this week's best blog post fucking ever

as a follow-up to the Big Doo post below, virtual hat's off to the always epic Posting n' Toasting, with this virtuoso performance/tour de force/ass-kick of an analysis:

Luol Deng may or may not be a dementor.

so true. also, as always, all hail clyde, and bemoan the sad loss of his online dictionary.

i hate these fucking people

“It’s literally like running next to a cheetah,” Chambers [sic]aid.

yeah. we get that shit a lot, too.

alternate title for this post: honey, i love you so much that i called the fucking nytimes.

we hope someone calls the nytimes for our next birthday present. yes, we want someone to pay Bon Iver to watch Old School and drink Guinness with us.

the garbage barge that is chris duhon

so, here's an email we just sent over to the fine fellows at Blog A Bull, a hilarious hoops blog (in the vein of the king of them all, The WizzNutzz)... who had warned everyone last year when they threw a virtual "Someone Signed Chris Duhon Party!" much like how NYC residents cheered when some poor rural area down South decides that their open territory is more valuable as landfill.

it's a profile of FRIGGIN' CHRIS DUHON by Howard Beck that you get the feeling was written like 3 weeks ago. it's also a case study in how statistics lie, and how a writer can sometimes goes into a story with a pre-conceived notion... which apparently leads him to imply that duhon is having a better season than rose, and is better than anyone you have ever had at PG in the last 3 years.

yeah. go read it.

for instance, duhon's getting 8 assists/game... because the knicks have 2 healthy guards, and because duhon dribbles for 18 seconds per possession on average! yes, the knicks have a high-octane offense... that gives up the 2nd most ppg in the friggin' league! their transition defense is a chinese fire drill.

and yeah, Big Doo's getting a career-high PPG in a career-high minutes... shooting 41pct from the friggin' field! and i'd say he does that "pull-up 3 from the top of the key with 16 seconds left on the shot clock with no one guarding him" thing at least 3 times a game; they usually hit the side of the rim.

like you guys promised... HE IS EVERYTHING YOU SAID HE COULD BE.

but i guess since he's apparently not about to "go to his car/get his second gun/come back and shoot everybody" kind of nuts (like recent knicks backcourt choices), he's gotta be the second coming of clyde, at least to one Howard B(l)ech.

anyway, great blog and stuff. and no, i'm not a knicks fan. jesus.

we'll update this later after derrick rose shits on him.

holy whiskeyfire ftmfw

go read the best blog post ever. now.

we're adding this dude to our officially supported sidebar links. welcome to the hallmark of true distinction, monsieur/madame fire (also, great backstory). you're a made blog, now.

and that's for the mother fucking win.

i am sooooo caught up in life

weirdest trash talk ever... with a backup on the bench (albeit it was Big Shot Eddy—check out Lucky bringin' the karma foul back to his kid about 21 secs in). i think this will be the year stephon marbury Alien head-bites an opponent, and then flings poo on the court. i look forward to that in hi-def.

from the times...

Marbury celebrated his first start with some solid play and a vicious verbal duel with House while House was sitting on the bench. It lasted several minutes and several possessions.

After Marbury drew a foul on Kendrick Perkins and hit two free throws, he turned and screamed at House, from midcourt: “You’re a bum!”

When play returned to the Celtics’ side of the court, House chirped, “Don’t worry about me. You better worry about Ray Allen,” whom Marbury was guarding. Marbury shot back, “You’re nothing!” then added, “You’re caught up in basketball. Get caught up in life.”

natural selection

don't worry. you, too, can raise a holier-than-thou child... literally. just make sure he's (NOTE: must be a He, like jesus was, cuz girls are the devil, silly!) been officially run through the catholic dog and pony show, with documentation, mind you.

hey, welcome to Chaminade.

