

To an extent, it’s somewhat remarkable to think this guy was allowed to accrue profit under federal jurisdiction for so long without being bent over and plowed by the long dick of societal denunciation; nevertheless, I think it’s safe to say he’s finally getting his due: nearly every news outlet and minority within US borders is flagrantly lambasting this sucker while he’s forced to groove on the fumes of another impending million dollar settlement.

So to wrap this up, I can’t necessarily root for Stiviano—people seemingly forget she was shamelessly dating someone 50 years older than herself, exclusively so she could snag a couple Mercedes’ when he kicks the bucket—but I’m definitely glad Sterling’s ass has finally become the victim of a good pounding.

On a side note, Ex-Knick Larry Johnson had this to say in response to the controversy:

Commendable suggestion, Larry, but that sort of thing already exists. I’m pretty sure it’s called the NBA…

It’s NHL Playoff Time AKA Operation Bandwagon

As most of you know, the NBA/NHL postseasons are officially underway. The top-tier teams from each of their respective leagues are officially battling it out for the cup/trophy and I for one couldn’t be more excited. Unfortunately, the Celtics whiffed on a playoff birth this year (aww, shucks) and will spend the next 6 months fishing for ping pong balls and shamelessly maintaining they didn’t tank the regular season during interviews. On the other hand, the Bruins are still skating, which has prompted (like it does every year for me) a greater predicament: how do I go about my exercising my fan-hood?

Unlike with football, baseball, and basketball, I’m not that big of a hockey (i.e., Bruins) guy. I’ve always enjoyed watching it but I’ve never managed to really get into the sport aside from last season—which was predominantly a result of the expedited season. Furthermore, I never played as a kid outside of the occasional day of street puck, where I played goalie under the pseudonym, Hoviak Sloviak—no one, and I mean NO ONE, went glove side on “The Russian Obstruction.” That being said, my primary dilemma exists as follows:

I really want to publicly watch/cheer/get into the Bruins spirit because they’re fun as hell to watch; however, doing so would mean I’d become a Bandwagon Fan: an adherent to one of the most morally reprehensible subcultures since the establishment of the Westboro Baptist Church. I’d be a castaway adrift in a sea of sports naiveté—constrained to rooting with my ass (rather than my heart) and reduced to aimlessly asking questions rather than providing backhanded clarifications. Essentially, I’d be “that guy” for at least the next week or so…

In regard to potential solutions, I guess I could post up in the secure confines of my basement, get recklessly drunk off PBR and cheer by myself like some pathetic, inbred loser; nevertheless, I’d like to believe I have more pride than that. Thus, I’ve come to the conclusion that my most viable option is to embrace my diminished, implicitly disgraceful role in the most aggressive fashion imaginable. I’m going to head out to bars with my head high and my spirits higher—hell, I might even head out to Dick’s Sporting Goods and drop $30 on a pink Lucic jersey if I have to—because, in the words of Harvey Dent: “You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain”…

A Message To Today’s Easter Egg Hunters

So today is Easter and I’m sure everyone is probably throwing on their Dockers in preparation for their respective family gathering(s); nevertheless, I felt this blog NEEDED to see the light of day because there is an emasculating trend developing throughout our country in recent years: the pussification of the annual Easter Egg Hunt.

In the last couple of years or so, all I see on CNN following Easter is how every Easter Egg Hunt this side of California is getting cancelled due to parents complaining about God knows what. And you know what? I’m finally tired of it. I can only accept this bullshit, pussification of America garbage for so long. You can give out as many undeserved youth soccer trophies as you want, but once you begin to compromise the single reason why Easter exists (except for the Jesus thing), I’m throwing my hat in the ring.

The Easter Egg Hunt is what separated the men from the boys; in fact, it’s what turned me into a man. When I was younger, I used to get absolutely HYPED for the Easter Egg Hunt—I’d crush carbs and blast Three 6 Mafia the day before and shit. It was my single most competitive activity of the year (outside of capture the flag) and the fact that people are trying to ban it is nothing short of puke-inducing.

If your children are pussies and can’t handle the heat of the Easter Egg Hunt, then just don’t go; don’t ruin it for the rest of us who aren’t slapping the faces of our forefathers who fought wars so we could do this shit.

In closing, the annual Easter Egg Hunt is just as much a part of America’s cultural identity as religious intolerance, media bias, childhood obesity, and subtle racism. If you can’t handle that, then buy a 12-pack of San Pellegrino and move to Europe because you aren’t weighing down this ship…

Should Student Athletes Get Paid???

For decades, the question regarding whether NCAA athletes should be paid for their services has perpetuated itself to the forefront of socio-political discourse. In the last few months or so, the controversy has escalated due to a slew of incidents—a landmark decision by the NLRB and potentially groundbreaking antitrust lawsuit, as well as the recent criticism of the NCAA by members of the general public; in particular, the comments made by the always out-spoken, Mark Cuban.

Like any other controversy that has received national attention, both sides are ultimately wrong—but only to an extent. Allow me to begin with those opposed to paying student athletes:

For starters, the people who argue that these students shouldn’t be paid for their efforts because they are receiving an “education” need to go to bed. I’m not saying these students aren’t attending classes for free (they are), but do you honestly think these kids are benefitting from collegiate schooling? Do you honestly think anyone on Kentucky’s all-freshman starting lineup knows what the fourth-floor of the campus library looks like? Do you think anyone suiting up in UCONN’s locker room goes to bed with a copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses on their desk? Hell, did you see that UNC athlete’s 146-word term paper on Rosa Parks that received an A? That shit looked like something I would’ve pulled out of my ass following a long day of addition tables, construction paper, and capture the flag. So let’s be serious, here: these kids aren’t receiving a traditional education; contending otherwise is nothing short of idiotic.

