Comment Corner

Blackification of Basketball Recaps

Ever watched a sports show recently? If you’re watching in Canada, generally, they start off with the hockey highlights. At worst, they’ll usually point out that the Leafs have lost at home, Raycroft is a fucking sieve and Brian McCabe needs to learn to stop whining like a little bitch with skinned knees. But, the language never really strays too far from normal.

Next, onto another sport. Football. Perhaps they’ll say the QB ran it in himself for a touchdown, a receiver made a stunning catch and the QB got picked off or sacked a couple of times.

Now, wait for basketball. Suddenly, the whitest motherfucker sports-announcer discovers his inner Spike Lee and blacks it the fuck up. Suddenly, Chris Bosh is “slammin’ home the alley” or somebody else is “draining the tre.” Where else but during the actual fucking broadcast will you hear “Bosh drives hard for an ugly deuce”? If ESPN could cut away to three black guys wearing jerseys sitting on a couch standing up and saying “Daaaaaaaaaaaaayum!”, they would in half a fucking hearbeat.

Then, after the public humiliation of the sports announcer, they’ll go back to normal speech to explain that Vijay Singh just putted for birdie on the fifth hole.

What the hell is up with this? When did basketball become this BET def jam? It’s pathetic. Somehow, because basketball is often shown being played by black kids in the inner cities, it’s like their unique lingo needs to be carried forward to the broadcasts or there won’t be any authenticity; like somehow ESPN needs street cred or juice to be able to comment on basketball. Are the kids in New York City going elbow each other in the gut and say, “Wow, they sound like us! They must understand!”

And it's painful to listen to. Do you have that old guy at your office that would rather barbecue his penis than switch on a computer? The guy who's desperate to have younger people do everything with it because the last time they ...

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Folks, damn I'm lazy.

Here's poor Kevlarman getting his fat tits whipped like the delicious butter he so dangerously loves.

BIG FAT MAN WITH BIG FAT IDEAS ABOUT HISTORY CONTACTS, CONFUSES INTERNET

Kevlar “Dangerously sized waistline” Man has recently discovered the internet as a willing repository for his big fat ideas about history. From his Rascal-brand motorized wheelchair, he sits at his oversized fat-finger keyboard and waxes philosophic, but not factually, about America and its history.

“Typing stuff about history is tiring. Sometimes, I’ll go through a 2-litre bottle of Mountain Dew: Code Red just typing about that time that General Harry S. Truman crossed the Delaware River during the War of 1812. A lot of people don’t know that, and I’m usually able to catch dumb thin people off-guard. It’s hard though, sometimes if a paragraph goes on longer than 4 sentences, I’ll start to get fiery pains down my left arm, so I have to rest for a bit, kind of like when I eat 3 Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supremes. Those are good but I’ll only order them from the Taco Bell/KFC combo spots so I can get the KFC gravy too.” Kevlarman than let loose a massive belch which rippled his chins and forced the Rascal backwards.

“America keeps Canada alive. Did you know that? I read it on a White Castle placemat one time. Also, America doesn’t like to get involved in foreign wars. 1,000 years ago, the earliest American Kings kept America out of the Crusades into China. Boy, Alexander Pope sure was mad they didn’t heed his Popely call to war! But it illustrates my point that America doesn’t like foreign wars, much like my belly has managed to fray the top of my sweatpants. It sure is a pain gettin’ in and out of these pants all the time. Damn, I’m sweating just thinking about it.”

Other historians don’t necessarily share Kevlarman’s unique and often times invented view of the history of American foreign policy. Cecil Fennington, Chair of H...

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Indigo Ribbon Campaign

Folks, I’m sure you’ve read by now about one of the battiest of batshit insane paranoiac’s campaign to identify mentally deficient people who believe in an invisible conspiracy to target them, stalk them, jingle keys at them and, God fucking forfend, put pictures of Tom Selleck up around the house. Perhaps you’re asking yourself why the massive cabal of stalkers simply don’t buy a Chevy Impala and floor it right into these shitheaded targeted individuals. If the conspirators did that, you simpleton fuck, then they would be unemployed and have to go back to their original jobs of city planning, iPhone advertising and ex-East German undercover newspaper readers.

Most importantly, if there were Chevy Impala tire-tracks right the fuck up the front and face of a paranoiac, they’d have some evidence rather than their constant subjective prattle of pulling together the most disparate signs, such as three seagulls eating thrown out French fries signaling to the others of an onslaught of distant car-horn attacks.