School Motto: We are better than you.
School Fight Song: Onward Christian Soldiers, or #509 in the CBP
Students Pledge: To be more tolerant of other white people.
Famous Sponsors/Alumni: D'Amato, Suozzi, O'Reilly
Cost of Sponsor-/Alumni-Purchased Sports and Activities Complex: $20 million dollars
Cost of Your Soul: Fucking priceless!

on a serious note, ban Chaminade from competing against or interacting with any public school in this country. and certainly—obviously—here in a secular country, Chaminade should not be getting a fucking dime from the feds, directly, indirectly, infrastructurely—whatsofuckingever. right?

go peddle your crazy xenophobic bullshit somewhere else.

GTFO white boy, this shit ain't williams

just to clarify, in case you missed it: tommy amaker is still a huge piece of shit.

eight is not even fucking close to enough

i swear to fucking god this is real. i swear to fucking god this was in today's nytimes.

now, really, go read this in all its full glory, written from the nadir of the modern female sportswriter: think, vogue with a twist of mommy blogger.

but let me just cut, paste and, er, annotate the rules.

well, i have to at least start with the lede. it's fucking epic:

Few audibles are called in the Warner household. Keeping seven children on the same page requires a no-frills playbook.

sports journalist and pioneer Karen Crouse with some more of that hard-hitting language that makes her so tough, showing off all the football terms she's learned since the season began. sez here that Karen is not only proud of the fact that she's a mommy in a man's world, but has in the past seen a head doctor because hard-hitting readers occasionally sent her some hard-hitting feedback, saying things like "go write for the fucking gossip pages, mommy" as well as a certain timeless catchphrase that we're especially fond of here at girthy, and which, like everything, just sounds better in scottish.

now, back to the rules:

“Eight Rules for Being a Warner Daughter or Son.”

apparently the rule that periods should only end actual sentences when used in headlines or bullets is not one endorsed by the warner household. faith > grammar.

1. Everyone has to agree on which strangers’ meal to pay for when dining at a restaurant.

ZOMG, me too! it makes me feel so much better about myself. also, firenze sucks, but that's only because i sill have a grudge from when we used to race.

2. At dinner, share the favorite part of your day.

now, were i das warnerspawn, i'd prolly recount how i just made that homeless guy in the back booth grovel before letting me baptise and "faith heal" him in the bathroom, on account of me just promising to pay for his meal, as part of rule 1. plus, bonus points for saving a soul, too! demons out!

being a warner is fucking awesome.

3. Hold hands and pray before every meal.

make sure you've washed. homeless guy cooties > faith.

4. After ordering at a restaurant, be able to tell Mom the server’s eye color.

because not only do both superman AND jesus think it's ok to give the freaky bugeye to people, if He really loved you, you wouldn't be colorblind. or "starring" on fucking youtube in ripley's believe it or not. sinner.

5. Throw away your trash at the movie theater and stack plates for the server at restaurants.

i wonder if they have rules for some of life's other complex challenges, like "don't piss in your pants again, use the bathroom" or "don't automatically tell the gay people we see holding hands or making out that they are going to burn in hell, because they might just be siblings." see below.

6. Spend one hour at an art museum when on the road.

no more. no less. also, no feeding the warners after midnight and none of that hateful poop art.

7. Hold hands with a sibling for 10 minutes if you can’t get along.

what if you're just praying? does that shit stack?

8. If you can’t get along holding hands, sit cheek to cheek. (If you can’t get along cheek to cheek, then it’s lips to lips!)

as long as it's not gay, or incestuous, or both. cuz in 2008, now, that's just not ok. also, ohio is fucking awesome. (EDDY: was that song not evil when it originally debuted... back in 1995 or whenever? is ohio like soviet russia? do they still listen to 80s music? i mean, we do, but look at us.)

on a side note, KURT, IF YOU'RE STILL READING... should, during some future serendipitous visit to the local chain steakhouse, we ever see das warnerspawn approaching our carcass-strewn and empty-jello-plated, all-you-can-eat-salad-barred table, their holier than thou, cash-filled grubby digits outstretched, we will gladly accept your money.

