Showing posts with label pro sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pro sports. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Hard Times


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O._J._Simpson

For many years, most of the American public has known that OJ Simpson should have been given a "Guilty" verdict during his infamous murder trial, but all of us were denied justice on that day. We watched in mute horror as Judge Ito delivered his ruling during a live televised event, and just like the day we learned Elvis Presley died alone on a toilet from a drug overdose that was a long time coming, we were mute with shock and horror from the news of it. I remember the room I was in was almost split firmly in half, giving it the hard-fought appearance of a race war that was finally won, as the blacks cheered on from yet another bad decision made supposedly in their good faith from the powers that be, racially mixed as so many of us are here, which makes the cynicism behind their race-baiting tactics worse still.

Just who did they think they were fooling? You, my lovingly devoted public, and they did so in great numbers, with as many resources and skills that you don't (still) share their access to. For years afterwards, we listened to local media legend Howard Stern (a.k.a. "The King of All Media")  interview the parents of Ron Goldman live on-air, as they fought a public battle in the civil courts to block what we knew often followed a guilty celebrity's second step towards their personal recovery, through lucrative contracts that give coveted media outlets sole access to his story, aired on cheesy cable t.v. biopics designed in conjunction with television executives invested in recouping their "losses" through enrichment from his trials.

In short, everyone involved in money-making ventures became complicit in his crimes, too. We were aghast throughout this nation watching L.A. burn in riots, marred with public looting, and destroyed with repeatedly brutal police beatings aired on the evening news over and over again in pointless repetition (since so many of us remember the civil rights wars of our painful pasts), only to see our fellow Americans once again dragged through the mud by the deliberately commercial manipulation of their pain, over a shameful history that we also share with them, but how to reach out in such times of mayhem? And that was the point, too; it forced you to see sharply separated halves that were falsely colored strictly "black or white" by the same biracial people made to backup O.J.'s cover-ups with payoffs and bribes, because there wasn't anyway profit to be had from the truth.

Today we take a stand to air out our joint closets in this springtime of our many youths gone by, in the eternal hope that we can be made whole again is His Coming Glory, which you can. That's the "Good News"! We don't have to ever go back to the pain and darkness again, fresh as we can be made with our accurate human accounts the world over. We have everything to share in common friendship, in continued harmony and brotherly love, as we close doors to those pasts that can be made to rise like so many skeletons in so many closets, in the false hope that the dead tell no tales.


That is not true, my dears! As any scientist, academic, or scholar (even amateur) will tell you, bones cannot be made to lie. They only tell the truth, because just like our genetic pasts, the blood will out our stories in the event of our absence anyway, if such were to be the case. How? I'm so glad you asked! Well, just as we always suspected, O.J. is a complete fucking criminal, and he did what we, the well-informed public, always knew he would: he got caught committing another crime, trying to get back his own memorabilia, from the very same corrupt people he'd already sold them to, with a disastrously illegal break-in. And just as he stole our real stories from us way back when, we can right it with this truth, in an epic bon mot of how those "powers that be" worked: O.J., ever the star, complained about his access in prison to broad-based cable television, seeing as his jail is on a tight budget. They can only afford basic cable there. Too bad!

"Awww!" Come on, chime in everyone! That's too bad. In the aftermath, we have him where we were meant to be for his crimes, in atonement. What can he do to escape his final punishment? Give up the goods, man! Tell us about your football-based brain injuries covered up by men far more powerful and wealthier than you, as a young player looking to buy his way out of hard times, taking yo' po' family from the ghetto along for the ride, right? Tell us about your concussions, go for those MRIs, spill about the CTE brain disease that made your psychosis and violence far worse than it had to be, with every hard knock you got on a football field full of African-American men, fronted with cash and watched by a mostly European-American audience in the stands. Talk to me. Talk to yo' mama who made you gladly...and then? After that? Talk to Your Father. Talk to your Loving Creator who made you in His Image, and repent. The time has come. The time is now. Amen to you. We are Legion.


Eliminate any incriminating evidence believed to be found at the scene of the crime, then blame it all on a detective with a supposedly checkered past: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Fuhrman  
Destroy more evidence: http://articles.chicagotribune.com/1998-07-30 
Blame it all on racism, and watch the world burn from a safe distance on t.v.

