If you’re like me, you’re short, sexually inadequate, easily distracted by shiny objects and somewhat funky (that’s “B.O. funky”, not “James Brown funky”). You also worship two things in life: (i) Hollywood superstars like Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie and Tony Danza, and (ii) sports. And so, like me, you are as excited about the NBA Entertainment League (the “NBAE”) as an Irishman at an “all-you-can-drink, all-you-can-beat” buffet. After all, where else can you watch athletic / cinematic / musical / theatrical / gynecological superstars such as Drew “Don’t Call Me Nick” Lachey of Dancing with the Stars shoot hoops alongside Morris Chestnut (who is best known for his stirring portrayal of “Gordon Mitchell” in Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid)?

The League just wrapped up its season, with the Nuggets edging out the Cavaliers in the final round of the 2008 NBAE Playoffs. Lamont Ferrell, revered the world over for his appearance in 3 separate episodes of House of Payne (which is 2 more episodes than I was aware had actually been produced), walked away with the Playoff MVP, while Scrubs’ Donald Faison took home the coveted League MVP. And who won Rookie of the Year, you ask? Why, none other than SuperDuperStar Sam “The Man” Daly, whose portrayal of “Will” in that one episode of Grey’s Anatomy will haunt my dreams for years to come.

Faison and Bow “Don’t Call Me L’il” Wow Discuss NBAE Strategy

However, the NBAE is far greater than just the Sams, Donalds and Lamonts of the world. Don’t believe me? Take a look for yourself… It is a veritable “Who’s Who” of the entertainment industry. Even Justin Timberlake’s one-named road manager, “Jason”, made the cut for the Lakers. Simply put, the NBAE is a spectator’s dream come true… almost.

As everyone knows, the NBA is a feeder league for the more prestigious Canadian Basketball Association (the “CBA”). I will not waste precious time and internet space by listing the legion of superstars who have come through this elite league over the years, but suffice it to say that the CBA carries on the proud Canadian basketball tradition that James Naismith started (peach baskets and all). It stands to reason, therefore, that the intersecting worlds of sports and sub-par entertainment will not be complete until the powers-that-be wake up and listen to the fans clamouring for the long-awaited CBA Entertainment League (or the “CBAE”, as it shall soon be known).

Proposed CBAE Mascot

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[Location: HMV Music, Toronto, Canada]

Employee: Can I help who’s next?

Me: [Stands awkwardly in line with CDs pressed against chest.]

Employee: Sir, can I help you? [Gestures towards cash register.]

Me: [Stares at ground.]

Employee: Sir, you’re next. I can help you at this register here.

Me: [Reluctantly makes eye contact. Slowly moves towards register.]

Employee: So, did you find everything that you were looking for?

Me: I wasn’t looking for it for me. I was just looking for it generally. [Places CDs on counter.]

Employee: Um, okay. So, what are we buying today?

Employee: Metallica, “Master of Puppets”, and…

Me: I love Metallica. That’s my kind of music. Metal.

Employee: …okay. And Coldplay, “Viva La Vida”.

Me: [Starts sweating.] That’s not for me. That’s for my wife. Who’s a woman. Who I have sex with. With my penis. Which she doesn’t have.

Employee: [Stares quizzically.] Sure. Right. You know, you don’t have to feel weird about buying it. Lots of people like Coldplay. The new album is flying off the shelf today.

Me: I wouldn’t know anything about that. It’s my wife’s music. I assume they are some sort of dance group like 2 Unlimited.

Employee: No, they are alternative rock. They’re really not that bad.

Me: [Soft voice to self] I know.

Employee: Excuse me?

Me: Metallica!

Employee: Oh. Right. By the way, when you buy the new Coldplay you get a free poster and a chance to win a trip to New York to see the band. But I guess that you don’t want that seeing as you don’t even know who Coldplay is.

Me: [Stares at employee.]

Employee: [Stares at me.]

Me: [Stares at employee.]

Employee: [Stares at me.]

Me: Just put it in the bag.

Employee: You have yourself a great day. Just remember, the new Jonas Brothers’ CD comes out August 12.

Me: [Runs from store. Gives finger to employee.]

 When you see the name ‘Milton Bradley’, two things probably come to mind.  For some of you, the name most likely brings back memories of playing Monopoly with that one friend who could suck the fun out of anything by buying up all of the railways and then sitting back and waiting to cash in.* 

For the sports fans among you, the name probably brings to mind visions of an unpredictably violent but surpremely talented baseball player with a paperthin ego.

