Forget steroids for a minute. Forget Olympians bong-toking. Forget the Lakers tapping the Celtics and Cavs in back-to-back games. It’s time to break out the full-court coverage on the greatest American sporting event. That’s right, my friends, it is Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show time. Some of you may consider this coverage ludicrous, cynical, and even irrelevant, but you’re straight up wrong. If there’s one thing the FlyMaster loves, it’s bitches. Bitches of all shapes and sizes. Loud bitches. Quite bitches. Black bitches. White bitches. Brindle bitches. Bitches that drool. Bitches that like pools. Bitches that eat meat. As long as that bitch has four feet, she can compete.
On the real side, the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show is a gem of the highest carat weight. Each February Madison Square Garden becomes the world’s fanciest dog park. Last week Kobe and Lebron both left their mark on the Garden. This week there will be all sorts of marks left on the garden. America’s blue bloods parade their canine compatriots with more pride than when Yury Andropov surveyed and approved the Soviet Army in Red Square. You know you’re dealing with a blue blood, conceited, four legged spoiled brats when they sport names like “Champion Dulymus Arbuckle on High Quartermain,” and “Winchester Trig Palin McCain We Lost Damnit.” The FlyDog is named Del. Keep it simple, muffy. Now that the backstory is set, let’s break down the 133rd Westiminster Kennel Club Dog Show.
Last year’s champion was Uno, a beagle that took the City by storm and did it his way. With his dynamic personality and semi-tolerable breath, Uno was a lock to go back-to-back, but alas Uno is currently embroiled in ACL rehabilitation and a performance enhancing drug scandal that prevent him from competing. The field is wide open, just like the NL MVP race once Barry Bonds removed himself from the league. This year’s early favorites are Lincoln, a Brussels Griffon from the Toy Group, and Carly, a corgi from the Herding Group. Here’s a group by group breakdown.
The Sporting Group is replete with every type of retriever, spaniel, and pointer you’d ever want to see. While many of the pundits laud the accomplishments of the English Springer Spaniel, and some of the overseas prognosticators are lining up in the Wirehaired Pointing Griffon’s corner, Sir FlyMaster will be sticking to his preseason pick, the Vizsla. The Vizsla is a little-known Hungarian dog that puts all thes other Sporting Mutts in their place. Watch out for the Nova Scotia Duck Toiling Retriever to make a splash as well.
The Terrier Group features a bunch of glorified rat and rabbit hunters. If that’s your dharma, you don’t deserve an award show. But since they’re in the competition we’ll pick a winner. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Pick the Norwich Terrier and get on with the show.
The Toy group is a disgrace to the animal kingdom. These dogs are the preferred choice of B-list celebrities, gay mafiosos, old ladies with skin that looks like a well tanned kangaroo hide, and the Sportsfly office. This year it was tough to make a decision, but FlyMaster is rolling with the Japanese Chin for two reasons. Japanese Chin sounds like a disparaging disease name from the mid 1800s and the name “Chin” is Chinese, so who the hell is Japanese Chin? Conspiracy in the making.
Non-Sporting Group:All bastard dogs that really don’t serve a purpose and can’t be classified in any of the other groups get thrown in the Non-Sporting Group. Here you’ll find your Poodles, Dalmations, Chow Chow, and other ungodly concoctions. Put some money on the Bulldog (British) because he’s really trying to distance himself from the rest of these ragamuffins, but his leg length and genetic predisposition for hip problems are severely limiting. Mercy vote the Bulldog to glory.
The Herding Group features some new entrants this year. This begs the question, were there new dogs discovered last year or has that Human Genome Project taken a turn toward the realm of Doctor Moreau? Anyhow, look for the Swedish Vallhund to make a huge debut this year. Word is, the Vallhund looks more like a shrunk down buffalo with goat eyes and a forked tongue, so you know it will stand out. Other contenders are the Bearded Collie and the Corgi. Either way, it’s going to be a heated competition.
BEST IN SHOW:
No doubt the best in show comp will come down to the Boxer and the Swedish Vallhund. This year’s competition has been switched up to boost ratings. Word has it that Michael Vick will be asked to referee the Best in Show match, with the losing dog being placed on the Signature #7 Rape Stand, where all Chihuahuas are released upon the loser. It ain’t pretty, but it’s sports. Look for the Boxer to take down the Vallhund with some nice punching skills and adept ankle-biting. Sorry Sweden, maybe you can invent another new dog in 2010 and enter again. Until then, 2009 is the year of the Boxer.
