Final Thoughts From A Favre Fan
- Thanks
I’ll admit right from the beginning that the FlyMaster is a bonafide Brett Favre fan. It’s not his stats, both the good and the bad, or his exciting and often nerve-racking plays. For me, Favre played football the way everyone should play games. He went all out all the time and was always having fun. Let’s face it, sports are games and games are meant to be fun. Bottom line. Nobody puts their 6 year old son in sports in the hopes of him becoming a Hall of Famer. And for those of you who do that, shame on you. No, we put our kids in sports so they can learn some values and also so we see them having fun. Pure unadulterated fun. As we age many of us lose that inner-child and we then stop playing games. Brett Favre never let go of that inner-child and played the game like a 6 year old at the highest level.
Favre, unlike so many other major sports icons, possesses an everyman quality. His wrangler commercials are believable. His battle against painkiller addiction and his dogged determination to always go to work made him more like us than any other icon from this era. It’s imagineable to see Favre getting an offseason job just to work for work’s sake. It’s plausible to walk into an Hattiesburg bar and see Brett at the end of the bar holding court over a pitcher. Can the same be said of Tom Brady? What about Tiger Woods? No way, those guys aren’t like us. They’re openly better, and that’s okay. Favre is the uber normal man. This week we’ve seen some pretty low stories with A-Rod and Phelps, but quietly the “boy-man” Favre left the sports spotlight and I highly doubt there is anybody who can step into his role.
FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!
This One’s For the Bitches
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.
Leaving a Mark at MSG
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.
Sporting Group:
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.
Herding Group:
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.
Best In Show?
National Signing Day = Media Pedophilia
A Complete Sham
For those of us who are maniacally cynical, pessimistic, and overall dour on the state of society National Signing Day is yet another reminder of our imminent demise. This year ESPN, SI, and Fox Sports have all been touting the arrival of National Signing Day for two weeks. The question I’d pose is why? First of all we’re talking about 17 and 18 year old kids who’ve yet to go to the prom, take a driving test, and witness their last pep rally in the quad during nutrition (or recess which is even more juvenile). The fact of the matter is that no matter how much hype surrounds National Signing Day only a couple of these kids will truly taste collegiate greatness and even fewer will matriculate from the collegiate ranks to the NFL. In other words, media coverage falsely inflates and exploits many of these kids filling them with false hopes and false expectations.
Recruiting has become a full-time job for top tier college programs and covering recruiting has become big business for sites like Scouts, Inc. and Rivals.com. The fuel that flames the maelstrom of recruiting madness remains the human element. Kids, whether the successful few or the discounted many, are the crux of this media phenomenon. Names are volleyed about and kid’s are lauded as the next Ray Lewis or Reggie Bush, but honestly how many of us have ever seen or heard of these kids? Would we know or care about them if not for the media throwing them in our faces? No way! On a deeper level, there is a definite element of child abuse and pedophilia that resonates through this whole process. You have middle-aged men (coaches, recruiters, etc) communicating with kids via text messages and official visits and under-the-table gifts. That smells bad. ESPN posting videos of top prospects and prematurely touting kids as idols is damaging to the kid and lowers the moral bar of the sports consumer. It’s the “pornofication” of sports. The bottom line is if you’re 17 or 18 and have never even stepped outside of the auspices of your parents or home situation, I don’t want to know your name, I don’t want to compare you to some grown man or professional, and I definitely don’t want to leer into your future with any vested interest. Sure, it’s great for colleges to reload their talent, but is there really a need to turn this into a meat market where the cattle dramatically put on some college’s hat in front of a contrived press conference? No, there really isn’t. Let the cattle announce where they go quietly with less fanfare and let’s check back in three years to see if the cattle turn out to be bulls or steer.
FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!
Tiger Balm on the Rocket’s Sack
Fire Down Below
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’s Brother is a Rat
Beat Your Brother's Ass!
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!
