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Week #5: Sports

17 Jan


How to Breed a Professional Athlete

16 Jan

As a former professional athlete, I get tons of e-mails like this every day:

Dear Adonal,

I need some advice. After 30 years, I’ve given up my dream of becoming a basketball player/fencer/competitive Jenga player. I know the door is closed for me, but I want to ensure that my child gets the opportunity I never had so that I can live vicariously through them and make a buttload of money. What’s the best way to make this a realiy?


B-side D-sider

So, to better serve humanity, I’ve decided to write up a guide on how to breed a professional athlete.


Step 1: Do not have conceived a child before reading this article.

If you currently have a child or a bun in the oven, you already messed up. Adonal’s Guide to Begetting Awesome Athletes (trademarked) is a 25-year plan. And it starts well before conception. So continue to Step 2 for your next child.

Step 2: Adopt a professional athlete’s child.

Let’s be honest. You have little chance of conceiving a child with your sperm/eggs. You clearly lack athletic talent. Otherwise you wouldn’t be turning to me for suggestions; you would have made it big. Adopting and raising an athlete’s child is the easiest road to realizing your dream.

If you feel uncomfortable with this program, politely ask a professional athlete for his/her sperm/eggs. Also tell them you’d be willing to take a gamete or zygote off their hands.

If you are unwilling to take these measures (I’m guessing the reason you didn’t make it as an athlete has something to do with lack of ambition, ya sloth), try out the Space Jam approach. Employ the Monstars to steal professional athletes’ abilities and put them in a basketball.

Still not on board? You can always try marrying a professional athlete. Pull a Kim Kardashian/Kendra Wilkinson and you’ll have all the athletic DNA you can handle. If you can’t marry an athlete, marry someone who looks really athletic. Or really tall. Or really fat (NFL lineman/sumo wrestler is always an option).

If all of the above have failed, pick a random guy/gal off the street and make sweet love to them (as long as it’s consensual, of course). I call this one the X-Factor. It’s high risk, low reward. But you never know when that hobo will possess the seed of a real champion.

Step 3: Make your child simultaneously love and hate you.

Treading the line between love and hate is the hardest step in the program. There is nothing like concurrent adulation and enmity to fuel a child’s motivation for athletic excellence. I learned this one from Papa Shuttlesworth in He Got Game. Where did Jesus Shuttlesworth end up? He became Ray Allen. It’s a winning formula.

But just beware, too much love results in a pampered nobody: think Freddy Adu. And too much hate results in lawsuits: think Macaulay Culkin, but sports (Sidenote: Did anybody else have no clue he’d be dating Mila Kunis for the past 7 years? If I had known that earlier, it definitely would have graced my list last week). Repeat Step 3 until stardom.

Step 4: Just in case.

If all else fails, and your child doesn’t have the genetic make up to succeed as a conventional athlete, train them exclusively in golf or bowling. Athletic ability is not a prerequisite for these sports. If you’re not too hung up on them going pro, squash is a valid choice that’ll secure them admission to most top-tier schools.

Another option is marrying a flannel-loving public defender. From his/her birth, convince your child that Ultimate Frisbee is a sport. With any speck of athletic ability and your constant pushing, s/he can probably become the best disc-baller in the world. Congratulations, you have raised a professional hobbyist.

So good luck on raising a professional athlete. Your child will probably sue you at some point, but you might eventually get an ESPN feature about being estranged from your Olympic son/daughter. So yeah, it’s totally worth it.

– Adonal

Sports Sports Sports Sports

16 Jan

I know this will come as a surprise to most of you, but I am not an athlete. Nor do I particularly spend a lot of time following sports.

It wasn’t always this way. I mean, I was never good at sports (that’s why I played soccer, an activity that allows uncoordinated people to feel like athletes–by way of incessant running–with minimal risk of public humiliation).


But there was a time when I followed sports.

My pops raised me as a die-hard Boston fan, which means my elementary-school wardrobe consisted almost entirely of Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics apparel–actually, the Celtics sucked back then, so I did what every other 9-year-old boy did and cheered for the Bulls. In the 3rd grade, I had a penchant for drawing pictures of Michael Jordan, flying through the cosmos, ball in hand, presumably on some intergalactic dunk trajectory, with biceps like watermelons and green lightning exploding behind him. I plastered my bedroom walls with these drawings along with countless cut-outs from Sports Illustrated For Kids. I can vividly remember the party I had for Game Six of the NBA Finals in 1997: Chicago Bulls vs. Utah Jazz. (The Bulls won. We had an indoor snowball fight to celebrate. My mother did not share our excitement.)

As I got older, however, my love for sports began to wane, roughly in inverse proportion to my love for emo music (the two interests are mutually exclusive). So by junior year of high school, after I had lived to see the glory of the Red Sox and Patriots winning their respective championships, I could no longer name more than three players for either team–although I could recite verbatim the lyrics to “Cute Without The E” and often employed this knowledge to vent my emotions via an AIM away message.