What you probably didn’t know is that those two people are one and the same!  That’s right.  The Milton Bradley who is currently the leading Triple Crown candidate in the American league (.329 avg.; 15 homers; 47 runs) is the very same person who brought us such class boardgames as Sorry!, Trouble! and Operation.  When he’s not busy attacking a TV announcer, attacking his manager, or tearing his ACL while attacking an umpire, he’s bringing families together for some wholesome fun.  Amazing but absolutely true.  Look it up.

And as a tribute to his amazing comeback season, Milton Bradley (the volatile baseball player) has decided to reissue updated versions of some of his classic family boardgames.  We think you’ll agree that these new classics will be welcome additions to your household:

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Ooohh, yesss… You are a sultry, sexy mistress, Lady Justice. I just want to lay you down by the fire, and make sweet, sweet love to you all night. Oh yes… I don’t see nothing wrong with a little bump n’ grind - do you sweet sexy Justice? I know you agree. I see you there with your blindfold, eager to sample all of the pleasures that the R. Kelly tree has to offer… Every time I look at you, I am reminded of the lyrics to my love ballad “Feelin’ On Yo Booty (An Ode to the Justice System)”:

Now your body’s got me feelin’ like spending
With a backroom I could come to live in
And your hair weave looking kind of pretty
The way you back it up on me baby
Lord have mercy

It’s true, baby - that’s how R feels about you, with your fine Justice-booty…

And I know there are haters out there who are questioning you right now, sexy-ass Justice. I know it. I hear them callin’ you out, asking how it is possible that I could be acquitted of all 14 counts of child pornography in the face of video-taped evidence of me doing unspeakable things to a 13 year-old girl. But they don’t know you like I do, sexy Justice. They don’t! I know everything about you, sweet lady. I love you, and I want to make love to you. In the booty, if that’s ok. And then, maybe after we’re done pleasuring each other and we’re holding each other tight in the bonds of sweet carnal love, I will pee on you. Just a little. Also, I am probably going to want to videotape the lovemaking… and the peeing. Just because you are so beautiful, big-bootied Justice. The very mention of your sexy name gets me thinking about the lyrics to my hit “Ignition (Justice Will Prevail)“:

Now its like murder she wrote
Once I get you out them clothes
Privacy is on the door
Still they can hear you screamin more
Girl Im feelin what you feelin
No more hopin and wishin
I’m bout to take my key and
Stick it in the ignition

Do you feel me, Justice mama? I know that you do. We have something special between us, hot-bitch Justice. I can feel it. And I know that we have a future together, now that you’ve ditched that has-been OJ. You two were great while it lasted, but he’s no R. I mean, the guy promoted “Spot Bilt” - what the fuck is that?

You don’t need the Juice anymore, baby. We’ll make our own juices, if you know what I mean. In case you don’t, I am suggesting that we have sex… preferably in the booty. It’s like I said in “You Remind Me of Something (Thank You God For the Jury System)“:

You remind me of my jeep; I wanna ride it
Something like my sounds, I wanna pump it
Girl you look just like my cars; I wanna wax it
And something like my bank account, I wanna spend it

In case you missed it, baby, those were metaphors… or similes, or something. I don’t know. The point is, I just want to make sweet, sweet love to you, sexy Justice. In the booty.

Forever Yours,

R.

1999 - 2008

Dead, at the age of 9, the career of auteur filmmaker/megalomaniac M. Night Shyamalan, by bludgeoning.  Shyamalan is survived by his films The Sixth Sense, Unbreakable, Signs, The Village, Lady in the Water and The Happening, the latter three of which have been arrested in connection with his murder.  A service is being held this coming Wednesday in Hollywood, California.  Mark Wahlberg will deliver the eulogy; it will be uncomfortably earnest.

Sic semper tyrannis.

(Wolfgang’s Steakhouse in New York City.  David Stern sits alone at a table.  Vince McMahon enters.) 

Vince McMahon: David!

David Stern: Vince!  You old so and so! 

McMahon: My old squash buddy!  How have you been?

Stern: Oh, you know.  Could be better, could be worse.  Oh, hi, Will.

(Will Smith walks by table.)

Will Smith: Hi, David.  Vince.

McMahon: Hey there, Will.

Stern: (back to McMahon) I mean, we’ve got this dream Finals match-up, but now we’ve got Donaghy flapping his gums again.

McMahon: Yeah, I’ve read about that. 

Stern: You know how there are just some guys that you know in your gut you shouldn’t have trusted?  Stu Jackson has been practically begging me to let him kill him for years.

McMahon: Well, look on the bright side - at least your guys aren’t always dropping dead on you!

