July 10, 2011

White Boys Can't What? VI: Trew Dat!

Once again, Derek, THIS is all YOUR fault. I hope you're proud of yourself.

All them Gold Gloves, World Series trophies and All-Star Games. Not to mention 3,000 hits, dives into the stands, chillin’ with opponents during bench-clearing brawls, miraculous playoff-saving flip throws to catchers, and copious shawties in your GQ cover-model arms… all while reppin’ America’s Team and America’s Pastime in America’s City for over a decade.

See, Derek, because of all you’ve done, Eugene “Pooh” Jeter has to spend the entirety of his professional basketball career going out of his way to make a name for himself…and on every occasion that he DOES make a name for himself, his last name gets absolutely butchered. Seriously, “Mister Yankee” sir, how can you sleep at night?

What’s that? Why, of course he goes by “Pooh!” Let’s be real, how many bruthas do you know who can comfortably roam the streets with the name “Eugene?” Exactly. Besides, Pooh is a far simpler name to remember on the court; Jerome Richardson understands this dynamic completely. And going by “Pooh” is far simpler than having to correct 98 percent of the population who mispronounces your last name because of some sweet-swinging shortstop.

When it comes to Pooh, it’s not Jeter as in “Peter.” It’s Jeter, and that rhymes with “better,” and that stands for “better move your butt out the way when Vanilla Sky comes raining down on ya.” Just ask the BallUp streetball crew...

Heck, ask his own teammates. Even they gotta grab an umbrella when the oop goes up.

Poor Pooh. His first sign that something might be amiss is anytime bruthas willingly call white dudes by a white-related nickname. “White Chocolate,” “Whyte Cloud,” “Vanilla Gorilla,” "The White Transformer," “Ivory Express,” “Caucasian Sensation,” “The Latvian MJ,” “Half ‘n Half,” "Snowstorm," “Pale Rider.”  If you run into ANY names like this, and especially any Escalade-sized opponent black teammates lovingly call “Avalanche,” by all means, stay clear of the rim!

“Vanilla Sky” comes off sounding like some bad Tom Cruise flick, or some kind of crazy-strong scented stuff you can get from the dude hawking incense and oils on the No. 2 train. But it’s one moniker Tim McGrath goes by, lest he be confused for a country singer, a red-headed Australian Rules footballer, or, maybe worse, a cousin of the dude who used to rock for Sugar Ray.

It’s not like Vanilla Sky didn’t warn anybody. Also going by “Trew” as well as “Prime Time” in the Venice Beach circles, the 6-foot-5 former San Diego State guard’s grainy exploits from his Cal State Dominguez years have been out there for awhile now, for anyone bothering to scout him.

Poor Pooh. It all seemed pretty straightforward, textbook even by NBA standards. Especially after many years toiling away in Euro Ball, the Dakota hinterlands, and the WCC, Pooh’s seen enough white cats and non-NBA scrubs to know where to spot up for the charge in the paint. Surely this guy’s no different. Is he?

 (jump to 6:20)

Poor Pooh. Here he is, just months removed from the pinnacle of his professional hoops career, nearly a decade trotting the globe since his lowly collegiate days as a Portland Pilot, after years as an NBA summer-league staple, finally getting some rookie burn with the Sacto Kings, even starting for a hot minute at the point.

Here he is, triumphantly handling the rock back in his hometown of L.A., donning that Kings purple ‘n black, getting a chance to showcase his skills at the world-famous Drew League in front of young headliners like Kevin Durant, Tyreke Evans, DeMar DeRozan, Michael Beasley, Wesley Johnson, Dorrell Wright, Nick Young, Shannon Brown, and Austin Daye. A chance to show the Kings why they might wanna pick up that team option for next year before the lockout kicked in. A chance to show these young’uns how them old rooks get it done!

And then here comes Vanilla Sky to rain all on his parade. Now he’s gotta feel a little less like a “Pooh,” and a lot more like “Eeyore.”

But the unkindest cut comes when the inevitable word of mouth goes around (“Some White Boy dunks all over an NBA Player… Who???”), and after spending all year trying to make a name for himself, it’s time for phonic correctness all over again.