and we will spend it on porn, booze, drugs, whores and that much-anticipated matt leinart sex tape, featuring a horse, the USC cheerleding team and a midget wearing a mini-me mask.

by the way, i just wasted two hours of my life that i could have spent being productive. so fuck you, kurt warner, and your crazy christian balls. harrumph.

brenda would have fucking pwned saddam's face

say it for me, jason, and say it LOUD:

And by God “Beverly Hills 90210” was the perfect escape from the bombing of Baghdad.

just... wow.

tremendous upside: who the fuck is bambi... and how dat bitch taste?

it's hubie's phrase, really, it is. but hubie belongs to us all. and so should willie, who i remember reading about like... 4 years ago? 5? time flies when you're having* fun**.

“He’s got tremendous upside, but a lot of guys have tremendous upside,” Brandt said in a telephone interview. “A lot of them just never reach the top of it.”

...

Beyond football, Glenville State has been a cultural awakening for Williams. As he talks about playing horseshoes and eating venison, he smiles and flashes his eight gold-capped teeth.

“All I could think of was Bambi,” Williams said of eating venison. “But when I finally tasted it, it wasn’t that bad.”

Because Glenville’s lone McDonald’s closes at 11 on most nights, Williams has also started cooking on a George Foreman grill.

“I be feeling like George Foreman sometimes because I have that Foreman grill on fire,” he said. “You can throw throw anything on there.”

That includes French fries and family packs of steak that Williams cooks for teammates.

“We eat like real vikings,” he said.

enjoy the ephemera. and viva la willie, ad infinitum--you'll always be havin' wingspan unbelievable with us at girthy, brother.

ok, now that that shit's over...

what happened? looks like we're around 210 b.c. these days, peeps, and girthy's missed the summer. too busy not watching the farce in the far east.

we just wear their t-shizz.

on the plus side of freedom: we did sit out the national anthem at the actually-in-reality-next-to-but-originally-billed-and-sold-(falsely)-as-the-LA$T-PLAY-@-$HEA... and then stood after it ended and out-cheered everyone else right after.

of course, our cheers were, "GO TORTURE!" and "TORTURE RULES! GO USA! GO TORTURE!" girthy got us some funny looks--but, people, these were fucking billy joel fans. like we used to be.

then we stood up again, later on... and left as soon as billy gave us this vital cue: "...and on guitar... jon mayer."

your bacon is always a wonderland.

olympicotting... let's get it started (ah-ha)

been thinking about this one for a while. in lieu of the farce that the torch ceremony has become--a real microcosm of this entire chinese olympic joke--we at Girthy are boycotting this year's summer olympics.

much more to come, with links, rationale, and impassioned/batshit diatribes, but this o-cott will include:

• not watching the sham coverage that is slated to air live in EST, so the athletes can tee it up at 11pm china-time, or whatever
• not buying the products of the shitass corpo-whore sponsors
• not listening to my collection of jon tesh discs, tapes and vinyls

on the plus side, there's no women's curling--we couldn't 'cott that shit.

oh, it's so awn...

been a while, but we get caught in the gears of the machine more than most. hey--we're batshit, after all. speaking of which, look at what motivates us out of hibernation: The Top 10 Reasons to Cover the Women’s Final Four
by Harvey Araton of the Times.

'nuff said. that's motivating enough to start tearing up teh interwebz, all over again.

p.s. no, it's not because he misses the days of peach-bucket bingo and no dribbling, jumping, or overtly athletic movements. and if you think there's any of that, legitimately, in the women's game, then--no offense--you're just a fucking idiot.

p.p.s. happy birthday, bitches!

hi? ate? U.S.?

too disgusted with the state of the state to blog too much... new blood soon. enjoy your wars, bailouts and shams.

rome redux: the spatial difference allows me plenty of time to react

it's the coffee/cocktail conundrum we all wrestle with (consciously or not) around the 11:30 mark each morning. just buckle, and stop all the denial.