Us? We wait. And wait. And then we waited some more, working as we do at our daily labors. And then, finally, in the end, we always win, armed with nothing more glamorous than the truth. That's how.
http://www.wmcactionnews5.com/story/7082028/oj-simpson-tells-police-he-was-reclaiming-sports-memorabilia
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/League_of_Denial 
http://www.today.com/news/frank-gifford-suffered-chronic-traumatic-encephalopathy-cte-family-says-t58231 

Thursday, January 21, 2016

Sportsdyke


Infamous 80s hairdo known as "the softball haircut", or more recently dubbed the "Dyke-O'Mullet", as worn by my kind of lesbian, a man: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mullet_%28haircut%29


Psychological warfare doesn't just take place in offices, behind closed doors. Luckily for me, abuse follows me wherever I go! In fact, some of the weirdest behavior that seems to happen around me all the time was during my time on the mats of some infamous dojos, with or without athletic lesbians included, because (and here's the kicker), I'd be there regardless of the other people who may or may not be seriously dedicated athletes. Me? I just don't give a fuck. It's enormously expensive to train with elite athletes, and as such, I take it seriously enough (kinda like ballet as a kid), but better, because there's lots of dudes around, which brings me to another important point: I've done some of my roughest fighting with my brother Bernie, during that glorious time before he hit puberty, and when I actually had a decent shot at beating him or making him cry, which I hated. He was my best friend as a kid, and a beautifully sensitive boy who was bullied at school (he was called "pretty boy" a lot), which I also hated.

It's part of what makes him so angry, because he's always had great difficulty processing his emotions well, given genetic difficulties that he certainly didn't want or ask for, which gave him way more free passes at home and away than I had, but not by much. He gets crazy/angry quickly, which, as an experienced martial artist in the Super Heavyweight class, means I can't train with him in total effectiveness at the dojo for competitions, which he also reminds me about whenever I want him to spar with me. You know, he could do me a favor, instead of the other way around, but whatevs, Bern. No, I know! You pay a lot of money for "your time", too, and I'm so puny and weak, how could you get a decent workout for your money? Not much has changed between us in that sense over the years, besides his obvious big size over me. You think I'm kidding? He's bred one heck of a big boy who took to MMA naturally (without hard time on the mats) much more than his older, smaller, and way more experienced black belt brother in Taekwondo, and that bears a seriously strong thinking-over, too.

Which brings me to the other point about me and fight training; it's in the blood. I'm not a warrior because I choose it, or because I like some trendy fucking gym scene. It chose me. And my brothers. And my nephews....but I digress. What some crazy dyke thinks is a good rubbing around with her strap-on "bestie" while spending our time on the mat to play stupid fucking games with (BTW: thanks, Anne, for rolling with Peg while "dyke-ing" it up at TSMMA, while I tried to stay alive with you two fucks during grappling, you know, because you had a brown belt and Peggy has a black belt), is my real fucking sport. Wackos waste time, and time is money, so get a grip, moron.


Just do what I do. Wrestle it out like a pro during class (while I look at some of the more handsome gentlemen folk with actual penises who may be training) and then afterwards...well that's up to you and me and you-know-who, because that "Big Injun" I know (who happens to be just around the bend) is the best warrior ever, if you know what I mean. Like, the ultimate. Yeah, that's it! How catchy! Training with professionalism without the weird fucking head games that don't work is like being "The Ultimate Warrior", or something like that. I dunno. Maybe.That's what I heard, at least, from those people commentating live on t.v. during MMA fights. See you on the mats, warriors, and leave your fucking crazy dyke shit you think you're working out at home, okay? I don't give a fuck about it. It's "go" time! Happy hunting.




Thursday, September 17, 2015

"Buttahface"


https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/57/US_Navy_100913-N-3215T-149_American_professional_iron_man_athlete_Karl_Gillingham_spots_Hospital_Corpsman_2nd_Class_Ardinis_Strickland.jpg

US Navy American professional iron man athlete Karl Gillingham spots Hospital Corpsman 2nd Class Ardinis Strickland. As an added bonus, try picking out the least attractive white guy in the photo as part of the game. You will win no prize, whatsoever. Nothing at all. Maybe some backlash.



I had kind of a great weekend. The weather was cooler at night, which makes for good sleeping, and boxing was on during daylight savings time, also very good for humans without that pesky circadian rhythm disorder known as "Manic Depression". In other words, this mommy watched boxing for free on a local t.v. station she gets with her digital antenna without using drugs to stay awake. Yay! I know, right? Girls, I know you feel me on this one. What planet do they live on? Baffling...

Anyway, back to the show. The boxing matches were a highly competitive weight class, and the talent was fierce. One handsome young man was sharp right out of the gate. I could tell by the condition he was in that he would win, and win he did, within the first minute of the first round, which is rare for boxing (not so much for MMA, but they are different professional sports). On a side note, they were televised from Foxwoods*, which helps to line the pockets of my Connecticut natives, who definitely owe me a cut of the profits for babysitting one very particular and highly disordered Mohegan/Cayugan/European disaster that my tribe did not create, because white man's "Fire Water" still does him and his kind wrong in this century, and they choose not to adapt or die. But, you know, also for solidarity's sake and stuff.