“It’s not ‘jeet,’ it’s ‘jet.’” As in, “That poor Pooh boy better jet out the gym and go home.”

Poor Pooh.  He gets Hoopmixtaped On by a heretofore unknown (now very-well-known) white kid in a summer league game. And what could possibly be worse than getting the phrase, "He Got Pooh'ed On" bronzed for all streetball eternity? Now more than ever before, everybody other than his mama (and his world-class sister... couldn't Carmelita teach him how to run?) is pronouncing his surname like a certain pinstriped shortstop from Gotham.

Who’s to blame for all that shame? Don’t blame Vanilla Sky. I’m looking at you, Derek. Send him an autographed glove or something.


February 14, 2011

Fakin Da Funk VI: Griffin ON Mozgov -- Blake and The Fat Man

Egged on by his pudgy peer, Blake Griffin gives new meaning to the term "facial features."

November 20, 2010, 6:30 PM EST
Los Angeles, California
Staples Center, Clippers locker room

“I can’t play tonight, boss. My knee is still badly swollen.”

“That’s not all that’s badly swollen. Look at yourself, Baron!” The silver-haired man looks down in disgust at the rotund point guard, now woofing down the last morsels of his 4x4 cheeseburger. “What kind of role model are you to the young men on this team? This is not what we’re paying you to do!”

“No, you look, Donnie, my job is to heal up and get these boys winning again. Yyyyour jobs…” Baron Davis pauses to grab a pinch of his Animal Fries. “…are to keep the eyes of your nightly harem away from our 'beautiful black bodies' while we're dropping soap in the shower and, oh, to sign my paychecks. Novel concept, huh? I hear Dunleavy Sr.’s in shape, have you signed his checks yet?” As his team’s miffed owner waves him off and saunters out of the locker room in disgust, Davis offers one last parting shot. “Don’t you have some sweatshops to attend to or something? Friggin’ owners. Hey, yo, Griff, come here!”

The Clippers’ 6’10” manchild, Blake Griffin, saddles up beside his self-appointed mentor. Davis backhand slaps him in the bicep, leaving Griffin to wipe off some In-N-Out spread himself.

“I keep telling you, son, you’re supposed to be covering for me when I’m back here eating dinner. That’s you and Aminu’s main job, aside from the Krispy Kreme runs. You like old bigoted dudes running up on you and glaring while you chow down?”

“I’m not a rookie anymore,” Griffin retorts, only to hear his protest mimicked in a chiding manner by Davis. 
“Please, that’s bunk. They’re not making up a Sophomore of the Year award for you just because you were out last year! Besides, you know who’s coming after your Rookie of the Year award tonight, don’t you?”

“Umm... Landry Fields?”

“Nah,” Baron sucks through the last sip of his Neapolitan shake. “Good guess, though. That Moscow dude… Timothy or something like that. I dunno what the phrase for ‘hot sh*t’ is in Russia, but he think he that, because he was killin’ fools over there in Eurobasket. Your dude Amar’e tells me that they getting ready to put him on. Major minutes, since they know Eddy Curry ain’t gonna play, he’s so out of... never mind. Look,” Baron pokes Blake’s arm again, causing Blake to instinctively check for spread. “You need to get out there and show Moscow Man how we do!”

“Back in my DAY? To hell with you!” Davis smirks. “But thank you for bringing that up, because it brings me to my next point. I keep telling you, you need to keep getting more like me… Why you looking at me like that? I’m serious! We got parallel paths, Griff. High School All-American dunk contest champs, tore up our knees in our freshman years... we kindred spirits, right?”

“Now, I need you to go out there and be Baron Davis tonight. The Donald wants Baron Davis out there tonight, and dammit, he’s gonna get Baron Davis -- through you. Be reckless, fearless! Hot dog it a little, drop some fancy dimes tonight, don’t worry about turnovers. And if you got an open shot, take it. B-Diddy Ball!”  Davis pauses to finally employ a napkin. “Oh, and my big ‘come-up’ dunk in the NBA was actually on K.G.... ‘back in MY day.’ It’s time you go get yours.”

