An Open Letter from Tim Hardaway to the Public

Posted on February 21, 2007

Hey y’all, this is Tim Hardaway, checking in to clear my name. Y’all might’ve heard about how me and Dan LeBatard were talking about that gay dude from the Magic, and how I said some things about how I wouldn’t want no gay dudes on my team. Somehow, since then, the media’s got things all twisted and they’re trying to act like I’m some kind of hater, like I’ve got some kind of problem, know what I’m saying? And the thing is, I’m not a bad guy. I just wear my heart on my sleeve, you know, like I always did on the court, and you all loved me for it back then. So what’s the problem now? Why you gotta act like I’m some kind of monster?

Yeah, sure, I said I hate gay people. And then I said it again the next day. But, like I told some reporter yesterday, I only hate gay people like I hate broccoli. I mean, broccoli’s gross. Seriously, nobody likes broccoli, right? I mean, unless it’s covered in cheese or butter. Kinda like gay people. Nobody likes them, not even with butter.

See, that’s how I think on people. I kinda like compare them to foods, you know? Gay people are broccoli because they’re gross and you don’t like them and you only have to swallow it because they make you even if you don’t want to and you think it’s disgusting and evil.

Same kind of thing with Mexicans. They remind me of pizza, cause it’s everywhere, you know, but not all of it is good, and there’s some real nasty pizza out there. I’m a thin crust man, myself, by which I mean, I’m against illegal immigration and I wish they’d learn to speak English.
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Transcript of a Phone Call From Ron Rivera to Jesse Jackson

Posted on February 20, 2007

Jackson: Yello?
Rivera: Good morning, Reverend Jackson, this is Ron Rivera…
Jackson: Who? I don’t know no Ron Rivera.
Rivera: I used to play for the Bears back in the ‘80s, and I most recently worked as their defensive coordinator…
Jackson: Who? What Bears we talking about? Is this some kind of hunting thing? I don’t hunt, you know. Not that I have any objection to it; my fingers are just too delicate.
Rivera: Oh. Well, this isn’t exactly about hunting. See—
Jackson: Good, that’s good. I’m anti-gun, you know. Too many young black men and women getting gunned down in the streets every day. It’s a travesty, an embarrassment, a terrible plague. Someone ought to do something about it.
Rivera: Um…
Jackson: So don’t be calling me about no guns. I don’t do guns. You got that?
Rivera: Sure. No guns.
Jackson: Good. So are we done then?
Rivera: Um, no, I don’t think so, Reverend. I was calling about something else…
Jackson: I’m a busy man, Mr. Rivers. I don’t have time to waste chit-chatting on the phone all day. Not when there’s souls to save. So if you got nothing important to say, then—
Rivera: Wait! It’s about racism in the NFL.
Jackson: Why the hell didn’t you say so? Who they holding back now? More penalties for the dances? You know that’s anti-black legislation, don’t you? Everyone knows only black men really dance, and I have the data here to prove that celebration penalties are called very disproportionately— Read more

Stillman Wanted a Championship

Posted on February 9, 2007

Stillman had spent a lifetime waiting for a championship, and when it finally came, he barely noticed because he was too busy dying. When the first baseman— his first baseman, the one whose jersey he’d worn for years, the one whose trading card was worth hundreds of dollars, the one he’d loved as desperately as he’d ever loved anyone—gloved a slow grounder and trotted to the bag to record the final out, the city erupted as one, a simultaneous civic orgasm.

Stillman didn’t feel the city’s collective shudder because he sat slumped against his bathroom wall, his head dangling limply over the toilet, a thin line of vomit stretching from his lip into the water. Without furniture or a TV—almost everything was either repossessed or broken—his apartment felt cavernous in the silence; the sound of his retching echoed through the rooms. While the team mobbed each other on the field, Stillman cried from the pain—his tongue burning from the bile and his stomach twisted like a rag being squeezed dry. Tears plopped into the toilet and swirled downward when he tried to flush the smell away.

Outside, neighbors banged pans together and howled at the moon. They hugged strangers and gave each other beers. They toasted their heroes and re-affirmed their faith in god. Outside, somewhere, was his son.
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Sports Are VERY Important!

Posted on February 5, 2007

ALIEN ASCHBERGER: WELCOME TO “SPORTS ARE VERY IMPORTANT!” A SPORTS COMMENTARY SHOW ABOUT THE CONTINUING IMPORTANCE OF HOW IMPORTANT SPORTS ARE!

CORNELL CORNLICKER: THAT’S RIGHT! SPORTS ARE VERY IMPORTANT. NOW MORE THAN EVER THEY ARE VERY IMPORTANT.