• so many great quotes in here, it's UNmazing. on a side note, we fell over after standing on our heads--not even our hands--in 47 seconds, roughly. on another side note, we wish the beautiful poetic soul of this language could seep just a little into some scant american cultural edifice this year, the better the Empire shine for it, however briefly:
  

  “This isn’t the stuff of home runs, it’s about effectively harnessing the power from below to make contact with a strongly pitched ball and not be beaten by its strength.”

• also, fuck the Cubs. we've hated you since you were in the NL East, and we attended Shea games in our youth--while people cheerily hung Cub-jerseyed teddy bears in effigy in the stands. yeah, we know you historically suck. and yeah, we know you now play in a wildcarded world, and not even in our division. but as you should know here at girthy, our hatred is never fleeting.
  
• how to fix illegal immigration, once and for all--no jobs for anyone! and no carrots for you, silly humans.
• you, uh, feel that stingin' in your chest, citizens? that's pride, fuckin' wicha. well, fuck pride. then, fuck it some more.
• stock up on lollipops--lollipops for all! and keep on keeping them bitches outta the dugouts!
  
• hail not just the repubs, citizens. enjoy your spying.
• for the record, stan van gundy is the East's version of PJ. just a douchebag. and for fuck's sake, who did redick bang that you're not playing him over the shlubbs you're starting?
• somebody better go find the Empire a Hitler, and soon. uh, a new one, please.

wiibow hurts like hell

after 3 mos. of shopping by multiple girthy-ites, we got us a wii.

now, all of us are in pain. and not blogging as much as we should, for our audience of 3.

on the plus side, our wii bowling averages are much, much better than they were when we were repeatedly losing at $5 a game at 4-1 odds to the kid down the street.

alll ur interwebs r belongz to me... forever

and you wonder why we at girthy are so into pen names...

unshocking reason no. 4,356,891 why the Empire is fading

ah, america. once so authentic, and revolutionary. now, revolting.

While critics of bringing children to bars are vocal, some parents have embraced the habit with gusto. In recent years, mothers in Manhattan and in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, gathered for Wednesday afternoon cocktail mixers called Tots and Tonic. One former attendee, Christen Clifford, a writer and actress who now lives in Jackson Heights, Queens, proudly recalled breast-feeding her son, Felix, at the bar before ordering a martini.

the solution, of course, is easy and easily applied: make bars be bars again. go there, and curse, spit, gamble, swear, fight, and smoke--or at least smell like smoke. hell, go outside, take a drag--relish it--come back, and blow that sweet secondhand cancer it in Felix's nipple-sucking, lactate-covered face.

when supermom starts screaming at you, gracelessly splashing her $12 martini in angry narcissistic froth, slowly turn to her, and tell her what she needs to be told: go wash your fucking hands and get me a cheese sandwich. though, admittedly, that's The Icepick's line.

then, calmly direct your attention back to the bartender and order "one of whatever this fucking baby is having."

pulp cruciFiction, or seppuku is for pussies

bushido--it's not just for samurai any more. for instance, check out budding lord, savior and sword-slicing badass muthafucka, Jesus Christ-san. no, really.

much on the girthy table today... we'll post when we can.

rome redux: saturday edition

today's notes and news from around our fading empire:

• file under: "I Went To Paraguay And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt (and Waterboarding Internship)." no word as of yet if they've asked the Peace Corps kids to work for other agencies in addition to spying on Cubans and Venezuelans for the State Dept... i'm hoping a certain red-haired cousin comes home from South America with not just the newfound skill to construct palapa roofs and small aqueducts made of leftover plastic bags, but also an internship in torture (mothafucka) torture.
• fuck all you Catholics, more. not only did you fuck up the last 9 prezzes, you're in line to fuck up the 10th, too. well, actually, you got Gore right--maybe someone should break the news to Brother Nino before he does it again.
• Roger Clemens' performance-enhanced trophy wife now has a name. it's Debbie. it's taken me two days of reading news articles before seeing that in a lede 'graf. welcome to the world of people with names and identities, Debbie Clemens. you fucking cheater.
  