(Both laugh uproariously.)

McMahon: Anyway, down to business.  I know you didn’t ask me to lunch just for the pleasure of my company.

Stern: Now that you mention it, we are starting to plan for next season…

McMahon: A bit early, aren’t we?

Stern: It’s just that, seeing as how this has been such a big year for us, I really want to hit the ground running with some fresh ideas for ‘08-’09…

McMahon: Okay.

Stern: …and I thought you could help me out with that big ol’ creative brain of yours.

McMahon: All this flattery, David…I’ll give you one hour to stop.

(Both laugh uproariously, drink shot of blood.)

McMahon: Alright, let’s begin with the basics.  It all starts with your top heel.  Who’s it going to be?

Stern: My…my heel?

McMahon: Your bad guy.  Your villain.  The one everybody loves to hate.

Stern: Oh, that’s easy.  Kobe.

McMahon: But people are starting to soften on Kobe, what with this whole “unselfish play” stuff.

Stern: Well…I could send him for more “surgery” in Colorado.

McMahon: Yeeeeaaaaahhhhh, but it’s been done.  Who else you got?

Stern: Joakim Noah has some real potential.

McMahon: But he’s not even a mid-carder.  We need someone big, someone who can make a splash…I’ve got it! 

Stern: Who?

McMahon: Steve Nash!

Stern: Nash?  But everyone loves that guy!

McMahon: Exactly!  What you need is a big Michael Vick-style heel turn.

Stern: I don’t know…

McMahon: Think about it, David!  The only thing people like more than cheering for their heroes is booing them when they fall.  It can’t miss!

Stern: (pauses) Okay.  You’ve convinced me.  But how do I do it?  Contract hold-out?

McMahon: Contract hold-out?  What is this, 1988?

Stern: Okay, smart guy.  How about a failed drug test?  Heroin, maybe?

McMahon: Yeah, you’re getting warmer.  But you need something big.   Something that will seize headlines.  Something that will…wait a minute, wait…a…minute.  That’s it!

Stern: What’s it?

McMahon: You know.  The ol’… (points to himself, then to Will Smith sitting one table over)

Stern: Surely you don’t mean the (silently mouthing) race card?

McMahon: (points to nose)

Stern: But…

McMahon: Think about it, David!  It’ll be the story of the year!  He’ll sell out every single arena he plays in, just so people can boo him.  Fans will be calling in to talk radio about it non-stop.  It will transcend basketball…nay, sports!

Stern: But how would we do it?

McMahon: Okay, listen up.  Have Nash call a press conference.  He shows up dressed in his whitest outfit.  I’m talking Bright Eyes t-shirt, Titleist hat, the works.  He says he is sick of playing with giant egos.  He wants to go to a team with “hustle” guys, who play “Euro ball”.   Players who “understand how to execute a game plan”.

Stern: Go on.

Nash: He then announces he is demanding a trade to the one team that fits that bill, the one team that knows how to “play the game the right way.”  He then takes off his shirt to reveal that underneath, he is wearing…

Stern: Wearing what?

McMahon: (gives Stern a disapproving look)

Stern:  Wait…a Raptors jersey!

McMahon: Bingo!

Stern: My God!  A competitive whitewash!  We haven’t tried that in years…

McMahon: It’ll be gangbusters.  And to top it all off, they’re Canadian!

Stern: We could throw T.J. Ford in the deal!

McMahon: Atta boy!  I can see that Columbia education wasn’t a complete waste.

(Both laugh uproariously, take bite of snow leopard tartare.)

McMahon: You have the Raptors run through the league this year.  Have them knock Kevin Durant out for the season in November with a flagrant foul. Make three of them starters in the All-Star game where they won’t pass to anyone else.  Release some pictures of Carlos Delfino grinding at a club with Rihana.  They can’t be stopped.  That is, until…

Stern: Until?

McMahon: Until after a hard fought seven-game championship series, where they trash talk through the press and whine about every single call to the refs, they lose on a buzzer-beater to…

Stern: …Chris Paul’s Hornets!

McMahon: See, you don’t need me, David!

Stern: Like hell I don’t!  Vince, you truly are a genius.  Next season is going to be our biggest ever! 

McMahon: Happy to help.  Besides, I still owe you for letting Karl Malone and Dennis Rodman wrestle for my competition.  Not three years later, I bought them for a song.

Stern: Well, the least I can do is pick up the cheque.

McMahon: If you insist.

Stern: You had the prix “fixe“, right?

McMahon: Do you even have to ask?

