Oh, Ron Ron

Don't you find it funny that when there's unique basketball players out there, they can have a unique nickname. LeBron=Bron Bron. Shaq=Big Aristotle Big Cactus Big Freeze? Then, you have Ron Artest who, depending on how you see him, can be Ron Ron -- the guy who is passionate about the team he plays for (to an extent) and his "hood" -- or that thug n***a who started that big fight with a bunch of fans in Detroit and basically put a black eye on professional sports and connecting athletes with fans.

This past season, I subscribed to the Ron Ron side of things being that he was integral in Houston's rise from the Southwest Division cellar. In fact, I thought he could be a leader rather than someone who could win a championship on the coat tails of a superstar. In small little words, we f*cked, y'all. No Yao for the season and possibly the rest of his career. No superstar presence in the starting five. An ineffective Tracy McGrady since 2004. We were the darlings of the whole Western Conference when we took the Lakers to the brink in the Second Round. Now we're looking at NBA purgatory for the next 3-6 seasons. Believe me, I hung all my hope on Artest being the saving grace of a whole city. Instead, he'll be sipping Moet with Luke Walton and Adam Morrison at the W after a hard fought win against the Clippers.

Don't get me started on Trevor Ariza also. In order for Houston to get a sniff of the playoff drawls, Ariza and Aaron Brooks will have to become superstars this seasons. I wonder what we can give up for Zydrunas Ilgauskas. Somebody up in Cleveland took his job already.

What a Weak End

The Rockets lose. SNL with Will Ferrell was underwhelming. And John Mayer scores with 12 chicks in night. How?

Induce vomiting...now. This weekend just proved to cap off the chocolate starfish week that it was. Aside from being stood up for a playdate, twice, I was offered a grand tour of what the inside of my apartment looked like for the unteenth time. And worst of all, I was nowhere near drunk in this whole process. The positives I can see, though, is that I'm in line to get a bigger place soon so I guess I can passout in a nicer environment after a night of Slippery Nipples and Fuzzy Navels. Yes, let's get drunk off wine coolers.

As far as what people apart from myself did this weekend, the Lakers got their way finally throwing away my Rockets like a Mexican made condom. The Lake Show, like a good porn starlet who likes to take it in the bum, reamed and blew out Houston's anal cavity, 89-70, to advance to the Western Conference Finals. As a parting shot to the Lakers, I hope Kobe Bryant and Phil Jackson give each other crabs.

Saturday Night Live became intriguing to me when I found out the last two episodes of the season were going to be hosted by Justin Timberlake and Will Ferrell. I knew JT would turn in a great perfromance in his stint. So I expected the same from the SNL alum. But aside from the expected Jeopardy parody, which included the usual ream out from Sean Connery and surprise appearances by Tom Hanks and Turd Ferguson aka Burt Reynolds aka Norm MacDonald, I was underwhelmed by this ep. It was kinda like SNL blowing a wasted load with guest appearance after guest appearance. Amy Poehler and Maya Rudolph returned, and guests like Anne Hathaway and Paul Rudd made appearances. I guess expected more from this show but, then again, the show is much like the father that ran out on you when you were 11. He said he was going to play catch with me but he decided to play catch with his "other son." I hate you, DAD! I hate you!

Here's the Jeopardy clip:

Finally, John Mayer worked his magic in Beverly Hills this weekend. He came out of a club with his shirt covered in lipstick stains. He also began to go dance fever on all of our asses. Jackassery and douchebaggery all at work. [TMZ has the video.] How does this guy with all this doucheyness stay likable? Maybe it's because he's famous and he can. That's not a good answer. John Mayer, I will never get you. You wore this short sailors shorts and you have no problem with that. You date Jennifer Aniston and you drop her like Britney dropped her child. I don't know where you end and begin. Gah! The frustrating mysteries of life!

Game 7, Please

The little engine that could. Toot. Toot.

Apparently, the Rockets were the only team that made the trip to Houston for Game Six Thursday. The baby Rockets caught the L.A. Lakers napping Thursday night when they busted out of the gate with an outstanding scoring 1st quarter and held the great and powerful Kobe Bryant to 11-of-27 shooting. All of this happened two nights after the Lakers did the same to the Rockets, winning by 40. The result, just like Game 4 of this Western Conference Semifinal series, was a 95-80 shalacking of the Lake Show and a Game 7 on Sunday.

God, I love it! It's just like 1995 again except we have absolutely no star power on the roster. Plus, I started a strange thing called puberty back then. Now, I have to shave everywhere. You can't bunch up your taint bush, fellas.

Anyways, Aaron Brooks continues to be a scoring beast. The 26th pick overall in 2007 NBA Draft dropped 26 points. Luis Scola, who should have been on the All-Star team this past February, popped L.A. for 24, including the first 10 points of the game.

And all of this is significant because I love the Rockets and hate the Lakers. This makes my lower regions all warm and cuddly inside.

Oh, yeah, Orlando forced a Game 7, as well, against the great and powerful Celtics. If it weren't for that Big Baby Davis muthaf....

Phil Jackson, Your Veiled Anguish Sustains Me

"Zen Master" my ass.

