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

Check Out My Wrist Shizzle, For Rizzle

Okay. It was a strange way to break out of a scoring slump, but Sens captain Daniel Alfredsson did just that.

Last night, in game three of the Stanley Cup Finals, Ottawa overcame a 3-2 deficit to win 5-3. The victory nudged the goose egg from their win column in the series and saved them from the inescapable dregs of being down three games to none in the series.

I know. The rest of the world, along with you, dear readers, was gently jerking it to this guy. But his fans in attendance were hardly as cool.

This clip has been around for a short while now, but the fact that Snoop Dogg and his kids (not to mention their $800,000 in jewelry) continue to support the Anaheim Ducks makes it worth posting. Again.

I'm ultra-stoked at what a character like Snoop can do for the suffering sport of hockey. DA -- if you're reading this, I don't care what the numbers say. Racing will never become sport number four and shove hockey to five. We all know you can make what you will out of statistics. It ain't happenin' here, bro. Not with the Top Dogg in the house. Betta' ax somebody.






I love how Bill McDonald almost has a coronary the first time Snoop calls the Ducks mighty, but then puts on his oh-fuck-it hat for the second instance. Must be dat chronic. Read more

My Grandmama Gave Me That Chain!

This clip is already circulating the Internets, but it's new enough material to post here. Plus, it's got a former Chief that never produced much (a half dozen key dropped passes in a playoff game notwithstanding) getting knocked the fuck out. What's not to love? Chiefs and Broncos fans alike will enjoy this one.

Good thing Matt Millen wasn't in the stands. He surely would've called the knockoutee a fag in front of the media and hardly really meant it when he apologized for it/defended/explained it later. (Editor's Note: You stay classy, Matt.) Another plus: it's good that the master of touchdown celebrations was out cold as long as he was (watch the eight-minute-plus segment here where they spend about 7:59 trying to wake the artist formerly known as #80 back up). That way, he can't tell us about how often he works out, how long it's been since he had a cheeseburger, and how long he makes my wife's friends stay in a movie theater after the important credits have rolled in order to avoid encountering the public.

What a fag.

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The Glory of The Hunt; or, Shooting Pets For Fun!

I have no problem with hunting whatsoever.

But killing an animal that was raised tame and then sold to a hunting preserve, or whatever it was, to be shot for "sport," well, that's just nasty.

And it was nasty before this part and this part of the story surfaced. So-called "canned hunts," hunting preserves--those aren't representative of the proud, ancient ritual of hunting. Those are tricks for slobs.

This fat little rugrat probably didn't deserve all the hate mail he got, but even so, no honor to be claimed by anyone here. Just a whole fuck-load of bacon. Read more

Oh, and...

I was, a few weeks back, wondering what happened to Mr. Joey Meyer, the brobdingnagian Denver Zephyr who once whacked a ball to Brighton Boulevard whilst standing in downtown Salida. And you, loyal members of the HoGNation, were wondering right along with me.

Well, wonder no more. Today's Rocky had a story on the Brewers' once and not-future home run king, alive and well and maintaining lawns in Hawaii.

He sounds happy enough, but his tale's kind of a downer: potential, bit of promise, follow-through, cusp of success, injury. Not much of a surprise in the sports world, I suppose.

But still, I wonder: what happened to that painted seat? Read more

Managers Gone Wild

Some people have given up on baseball entirely. Those people we like to call "communists."

Fact is, baseball only stopped being awesome for a few years in the ('20s, late '80s '90s, early '00s) when every utility second baseman was hitting 35 homers and .345. Now, utility second basemen are back to being unappreciated, sub-Mendoza scrubs and all is right in the horsehide multiverse.

Proof? Here you go: the two greatest manager tirades of the last few years--with one notable exception--happened today.

The gag isn't that the managers (Lou Piniella, whom Ol' No. 7 and I once drunkenly harassed following a three-hour rainout to no visible effect, and some portly gent from Double A) made a scene in the first place; everyone remotely familiar with the sport knows baseball managers do that for various reasons, usually to light the proverbial fire beneath an underachieving squad's collective keisters. That wasn't it at all.

It's the fact that the umps let it go on for as long as they did in each case, clearing the way for managerial pyrotechnics. They were also sending the unmistakable signal that they, too, knew what was going to happen and gave it their tacit blessing--to be followed, of course, by an ejection, but still. Even umps know that sometimes the skipper's just gotta go fucking moonbat.

Piniella's was good, no lie. Lotsa pointed dirt kicking, a face-to-face dance with Blue. It was almost like chess. And then Bruce Froemming waddled into the picture, grabbed Sweet Lou's arm, and for a second you thought it was Pine Tar George redux. Quality, friends. Quality.

But the dude in the minors, who looks kinda like a thyroidal Cal Ripken--man, that was awesome. Not only did he mound up dirt on home plate, but he took the time to cut fucking base-shaped edges in the dirt. (Very "Close Encounters of the Third Kind.") He threw a base, then crawled in from the outfield on his belly like a Navy SEAL and lobbed the rosin bag homeward with a Dutch Leonard-style knuckler. I didn't see him chuck any bats, but even so, that was legend.

You just can't get that confluence of tradition, self-absorbed petulance and showmanship in any other sport. Long live Major (and Minor) League Baseball. Read more

Holy Fucking Shit

I don't know what you were watching last night, but there was a mind-blowing game on that you may have missed. It was a sport called basketball, and it is 100 per cent owned by this dude named LeBron. James. Man, he's really good. I'm not a stat guy but I think he scored over a thousand "points," as the announcers were calling them, many on moves called "dunks" and one "bat-shit crazy three-pointer."

Seriously, I might have to get back on board with the Association thanks to last night and young Mr. 23. Jesus. The Cleveland Cavaliers, outside of LeBron, might be the worst professional basketball team ever assembled. But last night King James could have taken the floor with the staff of the House of Georges and Urkel and won that game. He simply would not be denied. I loved the images of Tayshaun Prince, who's got a rep as a pretty damn good defender, repeatedly getting his forehead smothered by LeBron's balls on dominating dunks.

I've never been a LeBron guy until right now. He was overexposed in high school. He came into the league with Carmelo, who went to Syracuse (I'm from upstate NY) and ended up with the Nuggets (my NBA team), so I always wanted Melo to be better. He's not, but LeBron has struggled through a tough year. His attitude, commitment and desire have all been questioned this season, but he looks like someone on the brink of absolute dominating greatness. A ring would seal the deal.

I watched last night's game with extra interest due to our old buddy gambling. I have a friend who's in Vegas, and he called me yesterday asking how to bet the Pistons in the most profitable manner. We were both in agreeance that Detroit would not/could not lose. But the money line was something like minus-340, an absolutely preposterous number for a series that's been so closely contested. That got me thinking about the possibility of the Cavs pulling the upset, and I did a little reading on the subject. Simmons finally swayed me with his opinion (say what you will about the guy, but his playoff predictions have been pretty extraordinary). By the time I contacted my buddy again, he had already come to the same conclusion and laid two green benjamins on Cleveland at +170. So I felt personally invested in LeBron, even though it wasn't my money.

That wager took a roller-coaster ride through two epic overtime sessions, and for all I know my pal is dead in a gutter on the Strip. But if he survived, I'm going to have him investigate the odds on LeBron (and his sorry cast of extras) winning it all.

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