But, since Mushhead decided to start the Indigo Ribbon campaign, I thought I’d do what I could to pitch in. For all I really know, she’s getting good advice from her army of mental demons and this campaign might do something more than advertise mental fucktard moreso than any tinfoil tophat, “End is near” sign, dirty clothes and perch in Church doorway from whence they yell about taking shits in garbage cans (hello mayor of Oshawa!)

So, last night, while I was walking to buy myself a couple of Lexus’, I passed through a park. There were 5 guys just totally wailing the living shit out of this other guy. I stopped, pulled out my cellphone and was about to call 911 when I was reminded of Shitbitch’s posts about us living in a snitch-filled world called V. Well, sir, let me tell the fuck to you that I took her words to heart! I wasn’t about to become yet another snitch, in her words “pimping out” my fellow 5 citizens for doin...

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Folks,

There are still a few more things that really get my shit steamed up in the colon, and then I fire out flaming chocolate dragon-monkeys to such an extent I've got to go to the sink, get a cup, scoop out the chunkiest, most unflushable offenders, put them in the sink, run hot water to break them up and repeat as necessary until I can get all that shit disposed of.

It's not an easy task; if it's in a public toilet, I'll just totally give up, take a quick piss in the trash can and leave.

Just a few new things to mull over:

WOMEN WHO THINK THAT THE REASON THEY'RE SINGLE IS BECAUSE MEN ARE INTIMIDATED BY STRONG INDEPENDENT WOMEN BUT REALLY IT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE JUST THE HOARIEST BITCHES YOU'RE EVER LIKELY TO MEET

You've probably met these women yourselves and wondered why you didn't smash them across the mouth with the nearest manhole cover. Rather than accept that the reason they're single is because they're a) boring as fuck, b) bitchy and bossy or c) spoiled twats, they invent a reason to believe they're single that serves to both minimize their pathetic loneliness AND also give themselves a backhanded compliment.

Here's a tip you can print out and keep in your fucking purses ladies: Guys don't want subservient women. They really don't. As a matter of fact, nobody wants to date a complete fucking spineless bitch, man or woman. So quit lying to yourself or your bitchy friend that the reason she's fucking a dildo and buying lavish gifts for her neices and nephews is because she's too smart. It isn't.

If you listen to these women for more than 30 seconds, you'll instantly spot the problem. They're fucking insecure and compensate by drowning out everybody else in conversation (in their minds, if you listen to anybody else, you'll realize how sucky they are in comparison), bragging about shit or belittling men.

It's a total waste of time, it solves absolutely nothing since they're STILL...

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Folks, the ugly tale of Steven Truscott will have to wait a quick spell, there are other much more pressing matters that require immediate attention. The tale of the murdered girl and her liar killer will have to wait.

And what will it wait for?

THREE PIECES O' BULLSHIT

Yup, three pieces o' bullshit. Three things that are enough to bring a man's piss to a boil, cause him to whip his kid's Lego spaceship out the front door and onto the sidewalk, pausing to see if it shatters, and if it doesn't, angrily stomp out the door, tromp over to the ship, jump up and down on it, slip, call the Lego spaceship a "piece of whore", trudge back inside and slam the door.

Slippery fucking Lego.

And what are these three pieces o' bullshit?

FORMULA-1 PAPER-BOY VANS

Do you live in a modern neighbourhood? If you do, you know that concept of the paperboy is dead. Maybe too many were killed in gangland shootings, embezzled subscriber money or delivered papers to a whacked out Paula Abdul nutjob who abducted 34 of them and chained up in his basement where he's waiting for them to molt into their true alien forms.

In the stead of the paperboy is the asshole guy who delivers three hundred papers a morning, in his piece of shit minivan, roaring around the neighbourhood at Mach 5 with his dick hanging out.

Ever want to see a 1991 Dodge Caravan leave 12 feet of skid marks? Simply put one in the employ of a loser paperman delivering shitloads of papers and put the next house 15 feet down the street from the last delivery. He'll floor the fuck out of the minivan, the chrome roof rack will threaten to finally fall off and by the time he's going 70, he'll slam on his flash-fried brakes to skid his bald 1973 Uniroyal tires to a blaring halt a mere 15 feet from where he started. Then, he'll get out, throw the paper into the eavestrough, get back into his van and floor it to the next house; the rusted muffler...

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