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A Special Delivery from the Mailman
If you're like me and just can't get enough hoops scoops, then you know by now that Karl "Mr. McFeely" Malone is sad because Kobe "Mr. McRapey" Bryant went on some AM radio sports talk show and said that Mr. Malone's indecisiveness regarding his potential return to the Lakers was distracting what Kobe Bean humbly referred to as "my team." Well, it turns out there's some juicy subtext behind that non-story:
On Nov. 23, the night the Lakers played the Bucks at Staples Center, Vanessa [Bryant's wife] was talking on the phone to Malone's wife, Kaye. Kaye gave Vanessa her husband's cellphone number, and Vanessa called Malone, who was sitting at courtside, and invited Malone's child to join her. Malone, wearing cowboy boots and a hat, eventually took the child to Vanessa. Malone hugged Vanessa, and then Vanessa asked — as [Malone's agent, Dwight Manley) recounts this part of the story — "Hey, cowboy, what are you hunting?" "She said it twice," Manley said, "and Karl answered the second time, 'I'm hunting for little Mexican girls.' "
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The Little Mexican Girl in question
Things seem to have escalated from there, after Vanessa Bryant called Kaye Malone and told Kaye to keep Malone away from her. Later, Kobe made an angry phone call to Malone. The next day, Kobe reportedly made another, angrier call. Then came the talkshow incident. Karl Malone's denying everything, of course, but anyone who knows anything about what goes on in the steamy private lives of NBA ballers knows that the Mailman has a history of this. For instance:
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Karl Malone, pictured here with an old woman and a plate full of collard greens
Once told Utah teammate Greg Ostertag's wife that he was "on a pussy hunt," and that he was pretty sure he "saw one crawl up her skirt."
Once asked Jazz sharpshooter Jeff Hornacek's wife if she'd "ever had a black man inside her mouth."
Regularly referred to Mrs. John Stockton as, "that little white girl I want to fuck so bad."
Told legendary Coach Jerry Sloan's wife that she looked like "the kind of woman who appreciates the taste of black asshole."
Once said to the diminutive wife of teammate Blue Edwards, "I hope that tiny little body of your's has got room enough for my thingy. Otherwise, I'm just gonna have to injure you in your insides."
Asked Mrs. Thurl Bailey,"You ever eat at Carl's Jr? 'cause tonight you're gonna have Karl, Jr. in that nasty mouth of yours."
Told Mark Eaton's fiancee that he wanted to "fuck her real hard in the pussy and then fatten her up with [his] seed, and then fuck the baby when that comes out."
Anyway, all I'm saying is that we shouldn't be surprised..
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Good Names for Rock Bands
The Thirst Pinchloaf Guy Handsome and His Handsomaires The New Ramones, UK The Pussies Bath Time for Bonnie Franklin Mr. Tick Tock and His Rappin’ Crew The East Side Serial Rapists Harry Morgan and the R*A*S*H* Catfancy The Ronnie Milsaps Teterborough Fudge Factory The Douche Raven Fyre The Beatels Undead Deburial Death Machine Kill Squad Peru Uncle Hitler The Burglars The Burghers West Coast Car Stereo Connection Liam Neeson and the Neeson Altimas Wetnurse Danbury, Connecticut Wacky Jack and the Get Back Pack Fïve Irön The Flu Dansaholik The Cockroaches Stromboli Surprise The Arthur Treachers The Suck
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A swallow, a pebble, and an insane Cornish barber who believed himself the reincarnation of Cincinnatus were out walking one day when the pebble challenged the barber to a footrace, to be held the following week. The barber, always game for any sort of challenge, eagerly accepted. The swallow, who was known far and wide for his impartiality, was asked to referee, and he happily agreed, under the lone condition that he be compensated in the manner of his choosing, as was yet to be determined. The pebble and the mad barber, knowing the swallow to be as fair and reasonable as he was impartial, gave the swallow's request their tacit approval, and went to their respective homes to train.
The pebble, who had been quite the notable athlete in the rosy-cheeked days of his youth, was alarmed to discover that the sedentary nature of his adult years had robbed him of his once lissome grace, but a week of steady, rigorous exercise did him much good, and his confidence was in full bloom in time for the race day. The Cornish barber, who'd spent a great deal of his time in recent years chasing energetically after things that didn't exist, was already in fine form, and the week of training left him in peak condition. The race was sure to be a good one!
At noon on the day of the race, the pebble, the insane barber, the swallow, and all the townspeople and townsthings gathered at the race track of the local junior college for the big event. However, seconds before the race was to commence, the barber jammed a pair of scissors into his right eye, then pounded it deep into his brain with the heel of his palm. It did not kill him, but it did render him a useless, drooling mess--a burden to the state and his family alike.
The following day, when most of the hubbub had died down, the pebble paid a visit to the swallow. "I know things didn't go as planned," said the pebble, "but you were promised compensation, and I'd feel I'd be doing the dishonorable thing by not making good."
"Oh, that's okay," said the swallow, grinning slyly. "I got exactly what I wanted."
MORAL: No good comes to those who bargain with swallows,
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Today something expected, but nonetheless delightful, happened to a dear friend of mine - Maybyner "Nene" Hilario was drafted by the New York Knicks! Now, it does need to be pointed out that he was promptly traded to the lowly Denver Nuggets as part of the deal that sent Antonio McDyess to New York, but really all that matters is Nene has made the big time!