“You’re not talking about Amar’e, right? I was invited to his skills academy camp in college. I ain’t posterizing him.”

“Amar’e? He’s smart enough to know when to get outta the way, so you’ll be left with dudes like Gallnari at the rim. Or better yet, that Russian kid. Speaking of Russians, though, that brings up my last point. You know I’m lookin’ out for ya, right... what’s goin’ on with this?” Baron gestures his fingers in a circular motion around his face.

Griffin sighs, and facepalms. “We talking about my skin again?”

“Of course, man. You ever see a 40-year-old cat with freckles? It’s sad, man, sad. Not a good look. Seriously, you don’t wanna be that guy.”

“Okay, I know, and we talked about this. I got the lemon rinds and the sour cream thing going… anyway, where are you going with this? What’s all that got to do with Russians?”

“I was at a beach party a few weeks before The Emmy Awards, and my homeboy’s girl Jessica Alba tipped me off about this skin cream they use over in Russia. I hear it’s all the rage on Rodeo Drive. She says it makes freckles disappear.”

Griffin's eyes widen. “For real?”

“For real, for real! They got all kinds of good product over there, man, and it’s all placenta-based… No, stop making that face, it ain’t gross at all! Smoothes all that skin out. J-Lo swears by it. And they got products for men, too. They got this conditioner that totally relaxes your hair. You know how AK-47 went from looking like Sonic the Hedgehog to one of those Partridge Family girls?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess... Wow.” Characteristic of most of his conversations with his mentor, Griffin's face reflects a mix of bewilderment and skepticism.

“Listen, the stuff works, man. It would take care of all that red Brillo-pad stuff you got up there. You know what? I bet you twelve dozen Krispy Kremes that the Moscow kid is using it right now.”

“Well, I'm not gonna just run up and ask him, so…”

“You don’t have to. Just while you’re out there, when he tries to foul you, rub his head and find out. Bet you can tell. If I’m wrong, I’ll put another 20 smacks into that child obesity thing you got going.”

“Alright, deal, bruh.” Griffin heads back to his locker.

“And one last thing, Griff. I got four words for you. Chocolate. Iced. With. Sprinkles.


September 25, 2010

Fakin Da Funk V: Vince OVER Weis - The Knicks Get In "Over Their Heads"

September 25, 2000 - Cripes, it's been ten years already? What anniversary is this: paper, tinfoil, copper, Teflon?

Seriously, don't you feel ten times older, thinking back on it? With his ample hops fast becoming a distant memory, Vince Carter sure looks like he's tacked on a zero to his age, too. But if, like Cher, we could turn back time, we'd take it all back to that simpler era, when "Y2K" was the biggest threat to human civilization, "French Fries" were just french fries, bread was a nickel, and a collection of young high-flyers were emerging in the pros, each with an eye toward seizing the mantle of the greatest player of that generation. If falling short of that goal, at least, they'd gladly take over the nightly highlight reel.

Already the show-stealer of the NBA's 2000 All-Star weekend and now half a world away, in Sydney's Olympics, with the help of some Nike Shox, Vince was about to act upon a whim conceived while watching the high-jump athletes the night before. I remembered the world in the moments before the news arrived in the Northern Hemisphere that something was just witnessed that can only be seen to be believed. "If you haven't seen this," our local sports talk show host barked through my Sony Walkman, on an otherwise mundane, yet bright and sunny weekday afternoon, "you had better get home right now and turn on the news. I won't even try to do it justice. It wouldn't be fair. Get to a TV set and watch it now. And have your VCR set to Record!"

Up to the very moment Vince Carter turned the world of superlative athletic feats upon its axis, heated debates in sports taverns everywhere revolved around the question of whether the greatest pro-sports poster dunk of all time was: "(a) Michael Jordan over Patrick Ewing," or "(b) Scottie Pippen over Patrick Ewing." Poor Patrick! Thankfully for him, Vince Carter was about to make "(c) None of the Above" a very real option.