• pausing our blogging to try performance-UNhancing drugs...
• my life is more important than yours. i hope Bobo the Chihuahua bites this guy's lawyerly dick off, and pisses all over his 4 year old son. no, not really. well, ok, kinda. HEY. FUCKFACE. you don't like legal smoke, move to a fucking country where it's not legal to do whatever you want within the sacred graces of your home, like make international telephone calls and use email, browse the Web, order liquor online, and now... smoke cigarettes. oh, wait. my bad. btw, if you saw that chick on the street--what do you think her voice sounds like? just a guess.
  
• a dog once bit my face... off. it hurt less than the movie. also, this dude's got a phat collage header on his site.

i am superman, and i sell SUVs

enjoy R.E.M.'s cover of The Clique's 1969 "I Am Superman" on the Life's Rich Pageant album?

then you'll just LOVE the cover of it now running background to the new toyota sequoia ads.

fucking R.E.M. song from the album that had "Cuyahoga" and "Fall Into Me"... now being used to sell a Japanese SUV named after a California redwood tree. fuck me end of the fucking world.

really cool ball thing in the commercial, though.

roger clemens' wife is a cheating whore

just saw this tidbit on the ticker, that bottom troller/feeder/scroller that can change lives in just the seconds it takes for some production jock to key in the text in a studio. in this case, here's what it so deftly said:

"Brian McNamee testified before Congress that he injected Roger Clemens' wife with HGH in 2003 with Clemens' permission before a SI cover shoot."

which of course, means only one thing: Roger Clemens' wife is a no-good, cheating fraud. a phony. a fake. a pure canard. a prevarication. a lie. here, let's use the SI link, too.

see, she's basically flat-out ruined everything it's ever meant to be an athlete's trophy wife in an SI swimsuit issue, and we're just fucking appalled. plus, she looks like she snapped that fucking bat over her leg in the next sequential. fuck you Bo Jackson, you big pussy--Roger Clemens' nameless wife could crush your fucking skull with her abs!

in protest, we're also re-canceling the SI subscription we originally let slide back in the early 90s, right before we stopped reading The Sporting News and right after we had a 4-month infatuation with ESPN: The Magazine before we realized what absolutely fatuous corporate bullshit it was. seriously, this is more depressing to us than our former subscription to Writer's Digest was--you have no idea how easy it is to write a short story or stealthily cloaked feel-good Jesus novel with a fucking dragon. /roar.

but we digress. that wife of Roger Clemens bitch is a cheater. no way she gets in the Hall of Fame now.

hide the white women

so, we just got the call. "world domination," he says. "i'm serious about this shit."

"let's link."

oh, The Icepick cometh.

so, soon as we evolve our voice here and get us some uber sexy-like content, it's gonna be all "do you mind if we we dance wif yo dates?" on all teh webs.

and, yes, as much as we enjoyed our marital band during our sweet sixteen-like americanized nuptial orgy--wtf didn't we hire those dudes? i mean... Otis, my man.

viva la tortura del agua, the MMVIII version...

those of you unfortunately on the longtime girthy news list know of our sincere, fond and long-term interest in torture (muthafucka) torture as an artistic outlet to express our patriotism--going back to the days of Freedom Shirts, our unholy American bathroom shrine, etc.

but did you also know the practice of waterboarding goes back to the spanish inquisition--well before Half Moore took it in GI Jane from Aragorn?

here's a nice archive to catch you up. more independent thought soon to follow...

inaugurally girthy

briefly, some girthy rules:

• caps are optional, and generally frowned upon. we usually cap proper nouns and real names. but not always.
• headers are all lowercase.
  
• teh internetz speak is allowed within context.
• The Girth runs the show and is final arbiter of all things girthy.
• if it's not girthy, then it's OT... gtfo.
• we strongly encourage posts that are tl;dr.