What the Hell is That? Volume 2
Steroids for Kids? Damn!
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!
Rickey Henderson – Hall of Fame Linguist
Part Cobb, Part Satre
The 2009 MLB Hall of Fame class will be announced later today and one thing is for certain; Mr. Rickey Henderson’s name will be announced. Thank the heavens. The numbers don’t lie. First in all-time runs. First in all-time steals. First in leadoff homers. First in third person references. Before Rickey, the word “I” was the most common word used by athletes. Now the time has come to salute Rickey.
Without Rickey’s groundbreaking reconstruction of the English language by means of shunning the first person where would the sports world be? Bo Jackson would have just been a stuttering bull from the Deep South had Rickey not paved the way. Manny Being Manny? Rickey Being Rickey is the only “being” that matters. Put all of the on-the-field excellence Rickey exuded aside and ponder how it really feels when someone you’re speaking to refers to themself in the third person. It’s quite odd, and furthermore, it’s a little intimidating. When a person answers a question in the third person it completely removes the question asker from the conversation. Thus, it is no longer a conversation, but instead a monologue of the most disassociated sense. Example: “How’ve you been?” “FlyMaster’s been working on his type speed and FlyMaster’s font choices are improving.” See, that just sounds cool, yet removed.
Rickey’s gifts to our cultural lexicon do not end with his mastery of the third. No, he also made the non sequitor, the double entendre, malapropisms, and syllogistic arguments forms of art. From standing in his New York condo and saying he could see the “Entire State Building,” to telling the A’s “if you want to pay me like Mike Gallego, I’ll play like Mike Gallego,” Rickey channeled the best of Ty Cobb and Jean-Paul Satre. A philospher capable of creating poignancy from simplicity. Who can’t appreciate a man who would stand in front of the mirror, nude and repeating “Rickey’s the best” for several minutes with the asceticism of St. Augustine before games. That, my friends is a higher calling. Rickey’s philosophical genius bears itself in his reaction to becoming Nolan Ryan’s 5,000th strikeout victim. After fanning Rickey said “Ryan just blew it by me, but it’s an honor….Rickey will have another paragraph in the baseball books….Rickey already is in there three or four times.” Genius, plain and simple.
Here’s to the greatest leadoff player in history, the first left fielder to be inducted since Yaz, the man who could not recognize John Olerud after playing with him on two teams, and the “symbol of great base stealing.” All hail Rickey. Rickey hail Rickey. FlyMaster can’t wait for the Hall of Fame speech.
FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!
Just Don’t Let Me See You Shoot No Dogs
Don't Mess With Drew
9 year old Bakersfield, Ca. native Drew Heredia already owns the FlyMaster’s 2009 Athlete of the Year Award. It’s over, so tell Mike Phelps, Lebron, Tiger Woods to look forward to 2010. Drew Heredia was strutting down the street last week when he, a little lady friend, and their pet dog were assaulted by a pit bull. The pit bull first attacked the little dog, then it attacked Drew’s friend. Drew Heredia don’t play that junk. Promptly, Drew jumped on the pit bull’s back and proceeded to choke the dog out using the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu he’d been studying. That’s what I’m sayin’! That kid wins the award hands down.
First of all, pit bulls catch an overall bad rap, but every once in a while a rogue pit makes the news after mauling some kids or old folks. That’s usually because they’re owned by methed-out, trashy fools who treat animals like beasts. Enter Drew Heredia. He sent a message to pit bull nation loud and clear. “Pit bulls can fade Jiu Jitsu.” Drew, you’re a bad man. Not only did Drew teach the dog a lesson, he didn’t even have to kill it. That’s martial arts on the highest level. Bruce Lee and Miyamoto Musashi are smiling down on Sensei Heredia today for his display of control and valor. I’m thinking of moving to Bakersfield to take lessons from this kid. Be my guide, Drew. Lead me from the squalor of selfishness into the lightness of being that is. After learning how to choke out pits, I’m going to focus on other animals. Bears, marmosets, camels, manatees…no rogue animal will be safe once Sensei Drew finishes with me. Life has purpose once again.
FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!
What The Hell Is That? Volume 1
Sports Analyst?
I‘ve done my fair share of hallucinogens. Straight up. Had conversations with Leprechaun used-car salesmen disguised as chairs. Check. Made passionate love to an unsuspecting birch tree. Check. Believed I could melt a DC-10 with the sheer power of my thoughts. Check and double check. That was the past my friends, but this morning I woke up and saw something that blew my feeble mind into a thousand Hunter S. Thompson inspired pieces. On ESPN’s First Take host Dana Jacobsen was moderating a debate between Skip Bayless and Lil’ Wayne. That’s right, Skip Bayless and Lil’ Wayne. Skip Bayless, and the endangered species he wears on his head, was locked into a serious debate about the BCS System with Lil’ Weezy. What the hell is going on here? In between debating whether or not Mack Brown did a good job coaching Texas in the Fiesta Bowl and talking about the state of the NBA, Dana Jacobsen found time to ask questions about Lil’ Wayne’s grill. To his credit, Lil’ Wayne made a good show of himself despite sounding sedated on a handful of percodan washed down with a hurricane. To their discredit, ESPN has lost the sliver of authenticity that they still maintained.
Here’s the problem. The world of cross promotion saturates us with these “mashups” that make absolutely no sense, all in the name of exposure. Being a student and fan of hip-hop for 25 years and a sports fan longer than that makes me realize that combining my likes actually makes me dislike and disassociate myself from both music and sports individually. Hearing Lil’ Wayne or Immortal Technique or Del the Funky Homosapien speak about sports is as appealing as watching paint wither off my Dodge Dart. Similarly, I wouldn’t listen to a collaboration album between Stuart Scott, Linda Cohen, and Jay-Z. Keep my favorites separated. Music over here; sports over there. It’s like putting gravy on ice cream or putting a tattoo of an eagle gripping a salmon on a beautiful pair of supple breasts. Keep that stuff separate.
If we are forced to digest these cross-cultural mashups then let’s take it to the next level. Skip and Lil’ Wayne talking sports is cool, but that’s a gateway drug. Here are a couple of mashups that would really get things popping.
- Shaq, Richard Simmons, and Oprah Winfrey doing a live television special in which they all get colonoscopies while debating the benefits of eating more kale and endives.
- Mike Vick and the Dog Whisperer debating on the best housebreaking strategies for Lhasa Apsos.
- R. Kelly and Michael Jackson espousing the virtues of home-schooling their kids while Charles Manson counters with the argument that kids need to be properly socialized in a traditional school environment.
- Plaxico Burress and Suge Knight discussing gun control with Slobodan Milosevic and Idi Amin.
- Pacman Jones and Paris Hilton doing PSA’s and being chaperones for a safe prom season.
- Jessica Simpson and Lou Holtz co-writing a book entitled “In the Pocket… Keys to the West Coast Offense.”
Endangered Species Headgear
Meanwhile, First Take continues with Skip Bayless telling Lil’ Wayne he loves his second album. Skip you are a retard of the highest caliber. That kid on “Life Goes On” just called to say you’re a mental dwarf. Actually, Dana Jacobsen just ate a dwarf and swilled its entrails in a vodka spritzer. I digress, but ESPN makes that girl wear black clothing everyday because she’s expanding faster than the universe. Seriously, you’re a sports anchor do some goddamn situps. ESPN shame on you. Lil’ Wayne, much respect for not stabbing every one of those patronizing “I know black people” anchors as they talked to you about hip-hop and grills with trepidation laced with condescension. Skip, Donald Trump called and said your hairpiece is a disgrace to the skull murkin community. I long for a nice dose of LSD because reality is a trip.
FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!
Bring Back The Drugs
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!
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