Now, roll the clock just more than a year further back, to the 1999 draft, and some folks in Gotham were realizing that it may be time to draft a big center that would bring a new lasting legacy to Knicks basketball, anything other than just being dunked on by the best athletes of our time. And the fractured Knicks management team was ready to oblige with a name that would go down in infamy as a symbol of personal, and organizational, futility. A player that was destined to become a laughingstock in New York, even before realizing his destiny as the unfortunate seven-foot-two soul between Vince Carter and two points.

July 1, 1999 – Knicks War Room at Two Penn Plaza, Manhattan

(Cast: Dave Checketts – MSG President, Ed Tapscott – interim GM, Jeff Van Gundy  coach, Ernie Grunfeld – former President/GM, demoted to special consultant April 20)

“So Jeff, tell me… are you over it, finally?” For his query, Ernie Grunfeld receives a finger more pointed than Jeff Van Gundy’s nose.

“Screw you, Ernie! I had to coach my a$$ off to get us to the Finals this year. And I’m not bailing this roster out anymore, not after you let my guys go.”


“Your guys? Starks and Oak don’t have it anymore, and you know it.”


“On my way out the door, can’t you be a little gracious I made those moves for you? It’s time for a new approach, man! Besides, Patrick’s era is drawing to a close, too.” Grunfeld settles into the conference room a bit sweaty, not from feuding anew with Van Gundy, or the task at hand, but because he is fresh from a full day of packing his wares. After an illustrious 17-year career playing, commentating, and making personnel decisions, his stint with the Knicks organization ends tomorrow.


“What the hell are the Cavs doing?” Van Gundy whispers under his breath, before responding.

“Gracious, Ernie? I’d have been gracious if you didn’t chicken out on the deal Checketts approved with the Warriors for their pick before last year’s draft. For Allan Houston and cash, we’d have had the Rookie of the Year, Vinsanity, right here in the Garden. Half-Man, Half-Amazing, was halfway-here, before YOU in your infinite wisdom blocked the deal! That Sprewell swap was just a make-up trade and you know it! Tell me, Ernie, did you bring me Spree just because I’ve already lost my hair, or because you thought he’d have choked me out by now?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! There’s no need for any more disparaging words between you two,” interjects President Dave Checketts, his palms shrugging on his colleagues’ shoulders. 

“C’mon… we’re freakin’ Eastern Conference champs! Am I right? The sky’s the limit from here. So let bygones be bygones, shall we? Now, think of today as our Y2K readiness plan. We’re getting the 15th pick, man! We haven’t had a chance to pick this high in almost a decade, and it’s crucial we make the right choice.”

Van Gundy raises another finger, this time in the air. “Well, I am telling you guys, if we’re going into the next millennium the right way, we need a point guard. You wanna talk eras, Ernie? The Charlie Ward era is over. He’s maxed out his potential with us, and I think it’s certain we’ll have William Avery available when we pick. Just imagine the potential leadership we'll have here... another Mark Jackson, only without the big mouth!”

Checketts nods as the secretary knocks on the door. “As much as I love the possibility of bringing Ron Artest here, I think you’re right, Jeff. With all the cash Minnesota’s spending on Brandon and Peeler, no way do they take a guard this high.”

“Mr. Checketts, Ed Tapscott’s on the LAN line from D.C., he’s ready to be conferenced in.”

“There’s your Paper GM,” Grunfeld mumbles to Van Gundy, apparently not far enough from Checketts’ earshot. “I heard that, Ernie!”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Tapscott offers, receiving “good evenings” in return of various states of genuineness.

“Okay, now I know we’ve rehearsed our game plan already, and we’re in agreement that we’ll take William Avery if he’s available, Ron Artest if he’s not.”

“You’ve got it, Ed,” Van Gundy confirms, and Checketts adds, “I’ve got our PR team preparing our responses for taking Avery over Artest.”

“Now that’s all fine and good, but before we go forward I’ve got one more name to run by you guys.”

Attention turns to the draft board, where Aleksandr Radojevic's name just got scratched off after getting picked by Toronto. “Damn,” ponders Grunfeld, “Toronto’s gonna have a new “twin towers” with Radojevic and that Bender kid.” “Who you got in mind, Ed?”