That being said, I don’t believe student athletes should be paid on salary for a number of reasons: Firstly, all of that money should be allocated into providing academic scholarships and stuff of that nature. Secondly, paying student athletes on a fixed, remunerative basis means that all student athletes must receive similar compensation—even those squids on the swim and field hockey teams. Thirdly, there’s honestly no legitimate argument for why these kids aren’t allowed profit off their individual likeness—autographs, public appearances, jersey sales, etc.—aside from the sentiment that the NCAA is comprised of a bunch of bloated, avaricious hacks who justify indentured servitude by waiving tuition fees.

The Spider Came Back… And It Wasn’t Cool At All

Remember what I said yesterday in my Pokémon blog about and how my only priority for the next month or so is “to accrue and develop the meanest, most diabolically intimidating platoon of Pokémon this side of Saffron City”? Well yeah, screw that sentiment because there are bigger things brewing in my life right now. Some unforeseen, highly climactic shit has officially been spotted on the horizon and if I was to claim that I’m not concerned, I’d be bullshitting you worse than Casey Anthony in a game of “Truth or Dare” where all the “truth” questions concern murdering children.

Anyway, some ridiculous spider meandered its way into my townhouse a few months back and my roommate—who’s evidently a closet arachnologist of sorts—immediately spotted the thing, identified it as a brown recluse, and then informed me it was capable of killing a human in less than 24-hours. I’m not going to go into much more detail but my roommate eventually castrated the sucker and we haven’t had a problem since—until last night…

Allow me to digress: I was sitting in my dorm attempting to do homework last night when I heard a commotion from the common room. Naturally I pounced on the opportunity to procrastinate and headed downstairs to find out what the ruckus was about. When I got downstairs, my roommates were discussing what to do with another Brown Recluse spider they found right outside the door of our townhouse.

I didn’t hear much of the conversation, but the sole fact they were actually having the discussion was mind-boggling in itself. Evidently, one of my roommates (the closet arachnologist) was dead set on not killing the thing for whatever reason while my other roommate was blasting 306 Mafia, shadowboxing, and doing one-arm push-ups in the corner of the room. I stood quietly at the top of the stairs, contemplating what shoe I would unleash on that 8-legged, Jehovah’s Witness-impersonating, pussy ass excuse for a potential murderer on our doorstep. It was your quintessential sic-fi movie climax scene—the scientist metaphor (who’s always Jeff Goldblum, for some reason) desperately preaching to the military metaphor over “morality” and the “consequences” of destructive actions and blah, blah, blah. I was just waiting for Will Smith to walk in…

Long story short, I waited for Goldblum to brush his teeth, immediately grabbed my Air Forces and pounded the living bag out of that thing. I swear I must’ve hurled that dude into a backwards coma. No doubt I sent his ass back to purgatory in a lunch box; however, I’m still not entirely at ease because I know this isn’t the final battle—it never is…

With that said, let this be a lesson to the animal kingdom. I don’t want to sound cocky, but I’m literally posting a lifetime 1.000 batting average against animals so far in life. I’ve yet to hit the canvas against the animal kingdom and I doubt it’s happening anytime soon. Stay posted, Ponyboys…

Dear Pokémon Friends: This Will Change Your Life…

So anyway, I was eating lunch yesterday with one of my buddies and I noticed he was particularly enthralled with his iPhone. Following a slew of failed conversation starters, I was overcome with curiosity so—in a blatant attempt to unearth the source of this conversational inhibition—I peered over his shoulder and noticed he was playing Pokémon on his iPhone. Evidently, he downloaded a Game Boy Advance emulator (an app that allows you to download GBA games and play them) the other day and didn’t even need to “jailbreak” his iPhone to do so. Naturally, I sprang to the Internet as quickly as possible and downloaded it as well.

I won’t tell you how to download the game, myself (the link’s here); however, if you’re aware of this amenity and haven’t acted upon it yet, you’re ultimately one of three people: a complete pussy who is afraid of potentially defying “Internet Jurisdiction” (which basically doesn’t exist); a pretentious jackass who doesn’t understand the point of battling titular creatures in the pursuit of ennoblement; or a godforsaken degenerate who elects to saunter through life, bereft of purpose. In other words, if you are one of these people, make like a Sudowoodo and leave…

That said, downloading one of these classics—I suggest Pokémon Emerald Version because, well, it’s the shit and the amount of Pokémon you can capture/battle is exponentially greater than the older installments—isn’t guaranteed to comprehensively improve your lifestyle or even get you laid; nevertheless, there isn’t a chance it will worsen things.

In the last two days, I’ve racked up roughly five hours of gameplay—as well as a Gym Badge, an old fishing road, and a few Magikarps—and it’s safe to say I’ve never been more consumed by the prospect of cybernetic preeminence in my entire life. I no longer want to catch em’ all; I need to catch em’ all. Furthermore, I will stop at nothing until such a desire is prepared a nice seafood dinner… and NEVER called again!

In closing, for the next month or so, my primary objective doesn’t include passing my final exams, applying for jobs, or (for that matter) graduating from college; it’s to accrue and develop the meanest, most diabolically intimidating platoon of Pokémon this side of Saffron. I want fear to permeate the caves of Cerulean City; I want hopelessness to wash along the shores of Cinnabar Island; and I want anxiety to flood the cerebellums of even the most decorated Gym Leaders. But most importantly, though, I want a Pikachu—really badly, actually.