I've held off on commenting on this very juicy Western Conference Second Round series between my beloved Houston Rockets and the Lakers. It's not going to be a memorable series like the Bulls-Celtics first round matchup but we have had several plot points that make this contest juicier than a rare porterhouse (bad analogy). And by that I mean, fights, fights, broken feet, and more fights.

With Yao Ming chalked out of the rest of the playoffs, the remaining Rockets that aren't 7 foot Chinamen or named Tracy McGrady picked up the slack for Game 4, beating the Lakers 99-87. The win was propelled by 6 foot point guard Aaron Brooks' career high 32. (Oregon Duck, eh? Who knew.) At one point, the Rox led by as many as 29 points. Kobe was held to only 15 points.

How did this make Lakers coach and foremost advocate of dating the boss' daughter Phil Jackson feel? Well, let's just say ESPN will be working on a 15-second delay next time.

You just can't "give them credit" and spout out an expletive and expect it to look fine. Phil was clearly pissed and demoralized by this. And, for some twisted reason other than I'm from Houston and I bleed Rockets red, I'm all too amused for it.

Playoff Fever: More Contagious Than Herp...Er...Swine Flu

C*M ON MY FACE!

The NBA. Where last second madness erections happen.

Granted, I've kept up with most of the games in the NBA playoffs through drunken WAP browsing...or sparing TV watching...at bars...drunk. But still, who would have thought that four games in a seven game series would go into extra frames? In a 2-7 matchup, no less?

In my pre-playoffs post (yes, I used alliteration), I dismissed the Baby Bulls due to inexperience and, well, because the Celtics have star power. In fact, Paul Pierce and Jesus Shuttlesworth, er, Ray Allen have more experience in the playoffs in the tip of their penii than the whole Chicago team. But so far in the series, the Bulls have proven that they got charismatic balls. Who knew? Joakim Noah. Brad Miller. Ben Gordon. Derrick Rose. John freakin' Salmons?! They are like the naive but very willing girlfriend that doesn't know how to go down on a guy but is trying so hard that you're left with an unfulfilled but pleasurable mess. Alright, bad analogy.

But still, if you don't know what I'm talking about, six games in this series so far. Four of them have gone to at least one overtime. I think, five of them were decided by less than 4 points. And surprisingly, the Bulls have the Celtics on the ropes. I will be watching the deciding Game 7 somewhere very drunk and very debaucherous, wearing my Ben Gordon jersey. I want this underdog to start barkin'.

In other playoff contagiousness, it took dudes who aren't named Tracy McGrady to get my beloved Rockets past the first round. Actually, it took a very naive, young ball club in the Portland Trail Blazers to lay down for my Houston squad. But, by God, we made it, and now, we get the right to have Kobe, Trevor Ariza, and Pau Gasol wipe our nappy faces up and down the floor. DAMMIT!

Still, it feels good. Like first time in 12 years good, which is the length of time between now and the very next time, I believe, a woman will let me stick my penis inside of her. **Dejected "Wah Wah" Sound**

Cooter Scooter: Sports Edition

The obligatory sports posting. Enjoy...and suffer.

Ah, yes. It's like 1994 all over again, except that my balls have already dropped. The Houston Rockets provided some good "we're-better-than-the-Spurs" fodder when they were actually better than the Spurs Sunday. The Rox capped off an 87-85 victory with back-to-back plays that involved Yao Ming from the top of the key passing to Luis Scola for an easy deuce (because making and "taking a deuce" are two hard things). Who sits down to watch a whole NBA game? Here's the last seconds of the juicy victory. VICTORY!:

I'm not so brash about my love for my hometown team given that I live on the West Coast and everybody here is a freakin' ringer for the Lakers and Raiders (WhyTF are there so many Hispanic Raiders fans?) and I'm probably sure if somebody did read this I'd get a jail house shanking right in front of a Starbucks. But Lakers, you've been warned. My Rox are coming after that West title. Kobe what? Kobe my balls, bitch!

Wait. Do you hear that? It's the sound of pieces of paper that had brackets on them being shredded apart. 16 teams are left in the NCAA Men's Tourney. Not many big upsets except for Arizona...number freakin' 12 Arizona. A team that looked like they were going to throw that Lute Olsen good bye party a little early this week is in the Sweet Sixteen. Good news, though, I'm still in the hunt to win this office pool puppy. Bad news, I just pissed off a bunch of Lakers, Raiders, and now, Arizona fans. My life could end by the end of this post provided I don't piss off another segmented group of super fans.

Tennessee, Volunteer yo' ass out this dance immediately. As a condition to my female sensitivity class at the Learning Annex (I got your female sensitivity right here), I have to add something about the ladies' NCAA tournament. And lo and behold, something good. Pat Summitt is taking an early trip home after her number 5 Lady Vols were beat in the opening round against #12 Ball State (WTF? Wasn't there like a hippy killing there once?). I point this out because Tennessee women's basketball is a dynasty, save for Connecticut women's basketball. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. They were always dominant because they could replenish their team through recruiting. They were able to bring in Chimique Holdsclaw and fine ass Candace Parker on to the team (really? I'm actually writing something on women's basketball?) over all these years. But the Vols were only able to recruit [generic inner city basketball player with cornrows]. I figure this much would happen after the Men's varsity team would give up the ghost against freakin' OK State. You f'n kidding me?!

And, thus, ends the sports post. God, I feel icky.