“I’m thinking we do something we never do, something bold... I say we go European.”

“Ah, Kirilenko!” says Grunfeld.

“Nyet,” Tapscott replies, leaving the Knicks War Room a bit puzzled. 

Grunfeld grumbles, “Umm, you know Radojevic just went off the board, right Ed?” “This ain’t a trick, is it Ed?” adds Van Gundy. “You know the Ginobili kid is Argentinian, not Italian, and it’s way too high to take him anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Who are you talking about, Ed?”

“Frederic Weis,” Tapscott replies, now leaving the Knicks War Room more than a bit puzzled. 

“Ed… why are you bringing up names just minutes before we pick?”

“You guys didn’t get my memo with the “Best Center in Europe” SI article attached?”

“We thought you were joking!” Van Gundy retorts. “We’ve seen no tapes of that guy. He’s got a bad back, I hear he’s a softee, won’t work out over there for anybody, and he didn’t bother to come over here to show our scouts what he’s got…”

“But Donnie Nelson from Dallas got a good look at him over the years, and so did I. I met with his agent, Didier Rose, outside of Paris, he’s a stand-up guy. He owns the team, and he reports that his back is just fine.” Grunfeld wonders quietly whether it was something the French put in the cheese or the wine that got to his replacement-in-waiting.

“Hold up,” Van Gundy butts in, laughing. “He’s his agent AND his owner? How do they get away with that over there?”

“Never mind that, Jeff, they’re cool with that in France. Weis isn’t here, but Didier is here in D.C. right now. Trust me, with guaranteed money he’ll be on the first one in camp, showing you all his wondrous skills. Once he arrives, he will be the talk of the rookie camp. Heck, he’s 7-foot-2, it’s not like he can hide! Noone overseas wants to be here in the NBA more than this Weis kid. Don’t worry about the foreign angle! Heck, in Donnie’s first year he had y’all scratching your heads about taking that German kid that high.”

Van Gundy interjects again, “I’m still scratching my shiny dome, Ed. That Nowitzki kid is a shooting forward that can’t shoot!”

“But he’s showing some promise, and that’s all you want out of a project after year one. Look, this guy can come in and can learn toughness and defense from Patrick, and he has time to get groomed for that starting center spot. Over time you can slide Camby over to forward. Just as sure as those twin towers outside your window aren't going anywhere, I'm telling you, nobody’s going to get points over the top of either of those two! I assure you, in a few short years from now, people are not gonna even remember Kandi Man from last year's draft, but they’ll remember the projects that pan out. And this here is the project with the most upside in this year’s draft, at the perfect position when Patrick retires. Heck, he could be such the franchise center for so long here, by the time he retires, Patrick's kid will be ready to play for us!”

The War Room, dumbfounded, continues to listen as Tapscott passionately makes his case for the Frenchman. “You guys want Avery and I understand. But point guards are a dime a dozen these days, you can get young guys like Steve Nash or Derek Fisher on the cheap. Decent centers are a hard commodity to trade for.”

Van Gundy asks, “Well, what about Mutombo? He’ll be a free agent soon.”

Tapscott bursts into laughter. “Dikembe Mutombo? Please. Didn’t you see what our boy Camby did to him in the playoffs? Mark my words, and you can’t see but I’m wagging my finger… no way is he ever coming to the Garden. Besides, if you looked at the article, the Hawks are seriously looking at Weis to do for Mutombo what he could very well do here for Patrick. They’ve got four picks, including the one after ours, so if we don’t take him, they will.”


“Slow down with the Blue Devil drafting, already, damn!” Grunfeld thinks to himself. “Corey will be a mainstay in Seattle for as long as the Sonics are around.”

Meanwhile, Tapscott rambles on. “And look at our wing options. Spree’s not going anywhere, the fans will insist that we extend him and Allan Houston. We’ve got plenty of defense, and we’ve got Dennis Scott to hit threes for us, so what is Ron Artest and his hometown fans going to do for the next few years, other than induce headaches for you while he’s buried on the bench?”