Roger Clemens’ legacy sports more tarnish than a Rodin sculpture left out in the Paris weather for 150 years, but the latest revelations from Tom Verducci and Joe Torre’s book “The Yankee Years” are just way too much information. For years Clemens’ workout regimen was put on the pantheon of athletic asceticism alongside Jerry Rice and Walter Payton. “The Yankee Years” may have just revealed how weird a guy Roger Clemens is and odd effects steroids can contribute to deranging an already slightly deranged mind. In the book, Clemens pregame ritual on pitch days was revealed. Steve Donahue, Yankees trainer, claimed that on pitch days Clemens would start by taking a whirlpool bath in scalding hot water. Donahue said that Clemens would emerge “looking like a lobster.” Okay, that’s not too weird. Slightly masochistic, yes, but not altogether weird. Clemens would then have Donahue take the hottest liniment and rub it into his testicles. You read it right. Rub it into his testicles. Donahue continued to say that Clemens would “snort like a bull” and that was the sign he was ready to pitch. Weird.
Clemens’ fall from grace doesn’t need anymore coverage, and getting liniment rubbed into his nuts may just be par for the course. Instead, let’s think about poor Steve Donahue. How many kids dream about wearing the famed pinstripes when they grow up? How many of those kids actually realize that dream? Steve Donahue realized the dream, donned the pinstripes, and once he made the big leagues he ends up rubbing Tiger Balm on the Rocket’s testes. At that price, you can keep the pinstripes. He might as well be in prison and Clemens was his “big brother.”
Imagine going home at night, washing your hands for 2 hours only to have your wife or girlfriend say “how was work…what did you do today?”
“Oh, same ol’ same ol’. I did some therapy on Giambi’s mustache, did rehab work with Hideki, and then rubbed some liniment on Clemens’ genitalia.”
“Isn’t that a little gay?”
“Yeah, a little bit, but he’s the Rocket.”
“Did you touch his rocket?”
“No, baby that’s just gross…strictly the nuts.”
That conversation can’t ever go well. Sorry, Steve Donahue did you not ever see that Beverly Hills 90210 episode where they teach about “No Means No”? Rub your own testes. That should be a rule across society. Rub your own testes.
FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!
Mark McGwire did steroids. We know this. This isn’t a big deal anymore. Silence is admission of guilt, and when was the last time you heard Mark McGwire speak? That’s right, it was when he pleaded the fifth like a Chappelle’s show skit. Well, in a story that’s about as tired and used up as a hooker at a 1994 house party at Michael Irvin’s house, Mark McGwire’s younger brother Jay is making headlines (more like footnotes) with a proposed book that details brother Mark’s steroid use. Big whoopty-do. It should be noted that Jay and Mark are estranged and Jay claims that he introduced Mark to ‘roids after Mark saw Jay win a bodybuilding contest. Jay’s looking for a payday and that’s where the FlyMaster’s ire gets raised.
Assaults on filial piety, the sanctity of the family, and sibling bonds are the lowest of the low. Rats are dealt with pretty severely in prison, and thus they should be karmically retributed against with the utmost impunity when they betray their family. All families bicker, fight, become estranged, burn each other’s houses, beat each other’s puppies, but that all stays in the family. That’s rule number one. Jay McGwire broke the golden rules of being a family member and in his meager attempts to capitalize on his brother’s demons only make him a demon of higher caliber. What’s next, Jay? Are you going to rat out your other brother Dan, one of the worst NFL QB busts in the last 30 years, for being a hideously bad gunslinger who was a product of the San Diego State offense of the late 1980s? You jerk!
Please allow the FlyMaster to make an open statement to the FlySister. FlySister, if you ever rat me out on all the ridiculously dumb, dimwitted, nefarious stuff the FlyMaster is responsible for the FlyMaster will find you. Find you he will. However, if you choose to write some memoir of FlyMaster’s foibles please ask for more than $100K, although I doubt you’d receive more than $4 bucks, a six pack of Pabst, and some gummy bears. But, on the real side, the FlySister understands this agreement as an unsaid code of siblings. That’s what makes Jay McGwire even more of a douchetard. He didn’t even realize the idiocy and ignorance of his actions. Remember people, nothing is more important than maintaining belief in your family members even if they’re a walking petri dish of HGH, horse testosterone, and cow urine. Back acne and rages aside, he’s still your brother.
FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!
A father’s love knows no bounds. Fathers dedicate themselves to providing their kids with the best opportunities to succeed, protect them from and prepare them for the awaiting world, and of course, give their kids steroids as motivation to become better athletes. Meet Mr. Todd Gerleman, an Iowa resident who expressed his love for his 14 year old son by injecting the boy with steroids and supplying him with a cocktail of pills. Do you smell “Father of the Year” yet? Well, let the story unfold. Gerleman’s dedication to his son’s competitive excellence only became apparent after his son assaulted his mother in what police described as a “steroid rage.” Mom obviously wasn’t on the same page as the Gerleman boys. By the way, Gerleman is pronounced “girlie man.” Back to our story of father-son bonding. Gerleman said he was giving his son steroids as a means to motivate him in sports. Damn, that is some out of the box thinking. “Here son, the road to success begins with me shooting some unnatural shit into your butt.” Play like a champion today.
First of all, look at this fool’s mugshot. Is that the face of a motivational speaker? Why are most cats busted for steroid dealing overweight? I guess the NWA warning of not “getting high on your own supply” resonates with the ‘roid dealers of the world. Secondly, his son is a high school wrestler (already a suspiciously homoerotic subculture) and this guy is basically using his son as a guinea pig. This defines perversion. Ok, before we condemn the man let’s listen to the case…let’s give the Gerleman some props. He’s definitely thinking outside of the box. In a time when the sports world has rallied against steroids and performance enhancers, Gerleman stood strong in his convictions. A rogue salmon swimming down stream while the rest of the pack swam upstream to spawn. It takes true belief in one’s progeny’s capabilities to want to inject them with steroids thereby increasing the size of his frontal lobe while simulataneously shrinking his nuts to the size of sunflower seeds. Acne on the back? That’s comes with the glory of being Iowa State Wrestling champ. Gerleman is the sports equivalent of those backwoods militia men who ride around on ATVs while spewing the “Freedom Or Death” rhetoric through their missing front teeth. Gerleman is in a league of his own, and I don’t encourage you to join this league.
In my attempts to improve my son’s performance in his 6 and under soccer league I’ve too use methods that may be deemed unorthodox, unethical, unusual, maniacal, and laced with evil. I can’t afford steroids, and my disdain of synthetic drugs prevent me from concocting any cocktails, but the FlyMaster has his methods. Method one is called “pull my chariot with your teeth.” This involves me sitting in a red wagon while he chomps down on a twine tether and pulls me up the driveway. This is great for leg strength, determination, neck stability, and is an adjunct way of flossing. Don’t mind the bloody gums. They get used to that. Method two is called “get a job muthaf**ker.” You got to pay to play, and having mundane jobs teaches kids the value of getting to play games. Plain and simple. Each day after school I drop him off at the life insurance agency and he gets busy trying to slang policies. He’s not bad for a six year old, but I’d never buy from him or tell him he’s doing well. Got to keep their mental state slightly fragile. Method three is called “play with the big boys son.” This involves putting him on the field with his dad’s crew of roughneck soccer players. Now the FlyMaster plays with a crew of Irish miscreants, salty Mexicans, angered Englishmen, two Argentinian jerks, and some old-school pipe smoking brothas. We put the FlySon in goal and practice taking penalty shots at him. Trick is, we blind fold him. That develops the chi and sensory perception. All of these methods have combined to completely screw up my son’s head and sense of self, but hey that’s what Gerleman was doing also, so I’m not alone.
FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!
Nearly a year ago the Mitchell Report on the use of performance enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball was released and since then the sports world has lost its luster. The FlyMaster is all-about a level playing field and upholding antiquated social mores and folkways, but oh how he misses the days of exaggerated frontal lobes, back acne, ridiculously long home runs, random acts of violence against dugout coolers, and the eye of the tiger.
In honor of the Mitchell Report it is time for the FlyMaster to come clean. The burden of guilt must be lifted from the FlyMaster’s broad, well-developed, and chiseled shoulders. Yes, the FlyMaster has used Performance Enhancing Drugs.