So, it was with great delight that I watched some experienced talent make their way through the day's fights. Another strong standout young man fighting out of Brooklyn was the favored fighter, for all the right reasons. His technique is excellent. He fought an Australian "Aboriginal"-type youngster of less experience, who had to be carried out of the ring, which sucks for the fighters and fans alike. It's not the kind of outcome anyone wants. But, the fight's doc assured the announcer that he was responsive on the way out, which is a great sign for his recovery. He'll go back to Australia with a much better idea about American sports, which is critical for a 23 year old.

This also handsome Brooklyn fighter had some flair, like you'd expect to tune into as representing freshness from the 'hood. Him and his crew sported wild python-like outfits in various colors (flashy, yo!), and after his show was over, he threw out swag to the audience, which is always the right thing to do in business, kids. Free stuff wins over the crowd every single time, and I LOVED his presence of mind about his chosen profession. But then, something very strange happened. The camera panned to the thin attendance in the seats (daylight hours being horrible to illicit cretins and all), and this really funny-looking Pimp Daddy with a big hat and polyester suit (I shouted out "HuggyBear!" to the t.v. in true ghetto-style...yeah, it was that much fun), with his banged-up looking white bitches....or so I thought.

Turns out, the back-story about this boxing gentleman was about his recent hiatus from the sport (they always spout shit about "cage rust" to fill up the time: it's an urban myth), due to the birth of his child. In most modern circles, this is also known as Maternity Leave. Ah, so what? Papa needs a brand new bag for baby. Good on him for doin' the right thing for his girl. Most guys ain't stand-up about an unplanned pregnancy, IMHO (and a big "Fuck you!" to "Scooter" for tossing me that bullshit acronym in a supposed "business" email. I know you read me, bitch). Life happens. And then, the camera scrolled back to my suited-up ole gansta with what I thought was his crew, but, OMIGOD was I wrong, because underneath this average white girl's pic was her MARRIED NAME to this handsome, successful Africa-American boxer.


Alright, let's work this out together. Yo, part of keeping your team together is letting your homeboy know that banged-up broad is an international flavor that transcends skin tone, and that my man now his HER GENETICS on his baby's face. Part of being a good teammate is keeping the ugly groupies away while your man trains. I mean, WTF Brooklyn? He found that in Brooklyn? You could walk half a block and find ten honeys betta than Miss Coyote Ugly 2015, which leads me to the next fabulous piece of ghetto-truth: beauty only mates with ugly when crazy is involved, and a strong one at that. Doubt me? OK, follow this link to see which famous actress** is married to what the sea done drug up and washed onto the beach from Down Under, because girlfriend needs funding for her vanity projects, hotel rooms, award show gowns, and most importantly, pricey uninsured meds.

Booyah backatcha. Don't mess with mami, boys. I know all them tricks. Y'all been schooled, so don't let yer boy roll with that banged-up bisexual cheerleader just cuz you won the trophy, and homeboy deserves a good time, even if it's with that thing (um, cheerleader) lookin' for a paycheck with the Mrs. Degree she wants to graduate with. Being head quarterback ain't all that. It's hard work carryin' your ass on any given Sunday, so don't get yo' boy drunk and pair him with ugly just as payback for "da game". I am so onto you. You gotta create the total package, coach. That's training for life.

See it here: http://bit.ly/1W5BSIi


For more tips about how to be a good friend, please follow along with these choice, highly-styled lyrics from back in the day:

Take It Off 
 

(It's hurting.)
(Smell your breath!)
(You smell like Jabba.)
(Your nose is what's doing it.)
(You're talking into the recording... YO!)
(Okay Lucky, start it off.)

Take take take take take it off...
Take it off, take take take take it off
Take it off, take take take take it off
Take it off, take take take take it off
Take it off
Take it OFF!

(Take that suede front off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those contacts off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that horsemeat off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those shell-toes off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those track fleas off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that doo-rag off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that moth neck off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those fat laces off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that bomber off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that BVD off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those Converse off)
Take it OFF!
(And those Gazelles too)
Take it OFF!
(Take that Kangol off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that Jordache off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that Afro off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that jhericurl off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that Le Tigre off)

Take those acid-washed jeans, bell-bottomed, designed by your mama...Off? Please? Please..

*   http://www.foxwoods.com/aboutus.aspx
** http://likesuccess.com/428884