"We could just put him in the stands behind us, he can deal with all those hecklers when they get too rowdy," Van Gundy jokes, gesturing as if to say, "never mind" when Checketts looks at him to clarify.

“Well,” Grunfeld admits grudgingly, “you make a strong case for going with a project center. But, I hear Artest is having his people call teams above us and tell them he doesn’t want to be drafted by them, he wants to come play here. How are we going to deal with the backlash, especially if we take somebody no one around here has heard of?” Grunfeld begins to wonder why he should even care in the first place.

“Not to worry, we were going to have this Artest problem anyway when we take Avery. And with his personal “party animal” issues, he was going to drop anyway,” Tapscott responds.  “He’s got a fighter’s mentality, sure, but he’s not the kind of guy we need here to win a championship. The media will come around once we explain it to them. Look, I’ve got some talking points for you guys to rehearse when we take Avery, and just in case we have to take Weis, I’ve got you covered as well. Jeff, you tell them that Weis is a quick study and has good, soft hands that allow him to catch and shoot, which is just perfect for your offensive game plans.”

“You do have an offensive game plan, right, Jeff?” snorts Grunfeld. He received a different finger from Van Gundy this time, turned upward. Checketts crowed, “Don’t start, gentlemen!”

“I’ll let you be the fall guy for that one, Eddie. You make the case for him in public… since you’re so eager to step into my very, very large shoes.” Even Van Gundy bursts into laughter at that.

“Alright, enough with the sideswipes,” Checketts demands, “but let’s all be clear, Ed, we’re taking Avery. Period. There’s no way he doesn’t fall into our laps, the Wolves don’t just stockpile guards for no clear reason.” The War Room nods and grunts in confirmation at Checketts’ declaration. “But Ed, we trust your judgment. If you think we should take this Weis kid ahead of Artest as our fallback, then fine. But let’s not waste any more time on this, we’re taking William Avery, got it?”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ve got it, boss. But I’ll just add that we don’t want to be on the wrong side of history here. We can keep our winning legacy well into the next decade with the selection of Freddy Weis...

“Yeah, whatever. Get your Avery card ready, Ed.” The War Room laughs.

“Alright, gentlemen, I’m signing off. Talk to you guys in a few minutes.”

Van Gundy and Grunfeld look at one another and nod their heads. Grunfeld giggles, “Hey Jeff, how does that song they play on the radio go... 'I Don't Want No Scrubs?'" "You and I don’t agree on much, Ernie, but we both agree that Tapscott has some hare-brained ideas sometimes. Frederic Weis, you gotta be kidding me!”

“I know,” Grunfeld smiles at Van Gundy, genuinely, for the first time in a long while. “At least we know we’re going with…”


In unison, the Knicks War Room lets out a collective: “@#$%^&*!!!!”


August 24, 2010

Celebrity Posters IV: NFL WRs Getting Dunked On

"It Ain't Safe No More..."
~Busta R.

Yeah, we get it. T.O. thinks knows he's nice...

But the man who famously declared "I Love Me Some Me!" surely was hating him some he last month as a former Idaho State Bengal (Antoine "Miles High" Millien, now a "former" Globetrotter?) caught the newest Cincinnati Bengal gloating beneath the hoop at Rucker. Just seconds after catching his oop... oops!

Now... must Chad's running mate change his last name to Terrell OuchoIStinko?

Not necessarily. Fortunately, the man with ten more washboard abs than Super Bowl titles is not even the first NFL player smashed on in the last year... not even the first wide receiver. As we approach Kickoff 2K10, here are a couple more players getting unwittingly flagged for Poster Interference.

Here's Philly receiver Jeremy Maclin catching a Second-Down-And-1 during the Eagles' offseason exhibition in May. Sorta alligator-armed it, though, once he figured he was gettin' got. Even up in Pottstown, it's best not to get caught going over the middle:

And for a Third-Down-And-1, here's T.O.'s former running partner Roy Williams illustrating what happens when the back of your head, not toe, meets leather. The shutdown corner in this one was former Texas-Arlington point guard Marquez Haynes.