AA: SO, CORNELL, I ASK YOU . . . NOW THAT THE SUPER BOWL IS OVER, ARE SPORTS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THEY WERE WHEN THEY WERE ONLY VERY IMPORTANT A FEW DAYS AGO?

CC: ONE WORD, BABY: PITCHERS AND CATCHERS. PITCHERS AND CATCHERS, BABY!

AA: THAT’S TWO WORDS, YOU DUMB IDIOT!!!

CC: SUCK YOURSELF, ALIEN!

AA: KNOW WHO CAN SUCK HIMSELF NOW? PEYTON MANNING!

CC: AND THAT COACH, TOO, HE CAN SUCK HIMSELF, AS WELL. AN ALL-NIGHT-LONG SUCK HE CAN DO IT NOW HE IS SO IMPORTANT.

AA: THE IMPORTANCE OF SPORTS MAKES SUCH SUCKING POSSIBLE NOW MORE THAN IT EVER HAD BEEN POSSIBLE BEFORE WHEN SPORTS WERE ONLY RATHER IMPORTANT!

CC: SPORTS ARE VERY MUCH MORE IMPORTANT NOW!

AA: THE SUPER BOWL THIS YEAR WAS MORE IMPORTANT THAN VETERAN’S DAY, IN FACT.

CC: BUT WITHOUT VETERAN’S DAY WE WOULD HAVE NO SPORTS TO TALK ABOUT BECAUSE SPORTSMEN WOULD BE KILLED DEFENDING OUR RIGHTS TO PLAY SPORTS WITHOUT BEING KILLED.

AA: A VERY IMPORTANT POINT!

CC: WHEN I WAS YOUNG, I LEARNED IMPORTANT LESSONS PLAYING SPORTS. VERY IMPORTANT LESSIONS WITHOUT WHICH I WOULDN’T HAVE LEARNED THESE LESSONS PLAYING SPORTS BUT DOING SOMETHING ELSE THAT WAS NOT AS IMPORTANT.

AA: WHEN MY SON WATCHES US YELL HE LEARNS IMPORTANT LESSONS NOW MORE THAN WE EVER DID LEARN PLAYING SPORTS. ALL WE HAD WAS “THIS WEEK IN BASEBALL”.

CC: BUT IF WE DIDN’T YELL HOW WOULD PEOPLE KNOW THAT SPORTS ARE NOW VERY IMPORTANT?

AA: THEY WOULD THINK SPORTS WERE A SECRET!

CC: BUT SPORTS ARE THE OPPOSITE OF A SECRET!

AA: THEY ARE SUPPORTED BY ADVERTISERS WHO FEED OUR OBSESSION WITH ANIMALS AND HUMOR AND CELEBRITIES!

AA: A CAVEMAN ACCIDENTALLY ELECTROCUTED BY A CELEBRITY TO HELP SELL CAR INSURANCE TO SPORTS FANS SHOULD NOT BE A SECRET BECAUSE IT IS A VERY IMPORTANT LESSON, BUT NOT AS IMPORTANT AS SPORTS ARE. AT LEAST NOT NOW THAT SPORTS ARE MUCH MORE IMPORTANT THAN SPORTS EVER WERE IMPORTANT.

CC: WITHOUT SPORTS, YOU WOULD NOT BE SITTING THERE DRESSED AS A SPANISH INQUISTOR BUT WOULD BE DRESSED AS A MAN OF IMPORTANCE STOPPING KIDS FROM KILLING EACH OTHER OVER IVERSON JERSEYS AND THE JERSEYS OF OTHER BASKETBALL PLAYERS AS IMPORTANT AS IVERSON AND ATHLETES WHO DON’T EVEN PLAY BASKETBALL!

AA: HA HA HA. BUT BECAUSE OF SPORTS I SIT HERE WEARING THIS WOLFMAN MASK YELLING AT YOU ABOUT HOW SPORTS ARE IMPORTANT UNLESS WE ARE ATTACKED OR BOMBED OR A BIG STORM COMES WHEREUPON WE SAY THAT SPORTS ARE MOMENTARILY UNIMPORTANT.

CC: BUT OTHERWISE SPORTS ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN CITIES ENJOYING THE SLOW PROCESS OF BEING DESTROYED BY OUR IMPORTANT FASCINATION WITH SPORTS. FOR EXAMPLE OUR GOVERNOR ON TELEVISION TALKING ABOUT SPORTS WHEN HALF OUR CITY IS DESTROYED!!!

AA: IF IT WEREN’T FOR URBAN DECAY, WE WOULDN’T EVEN HAVE SPORTS BECAUSE THERE WOULD BE NOTHING TO DISTRACT OUR GOVERNOR FROM!

