Boner Juice Breezes, Big-League Skeezes and Uncle Tyrese's

Really, this has nothing to do with Boner Juice. (And to satisfy our lawyers, various eager "fans" and the municipality of Edgewater, we here at th' HoG have nothing to do with Boner Juice either. It's just not for us. We prefer 'em sans juice or not at all.)

No, it's Sunday night headline-grubbing. What to write about? The penultimate Sopranos episode? That'll get plenty of coverage elsewhere, thanks. The Cavs against the Spurs? While the answer will disappoint the Lone Reader, I simply can't abuse basketball's pre-ordered playoff calculus so thoroughly as to foresee a win for the Human Sponsorship Reel and his Cast of Several.

Rather, I'll address, however briefly and unconcernedly, Billy Donovan. Yep, Billy Donovan. The basketball coach at Florida last seen humbling the NCAA's proudest roundball flag two years consecutive, the guy who realized his starting five was heading pro, the guy who took a contract with the Orlando Magic, the guy who then realized well, golly, I'll miss those malts with the pep squad and then backed out of said contract to great reportage. And by "great" I mean plentiful.

So: who cares?

Seriously. Billy Donovan is only the latest success story in an endless rah-rah parade of college goombahs who, drunk on the last plaudit at closing time, decide to take their act pro. Nearly all, with vicious consistency, fail, and badly.

Look at Tim Floyd. Or Mike Montgomery. College hoops coaches, by and large, can't match wits with their leathery NBA brethren. They charm teenagers with tales of easy grades and girls, flash a Tournament Championship ring and give Uncle Tyrese $23. They aren't built to manage multimillionaires with their own video games who don't need to worry about being pushed for playing time by some try-hard scrub from Torrance.

So Donovan discovering late in the contest that he preferred letter jackets and co-eds to Tony Battie was hardly a surprise.

More like a man coming to his senses just before fucking Ann Coulter. Read more

I Swear I Thought it Was Mustard

Our official HoG charter requires us to make comment on the NBA.

Ever since the Nugs dropped out, I haven't really been paying close attention. Evidently LeBron was too indecisive, then overrated, now back to Human Sponsorship Reel status. Timmy D continues to bank 15-footers over and over and over. The Jazz looked like Bix Beiderbecke against Golden State's frantic midget ball (Ed. Note: Apologies for the use of the offensive locution "midget." The author meant to type "dwarf" or "little person." He hadn't decided which. Carry on.) but are pulling the cloak off a surprise three-hour set with Kenny G and Marion Meadows on this one. The Suns are nowhere to be found.

And you know what? Good. I love the way that team plays, but I've seen enough of their resident Canadian muskrat to last me until senior citizenship. I look forward to a Finals starring the protruberant Bugs Bunny teeth of Rasheed Wallace and the hilarious Argentinian acting skills of Manu "I'm not Balki" Ginobili.

Pistons to beat Cavs in 6.
Spurs wipe up the Salt Lake crumbs next game,

Spurs beat Pistons in the Finals in 6 games.

Now off to your bookies, kids, and remember: those tablets make you run faster. Read more