June 2, 2010

You Just Got YouTubed! IV: Here's A Tip... GET OUT THE WAY

The following video collection of tip jams and putbacks on people is brought to you by your dear friends at JanSport. JanSport Bookbags! Because, wouldn't you rather have one of these ridin' your back?


March 14, 2010

Please, Ivan Brothers, Don't Hurt 'Em!

Right on time for the Madness of March, a YouTube viral campaign from your friends at CapitalOne.

Because, as you know, there is NO worse indignity worse than getting dunked on so badly your credit score goes down! Toss in a face full of squirrel fur for good measure.

The upshot: a hapless coach from "West Eastern State" (OK, Pacific U. really) heads into the hinterlands and recruits Vikings (no, not Bryant McKinnie... we're talkin' dem ol'-school 8-foot tall Vikings) in a desperate push for relevancy on Selection Sunday. Vikings are exempt from that minimum-900 SAT thing...

After the horned fella yells, "WHAT'S IN YOUR WALLET?!?" into his teabagged opponents ear, his teammates have to remind him that basketball shorts don't come with pockets.


February 26, 2010

You Just Got YouTubed! III: Dunked On in the Snow? That's COLD!

Thanks to a one-two punch of El Nino and global warming (cooling?), a lot of cats are gettin flat-out buried this season, under one blizzard after another. Some of the more landlocked competitors kill time with snowball fights, while others... well, you'll see, in this wintry-mix installment of You Just Got YouTubed!

#1 - Daniel and his Driveway Lobbin' ballers are straight 'beastin' in the snow. Danny Boy, in fact, has gone completely bananas...

#2 - Death by frostbite?

#3 - Frostbite's Revenge

#4 - Caught slippin' under the hoop...

#5 - Madcatcon's lookin like a fool with his sweatpants halfway to the ground (dude, seriously, not a good look!)

#6 - C'mon, Zach, don't just stand there... what a Downer!

#7 - Zach, while you're down there, at least make a snow angel or somethin'!

#8 - Look out Anthony... freeze warning!

#9 - Ridky shows his opponent how it's done. Golden rule of streetball: never guard a man whose mama misspelled his name...


January 9, 2010

Celebrity Posters III: "The Game" DUNKED ON in ABA

Alton "Sonny" Smith III might want to be really careful about who he's running with, or at least against. The 6'-4" Phoenix native, former Concordia University-Irvine hooper and Odessa Roughnecks Arena Leaguer is featured on a YouTube vid showcasing his boosties in practice, and the video header notes, "Sonny beat Gilbert Arenas at the Nike Real Run in Triple OT." We hope he's not shaking Agent Zero down for any wager money from that contest, since as we know Gil's recently become a world-reknowned "shooting guard" for all the wrong reasons.

Sonny's getting mad bounce while ballin' with the San Diego Surf in the ABA minor league, and now he's really pushing his luck. The Surf's January 5 contest pitted them against the Los Angeles Slam, featuring former streetball star Larry Williams, aka "The Bone Collector." The Bone Collector's services might literally be needed though, after Sonny flew to the rim to challenge the Slam's captain and leading scorer, Jayceon Taylor. You know him as former Billboard Rap Artist of the Year and perennial beef-maker "The Game."

The 6'5" straight-outta-Compton forward and former G-Unit superstar is back on the scene next month with a new LP, "The R.E.D. Album," and can use all the pub he can get. Of course, we here at Nasteedunx are happy to help... in our own special way.

If you're wise, The Game is not exactly the celebrity you'd want to try and show up on the blacktop or the hardwood. He's just a couple years removed from a two-month jail stint for punching a guy and meeting him in the parking lot with a pistol from his Escalade -- after a trash-talking pickup game at a Compton high school. For Sonny's sake, hopefully The Game's probation officer bought a ticket.

The Game's not rocking the mic in this gym, so little chance BET or MTV is hanging around, and an otherwise trivial hoop contest probably means ESPN is not there with cameras in hand. But thankfully for us, you can always count on TMZ to be there! The Game dropped 19 points on the Surf before getting T'd up and booted... but not before ol' Sonny dropped THIS on him. BANG!

Hate It Or Love It, Game. The Underdog's On Top!


What? What?