CC: HA HA HA! THAT IS VERY FUNNY! I KNOW WE KEEP SAYING IT OVER AND OVER BUT IF WE STOPPED SAYING IT IN A VERY LOUD VOICE FOR A MOMENT MAYBE WE WOULD FORGET HOW IMPORTANT SPORTS WERE AND MAYBE WE MIGHT START YELLING ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE.

AA: HA HA HA! TOO FUNNY!

CC: HA HA! FUNNY, YES!

AA: HA! HA!

CC: THAT IS VERY FUNNY!

AA: BUT NOW WE MOVE ON TO IMPORTANT SPECULATION ABOUT NEXT YEAR’S SUPER BOWL WINNER!

The Worst Thing About Watching Your Father Stab Himself to Death

Posted on February 3, 2007

On the soccer field, he was alone, but he was never lonely. Like a monk deep in meditation, a Buddhist perched beneath the Bodhi tree, he crouched between goalposts, an 8 foot by 8 yard sanctuary that no one could violate. Every step an opponent took inside the box, even a toe across the 18, was a threat that had to be warded off by any means necessary.

He’d been described, by various terrible writers, as a whirling dervish, an unstoppable force, a madman in a technicolor dreamcoat. He’d been an inspirational story, a cautionary tale, and a flash-in-the-pan, sometimes all at once. The pain of loss, one writer said, was etched on his face, carved into the premature wrinkles around his grey eyes and evident in the military set of his jaw as he assaulted a sailing corner kick.

Eventually, the terrible writers from the local papers were overtaken by mediocre writers from the national papers. They flocked to Northeast Philly to pimp his pain and fill the void of human interest stories, left by a lull between runaway brides and dead American girls in Aruba. For a week, he was the human interest story, the kid whose father had stabbed himself in the thigh during a meth binge and bled to death on the couch, and whose mother was dying of AIDS in a prison cell. A great story, a real American tragedy—the confluence of drugs, violence, and sex in a crumbling city. If only he were black; then they could really push it to the next level.
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The International Government Football League: Emails from Donald Rumsfeld to George W. Bush

Posted on February 2, 2007

July 4th, 2003
Subject: International Governmental Football League
From: Donald Rumsfeld [mightybombjack@whitehouse.gov]
To: George W. Bush [JesusSon@whitehouse.gov]

Mr. President,

The UN has approved our proposal of establishing the International Governmental Football League (IGFL) as an alternate means of settling diplomatic disputes. The rules are as follows:

1. Kofi Annan will act as Commissioner, unless we can persuade David Stern to leave the NBA.
2. All nations must field a team comprised of, and coached by, government employees. Even some rogue factions—Iraq and Al Qaeda, for example—have agreed to join the league.
3. We will play a 10 game season, followed by a 10-team playoff. Teams will not enter the playoffs based on won-loss records, but rather playoff seeding will be determined by a complex computer ranking system that takes into account fifty-eight carefully chosen factors, including: quality of victory, team colors, attractiveness of cheerleaders, strength of schedule, average yards per punt, number of Hail Mary passes completed, number of flea-flickers run, and an international text message poll.
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The Passion of Matt Millen

Posted on February 2, 2007

Sunday afternoon in December, and Ford Field was empty. Matt stood at midfield, scanning the seats for signs of life. Usually there were at least a few people in the stands, some wearing brown bags on their heads and others wearing blue t-shirts lettered in silver with “Fire Millen!” Others would sit glumly, slumped forward so drastically and so sadly that you could only see the tops of their heads and the backs of their XXL Sanders jerseys. And most weeks, there were opposing fans too. Those idiots in the cheeseheads were always there. And those bratwurst sucking fatties from Chicago—Matt hated them more than anyone (more, even, than that backstabbing Johnnie Morton) with their copycat mustaches and their Butkus jerseys and their jowly cheering for a team that never even had a good wide receiver, despite being around since at least 1961. Probably even longer than that, Matt thought. Like, 60 years longer. Matt shook his head and limped toward the sideline; this was no time to get caught up in details—there was a game to be played, and no one was in the stadium.

Cringing, Matt took a seat on the visitor’s bench. It hurt to sit, but it hurt even more to stand. His knees were so bad that he’d had an elevator installed in his house. Sure, it was a rancher, but it was nice to have an elevator anyway, just in case they ever added a second floor. Then no one would be laughing, and he’d never let anyone get on his elevator with him. Until then, the elevator was only good for lining up at the opposite end of the hallway, having someone press the Close Door button, and racing to get in before the door shut on him. He always won.
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