(Both laugh uproariously, light La Carona cigars with childrens’ letters to Santa.)

[Harper walks to his seat in Parliament]

[To Chuck Strahl] Hey, did you see the news that Trevor Linden is retiring? That is a damn shame. He was one fantastic hockey player. You can keep all the Sedin Twins and Markus Naslunds you have, because I’d take Linden any day of the week. I remember one game a few years ago, he….

[Whispering] Holy shit! Is that an Indian?

That is a fucking Indian. What the fuck is going on here? Oh my God, is this like the movie “The Doors”? Is he a vision? The angel of death? Am I going to die? Jim Morrison saw an Indian right before he died. I am going to die! I’m probably asleep at home in the bathtub and I’m already dead. Oh, man, I’m probably dead on the toilet. I died like Elvis! I fucking died like Elvis!

[Chuck Strahl whispers something to Harper.] What? Sorry, what? Calm down? You don’t fucking tell me to calm down. I’m the goddamn Prime Minister. And I’M DEAD!!!! I have seen that Indian in my dreams. In my dreams. One time, when I was a kid, we were driving through the desert and I saw a dying Indian on the side of the road. I could feel his spirit…

[Chuck Strahl whispers something to Harper.] What? I’m not dead? I’m not? And the Indian is supposed to be here? Yeah, right, tell me another one, Chuck. Like there is supposed to be a fucking Indian on the floor of Parliament. Well, smart guy, why the fuck is he here then?

[Chuck Strahl whispers something to Harper.] Schools? I am supposed to be apologizing for schools? Really? Whose brilliant fucking idea is that? As far as I know, the Tories are supposed to be in favour of schools. Did you jackasses run this idea by anyone first? Christ. “I am really sorry I sent you all to school. I apologize for your educations and opportunities for higher learning and success in life.” Does that sound like a good idea to you, Chuck?

[Chuck Strahl whispers something to Harper.] Residential schools? Like Upper Canada College? Is this about some teacher molesting rich kids? It’s something like that? But not really? How is that my fault? And why is there an Indian guy just sitting there? He’s looking at me, Chuck. He’s looking at me.

[Chuck Strahl whispers something to Harper.] Fine, fine, I’ll shut up about this. You want me to read this? It better be good. Wait, you want me to read it out loud? To the Indian? Fuck, fine — I’ll do it. But if it turns out I am dead, I am going to haunt the shit out of you, Chuck.

by the Condescending Moron

This Sunday I went to see the R.E.M. concert down by the waterfront.  I won the tickets through a local call-in radio contest.  (Not to brag, but this wasn’t the first time I’ve won such a contest.  Without giving too much away, my secret involves pre-programmed speed dial, high-speed internet, Google and a large bottle of Coke.) 

I was pretty excited because I’m a big R.E.M fan.  I don’t know much of their music, but I really liked how their lead singer wore a “Wear a Condom” t-shirt at the MTV video awards that one time (note to kids: that message still applies today.  AIDS is now, more than ever, the silent killer). 

Michael Stipe: a good man.

Thuswise, I thought it might be fun to write a review of the concert.  Kind of like a Roger Ebert thing, but for music.  Now, I had never heard of Modest Mouse or The National, but I figured I would review them too since, hey, I’m always open to new things.  Anyone who knows me knows one of my creedences is “get busy living, or get busy dying.” It’s from a Morgan Freeman movie, the name of which escapes me, but I’m pretty sure he played a wise old black guy.

Since it was a beautiful day, I thought I would first go and grab some food on a patio.  Unfortunately, I was running late (I went the wrong way on the bus and had to backtrack), and with The National scheduled to start playing in just over an hour, I didn’t have a ton of time to play with.  So I went to a pub down the street from the venue, figuring I could get in and out in about forty-five minutes.  Of course, I was also counting on getting a server who hadn’t completely forgotten why she chose a career in customer service. 

When I told her I was in a rush and would need my food quickly, she said that was going to be a problem.  Apparently they were “super packed” because of the nice weather and the fact that “Euro 2008″ was going on.  “Well, guess what?” I said.  “I have a concert 2008 to review, and I’ve never heard of your ‘Euro’.  Now bring me my bruschetta and chicken souvlaki!”

If anything, that made her move even slower, so I didn’t end up getting out of there for an hour and a half.  And to add insulting injury, the food was a total rip-off.  $25 for pub food and three cokes?  Give me a break.  I was going to complain to the manager, but I was late as it was.  In any event, I think the chintzy $5 tip made my point for me.