Maintaining peak performance requires the perfect combination of skill, preparedness, focus, acuity, dedication and timing. If all those concepts don’t mesh perfectly, one can always get some Ferrigno Juice, snort a couple lines of monkey dust, or snack on some peyote. The greatest performances in sports history inspire those who don’t lace up our Chuck Taylor’s for a living. However, it seems like recently we’re all forced to swallow the bitter reality pill that some of the greatest performances, in and out of sports, might be tainted by the looming spectre of “PERFORMANCE ENHANCING DRUGS (PEDs).”
I once thought that taking PEDs was a slap to the face of David Eckstein, Matt Bullard, Steve Tasker, Mark Van Eaghen, Sedale Threatt, and all of the other athletes that I admired for playing the game “the right way.” It should be noted that I also thought Santa Claus drove a Cadillac Coupe De Ville and the Easter Bunny actually spoke chicken as shown in the Cadbury Chocolate commercials. I digress.
I always prided myself on producing articles “the right way.” Hours of pillaging other people ideas, claiming I thought of something unique when it was actually Colin Cowherd who said it, ignoring the Chicago Style Guide for Writers, sipping on a morning Gentleman Jack, and all of the prescribed techniques I learned at UC Berkeley just didn’t seem to cut it any longer. Mired in a slump, I needed to find a way break out of the doldrums and that’s when a colleague suggested I try a new concoction he deemed “The Bomb Diggity” to get my game back on track. I coyly asked if this would affect my standing in the morally upright sports writing community and my colleague, Jose, said that nearly 80% of writers were using “The Bomb Diggity.” “80%,” I thought, “that means all my years of doing it the right way was actually the wrong way.”
Now, I knew that my god-given talents of wit, crafty sentence structure, and sparse usage of the passive tense put me on track to be a Hall of Famer, but when I looked around at my slovenly semi-literate competition who were producing ideas and articles way above their pedestrian abilities I was angered. That’s when I took my first cycle of “The Bomb Diggity.” Within minutes of my first inhalation I could feel the strength return to my fingertips. My brain fired on all twelve cylinders. Ideas came to me while I stared at the color bars on dead TV channels, talked to fire hydrants, and frolicked with marsupials. The wind started whispering platitudes in my ears. There was an intense fire in my loins, which I later found out was attributed to another slump-busting technique that didn’t work (syphillis). I was alive. I was strong. I was the FlyMaster.
“The Bomb Diggity” opened up new opportunities for me. I captured five writing awards and a humanitarian belt at the annual “Internet Forum Writer Awards,” held remotely via webcam at 26,432 locations. Women on Match.com actually looked at my profile for they could see the passion with which I wrote. My posse got bigger. I broke the single day record for Sportsfly.com forum posts, and then in an instance my world eroded.
A story about two famous internet sports writers, Michigan_Sucks_87 and Kobe_Hater, admitted that they dabbled in “The Bomb Diggity” for a couple of months in early 2001. They knew screennames and geocities websites of other writers who upgraded their mental operating systems via “The Bomb Diggity.” There were no tests in place and retinal scans weren’t legal at the time, so a lot of the story was hearsay, but I’m here to say that I was on “The Bomb Diggity.” In fact I’m on my fifteenth cycle and right now my future is so bright I’ve got to wear shades. Sure, I did the Marion Jones thing. At first I denied any knowledge. I cut off ties with my colleague Jose. I later admitted taking “The Bomb Diggity” unknowingly when I trained at the Jimmy Breslin Institute. Finally, the noose of the truth got to be a little much, so I admitted my faults in an internet chat room and promptly returned those stupid, “hecho en Mexico” internet awards.
Was I disgraced? Did I feel I let the kids down? Could I look at my mother in the face knowing I stepped outside the lines of what is right? The answers are simple. I wasn’t disgraced for one second. If you read my articles when I was on “The Bomb Diggity,” the words would dance on your tongue and scintillate your mind. Kids? Who cares about them with their silly notions of me as a roll model? My mother? She has a dial-up internet connection…she won’t find out about this until 2015.
In the end, I feel like the years I spent using “PEDs” really boosted my career and solidified my position as an innovator in the field. I’ll tow the moral line and do all the Public Service Announcements you can shake a stick at, but deep down inside I know my championship performances now reside in the pantheon of internet sports writing, and who cares if I had the munchies the entire time.
FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!