But, unlike a lot of individuals who don’t follow sports (i.e. those with estrogen in lieu of testosterone), I’m not completely clueless on the subject. Rather, it’s just that my understanding of sports is very much stuck in the mid- to late-90s. As far as I’m concerned, Penny Hardaway is still playing for the Magic, Karl Malone is still my nemesis, and Dennis Rodman is still changing the color of his hair at the same rate that he’s accumulating technical fouls.

In other words, my current knowledge of professional sports is just as weak as my current knowledge of politics. In my mind, Eric Cantor has just a good a chance of being the pitcher for the Phillies as he does of being the Majority Leader of the House.

But maybe I’m not alone in this?

Is it possible that there are others out there who, like me, have a gaping lack of knowledge in the world of sports? Or politics? Or both?

There’s obviously only one way to find out. And that is, of course, with a quiz.

Take 30 seconds and play a game I like to call…

Politician or Professional Athlete?


Thanks for playing. How’d you do? Did you know more athletes or politicians? Cool. See you next week.

– Cakes

The Channing Crowder Experience

16 Jan

Channing Crowder, NFL Linebacker

On Sunday November 7, 2010, in a now-famous postgame interview, Miami Dolphins linebacker Channing Crowder spoke freely about his frustration with an alleged missed call by the game’s referees.  In reference to the refs’ turning a “blind eye” to another player spitting in his face, Crowder said the following:

“Yeah, a little Stevie Wonder.  And Anne Frank.”

Prompted to explain what the fuck he was talking about, Crowder backpedaled.  Sort of.

“Who was that?  Is that the blind girl?  Helen Keller… I don’t know who the fuck Anne Frank is!  I’m mad right now.  Fuck it.  I’m not as swift as I usually am.”

Questions were subsequently raised.  Firstly, who the hell confuses Anne Frank and Helen Keller?  Secondly, was this the first time either Anne Frank OR Helen Keller had been mentioned in an NFL locker room?

To the latter question, I say:  almost certainly.

To the former, I say:  Channing Crowder alone.

BUT, maybe we can see where he was coming from.  If we get inside Channing’s head a little bit, we can see that the two have more in common than expected.

For example:

  1. Both young girls were subject to oppression.  Frank had the Nazis, Keller the Five Senses.
  2. There are well-known jokes about both young ladies
    1. Knock knock!  Who’s there?  Anne.  Anne Who?  Anne Frank!
    2. How do you keep Helen Keller busy for a while?  Have her read the surface of a basketball until she gets to the end.  (That’s the mild sauce; for the realness, click here.)
  3. Well, I guess that’s about it.

But I’d like to ask a new question:  What goes on in Crowder’s everyday, “swifter” brain?  What other important and famous female figures does he confuse?

To see for ourselves, let’s take a ride.  Remember the Michael Vick Experience?  I now bring you:


Situation #1:  Channing sees a cute cheerleader on the sideline.
Channing Says:  Damn girl, love that brunette style, make me pop like Susan B. Anthony.
Channing Means:  … like Eva Longoria?
Thought Process: Easy.  Susan B. Anthony founded the Women’s Suffrage Association in 1869 and advocated for all women to vote.  Longoria once voted in the state of Texas.  Also, both look better with makeup.

Take your pick, boys.


Situation #2: Crowder’s sweet tooth and thirst kick in simultaneously at a bar, postgame.
Channing Says: I’ll have a Rosie O’Donnell.
Channing Means: …a Shirley Temple.
Thought Process:  He’s close here.  You may not know that both women have drinks named after them.  In fact, the drinks are exactly the same save for one ingredient.  A Shirley Temple contains sprite, grenadine, and cherries.  A Rosie O’Donnell features the same, only you add one quart of sour cream.  Channing merely forgot that he prefers Shirleys.

Rosie O'Donnell, after sipping an especially sour Rosie O'Donnell


Situation #3: Channing wants to make a sex tape.
Channing Says:  Come on, baby, let’s make a sex tape.  Like Nancy Grace or whoever.
Channing Means: …like Paris Hilton?
Thought Process: Other than the fact that both women are really really dumb, I have no idea.   But I do give Channing credit for even imagining a Nancy Grace sex tape.  Because no one else ever has.  Whoever googles “Nancy Grace sex tape” will now immediately find themselves here.  Whoever you are, you’re a sick, sick man.  But for coming all this way, please enjoy the Nancy Grace Sex Tape right here.


Situation #4: Someone asks Channing who his favorite author is.
Channing says: My favorite author is Charlotte Brontë.  Wuthering Heights is a dope-ass book.
Channing means: Emily Brontë.
Thought Process:  An easy switcheroo.  In fact, I’m still haunted by making this same mistake on my 11th grade AP lit exam.  I give the man a pass here.

A dope-ass book.

At the end of the day, I guess all I’m trying to say is that maybe there’s a reason behind each of Channing Crowder’s famous female mix-ups.  Until he reveals something ridiculous, like not being able find London on a map, I think it’s time we all cut this dude some slack.

Pete the Peasant

Vote On Your Favorite Entry

16 Jan


Thanks for reading.

Next week’s theme: Children’s Books.

The week after that: You choose.

No, seriously. After five weeks, we’ve run out of ideas. Please submit your suggestions for future themes in a comment below.