By the time I got to the amphitheatre and walked the fifteen minutes it took to get to my seat, The National were already finishing up.  I only caught the last song, which was apparently called “Fake Empire”.  I overheard some guy say the song was about the U.S. and how naive everyone there is.  But he was also wearing a “Gummi Bears” cartoon t-shirt, so I’ll let you be the judge.

The venue's seating chart. Looking back, I probably should have taken some pictures.

Having already missed The National, I was determined to get my review back on track with Modest Mouse.  But the cokes I had at dinner were starting to catch up with me, so I ran out for a quick washroom break.  After a minor incident where I went into the wrong bathroom (I was distracted by the pierced freak at the Amnesty International booth), I heard the crowd start to cheer.  I quickly headed back towards my seat, but then it hit me: I forgot to scalp my extra ticket! 

I ran all the way back to the entrance and asked the beefy security guard if I could run out and sell it to a scalper and come back in.  He said it was, “out of the question.”  I said, “what do you mean it is out of the question?  I won these in a radio contest.”  He said I couldn’t leave and re-enter.  I said, “well how about I use my extra ticket to re-enter, smart guy?”  In a gesture that I soon learned was meant to be anything but helpful, he said, “sounds like a good plan.”

I got about forty feet from the gate before I realized what he had done.  I went back and argued with him for a few minutes, but he acted like he didn’t even know me!  Unbelievable!  I thought about asking to speak to his manager, but I had now likely missed two of the three bands I came to see, and it’s not like I was losing money because the tickets were free.  So I gave him my extra and re-entered.  Suffisit to say, I now have a new opinion of concert security guards (a.k.a. guys who failed the mall security guard exam.) 

My suspicions were confirmed when I finally got back to my seat: Modest Mouse had finished playing.  So I was 0 for 2 at this point, but there was no way I was going to miss the headliner.  Within minutes, these guys in tank tops and backwards baseball hats behind me started chanting “R.E.M.”, and it didn’t take long for the rest of the crowd to join in.  This seemed to work, because eventually they came to the stage. 

So what happened next?  The man sitting in front of me (with the “Gummi Bears” shirt) bounced to his feet, blocking my entire view of the stage!  I leaned over to the woman next to me and said (sarcastically) that, “I thought these were called ’seats’.”  I don’t think she heard me, though, because she and everyone else around me had followed suit and jumped up as well.  I guess we were lucky the guy in front didn’t decide to jump off a bridge!*

I wasn’t about to stand up like some brainless automotron, but the tank top crew behind me would not stop yelling “stand!”  Over and over again, “Stand! Stand!”  I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle, and that for the purposes of my review, I should probably see the stage anyway, so I got out of my seat.  But do you think that shut them up?  No, they started yelling, “now face north!” and then “now face west!”  I mean, can you believe the nerve?

I’m not proud of what I did next, but between the waitress, the idiot security guard and now these clods, I was at the end of my wit.  So I turned around and yelled, “here’s an idea - why don’t you face north, towards the exit, and then walk through it i.e. why don’t you leave?”  Well, rather than act like grown-ups, they started to laugh at me, and told me to do things with my face that I would rather not repeat in print.  To make a long story short, I told them that they were so stupid, they probably forgot to wear sunscreen, someone hit me in the face with a beach-ball, and I decided to leave.

So there you have it.  My first concert review, which in all honesty will probably be my last.  I guess I had forgotten why I hadn’t been to a concert since Aqua - people at these things are jerks. 

Simpler times.

From now on, the only live music I’m listening to is the guy who plays drums on the pails in the subway.

Overall score (out of 10, 1 being the lowest, 10 being the highest, and 5 being average): 1.5

*Adapted from the saying, “if everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you?”

More:

The Condescending Moron Says…Bring Back Freaks and Geeks!

The Condescending Moron Demands…Call off the Search for Sasquatch!

The Condescending Moron Presents…The Best of 2007 in Entertainment

My colleague Blue Menu linked to an article in the Toronto Star concerning a shortage of exotic dancers in Canada. The article contained the following photograph with the attached description:

A dancer takes the pole position at Caddy’s Strip Club on Eglinton Ave. E. The number of strippers in Toronto has dropped by 50 per cent in 10 years.

That stripper sure looks…sturdy. This exotic dancer shortage is worse than I had imagined. Although the number of strippers has dropped by 50 per cent, they apparently have made up for it by doubling each stripper’s weight. Caddy’s should stop that free lunchtime buffet. It seems the help are helping themselves. Christ, I don’t think I have enough lap to even get a dance from her.

[Please continue with your own fat jokes]