God. I remember the day Nene came into my life. (And forgive me, please, if this is a little blurry, but I'm crying right now. Tears of joy, to be sure, but also tears of nostalgia for a past greater than any possible future.) I'd been on an expedition to the heart of the Brazilian rain forest, to seek out the surviving members of a group of missionaries who had lucklessly gotten caught up in the middle of a bloody tribal war. The search had proved a failure, though our crew at least was able to provide a decent Christian burial for the scattered bits of white people's remains we managed to find. Even though we should have felt enormous relief and satisfaction in knowing that we had done our part to help lead those poor, brave souls upward to Heaven, it was with heavy hearts that we arrived back in civilization, specifically Rio de Janeiro.
Now, I don't know if any of you have ever experienced Carnival in Rio, but believe me when I tell you that no hundred Mardi Gras combined with two million Buick Sales-a-thons could come close to the lusty jubilation with which the Brazilians welcome in the Lenten season. (An etymological side note: 'Carnival' comes from the Latin carne and vale, and literally translates to, "Goodbye, meat.") Still, though, no amount of horrible Brazilian music, no number of firm, round, buttocks of every possible shade of flesh rubbing hungrily against my crotch in an orgiastic frenzy of dancing and all-around tropical fervor could lift my spirits. Despondent, I walked alone through the empty streets of Rio's poorest neighborhoods, hoping in the back of my mind that some dance-crazed young thug would kill me for my tattered Reeboks.
As I moved farther away from the crowds, silence gradually enveloped me. I started to panic. I ran as fast as I could, still farther away from Carnival, until I collapsed in a heap on a dirt road. I began to sob. Soon, though, I heard a sound - a series of sounds, rather - that brought me to my feet. A steady thump-thumping, then an occasional swish. I ran toward the sound and suddenly before me stood a young man, no more than fifteen but already taller than I, playing basketball alone on a makeshift dirt court, using an old toilet seat for a hoop. The boy turned to me and smiled, but said nothing, then quickly returned to shooting baskets. I stared at him, his lithe, shirtless form glistening against the moonlit sky. For hours and hours I watched, unable to turn away.
That night, I lost my anal virginity. Oh, and my wallet and my shoes.
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Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Larry King…
The '60s, for me, ended the day Shannon Hoon died... James Patterson's new book, Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down is a taut, spellbinding, spine-tingler of a thriller that will leave you clinging, white-knuckled, to the edge of your seat... If you look up the word "class act" in the dictionary, you'll find a picture of Sammy Sosa... How 'bout that Vasco de Gama? Boy, is he something else... Little known fact: officially, Oregon is a not a real state. It's a Danish protectorate, but they have allowed America to claim it as its own since February of 1922, after the U.S. aided Denmark's scientists in their Gummi research. Similar deal with Kentucky and Swedish fish... If Jews really ran the world, I think we would have done something about the whole "measuring time from the date of Christ's birth" thing. To me, that's kind of a giveaway... Ever eat a Zero Bar? Delicious...
Well, uh, no. Larry ain't feelin' it today, I'm afraid. Huh. Well, there is always something crazy going down over at Paul Reiser's...
Dear Diary,
I am super bummed, and super worried that Paul's going to fire me. He had his big 4th of July Spectaclathon today, and everything was really cool at first. Garo Ypremian was there, as well as the lovely Ms. Ruby Wax, John "Sgt. Schultz" Banner's grand-nephew Ryan, Gary Redenbacher, and Donna Pescow, just to point out some of the brighter lights. However, like at all of his summer parties, Paul served nothing but beer and watermelon, and coupled with daytime temperatures climbing well up into the hundred and forties, it wasn't long before everyone was pretty groggy, which led to some minor bickering. Well, anyway, one thing led to another, and, well, Paul tried to cut me across the neck with a broken Sam Adams Nut Brown 4th of July Independence Amber Bock bottle. Thankfully, my reflexes are pretty much amazing. Unthankfully, they're so amazing, the next thing I knew, I had Paul in a headlock in the pool, and I was holding his head below the surface and slamming his head against the steps, hard enough that little puffs of pink blood were starting to trail out of his nose and mouth. I'd been standing on his face for probably close to half a minute before Penny Hardaway and Jerry O'Connell finally managed to pull me off. Which I realize sounds like some sort of double entendre, but I swear it was nothing like that.
Anyway, Paul was pretty steamed after he was resuscitated. I came in to apologize, but he went at me again, this time with, like, a little Bowie knife or something. Honestly, I didn't stick around to look. I took off pretty fast and went and hid in one of the bunkers and, you know, there's so many of them Paul won't even bother trying to figure out which one I'm in. And, like, there's definitely enough supplies here to last me at least a couple months, but I don't want it to be like that. Paul and I have had our rough patches, sure. But there's always been this thread of underlying respect lying underneath the surface. At least, I've always had a lot of respect for him. Which, obviously, is more than enough to make our relationship work. I mean, I don't even think I'd want him to respect me. I think that would just be weird.
So, I guess all I can do is wait it out. He's never like this for more than a few weeks at a time, anyway. And I've survived rougher, believe me. All I can say is, thank God I don't work for Jerry Lewis anymore. Say what you will about Paul, at least he doesn't kick me in the balls first thing each morning. Okay, gotta go. I think the dogs may have found me.
Love,
Me
Good enough, I guess.
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If you have ever visited the MCI Center in Washington, D.C., you've surely noticed the adorable names they've given some of their concession stands. Prominent in my mind, for example, is a beer cart called, "The Thirst Amendment." Yes, I know--that's extremely funny. I can't possibly top that one, but I canat least try to contribute. Here, then, are some ideas I have for MCI Center concession stands:
All right, I realize they're not likely to set up booths in which to sell jellies, gravies, grits, and cheese, let alone ones that exclusively sell jellies, gravies, grits, or cheese, but, you know... ease up a bit, okay? No one ever claimed this was an exact science, for fuck's sake.