Rumor Mill - 04.25.09

- First report: HarperCollins publishing Cat Mobley tell-all bio. "Steve has softest hands I've ever felt"; "Would rather a have heart condition than experience David Lee's halitosis every morning" lead press release.

- Charlie Bell's sister's wedding registries available at Williams-Sonoma, Macy's, and Target. Likely serving salmon and chicken, but no beef option. Rumor is that they'll go with a DJ over a band. Expecting 300, including Bell, Francisco Elson, Ron Garretson, and Andre Hutson.

- Robert Swift is a PC.

- "90 percent definite," say sources, that Jamal Crawford is going to read Wuthering Heights this summer.

- Blind item du jour: Pacific Division team from California considering major endorsement deal with Southworth Paper.

Tim Legler Is a Jerkoff

Tim Legler is a jerkoff. And you can tell him I said so. Did anyone watch that Orlando game? The guy's fucking insufferable. And who the fuck does he think he is?

I was down in Washington, DC one time picking up a package. This was back some years ago, when Jackie was still in charge. God rest his sweet soul. That was a devastating loss, with all due respect to our current leader. While I was down there, I was taken to a basketball game by Dom Rancicio, a business associate. His wife got cancer, bless her, and he'd started fucking some new broad. But this goomah, she was a dancer or some shit for the Bullets. So we had to go the game so Dom could pretend like he cared.

It was alright, though. Dom got us front-row tickets, and we sat down where the waiter will bring you beer and hot dogs. One of the ushers at the arena was into Dom for 10 large, the juice was running, and he couldn't pay the vig. So that week, Dom pushed the points up to 4 and on top of that, that asshole usher had to comp us on the food. I tell ya, those were the best tasting hot dogs I ever had. I put down five. Normally I wouldn't have been such a pig; I like to take care of myself, and there were a couple of ladies next to us. But you know how those arenas are, always shying you with that shit. So I had to take advantage; strike while the iron's hot, you know? Not for nothin', but I wasn't being greedy. I turned to one of those girls next to us, and I said, "Hey, Sweetheart, you like meat?" Then I gave her a hot dog. Stuck up bitch didn't wait for me afterwards, though.

During warm ups, Legler was shooting from all over. At one point, he was right in front of us, and he started talking to the broad next to me. He motioned in my direction and said, "Is this your boyfriend?" Before anyone said anything, this fucking guy goes, "I hope not; you're too pretty for him." Madonn'! But I kept my cool and kind of laughed it off. He was just bustin' balls. At least, I thought. Later, in between quarters, he was looking down and playing with his shorts, so I told that lady, "Watch this," and I yelled, "Hey, Prick Boy, you lost your stugots? Must be hard to find when they're so small!" Again, we were just bustin' balls. But then, he crossed the line. This fuck, Legler, he goes, "Well your mom said they're bigger than yours, and I'll ask your girlfriend over here what she thinks of them later." Can you believe it? He insulted my ma? In front of a lady? That's not right. If it hadn't been on account of Dom and all, I would have gotten up and made Legler wish he didn't have balls to begin with.

I always knew that prick was no good, and it's evident when he's on TV now. Honestly, I am embarrassed. I can't believe anyone even hired such a mortadell. He's a terrible announcer. During the game last night, he kept saying stuff like, "Watch Dwight Howard here. He gets into the lane and dunks. That's what makes him so good." What the fuck makes him so good? All you did, Asshole, was describe an action. You didn't tell us how he was able to do it, or why he was better at it than anyone else. Don't tell T, but I was watching the game with Little Carmine, and he said something that was right on. He has a way with words, as you know. Anyway, Carmine said, "That announcer speaks in self-evidentiary eloquation. He's always saying something's good because it's good, as though the result itself is a sufficient enlightenment for how it was attained." Fuck me. I couldn't have put it better.

Another thing I don't like about Legler is that he talks like he thinks he's better than everyone else. I know he's supposed to be some fuckin' basketball wizard, but the prick talks likes he's the king of fuckin' England. Or the Holy Father. Ohhhh! Am I wrong? And not for nothin', but I drive a Cadillac. That's American-engineering at its finest, and the classiest way to get around. So it's not like I ain't got no fucking class. But this guy, he thinks he fucking invented the sport. I say listen, Pal, aside from spending a lot of years showering with other men, nothing qualifies you to talk to me that way. Am I wrong? I wish he'd choke on a fucking josckstrap.

You know what's weird? Ralph Cifaretto used to say the same thing.

I know that my ma wouldn't want me speaking ill of the dead, but I gotta say some things about Ralphie.

Now, don't get me wrong, Ralph can va fa napole. (Hehe--he probably already has. You know what I mean? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that was out of line.) Anyway, everyone knows that he and I didn't always make pleasantries at each other. We didn't have a dignitary kind of relationship; he showed no respect for anyone. That fuck screwed me on that one knock over job, he left Little Paulie standing in the cold like an asshole, he made me look bad in front of the Skip, he disrespected the Bing, and he was always wearing it, what with those slippers and those silken scarves. I always thought he might have been a fanook, like that fat fuck Vito, although he did sleep with broads. Ralph also drove a wedge in between me and T, and he was very disrespectful toward Ginny Sack. Don't forget that joke he made about her. Just thinking about it makes me mad. The balls of that fuckin' guy.

But my real point is this: he was right about Tim Legler. Ralph used to bet a lot, but he'd always avoid a game that Legler had talked about. Ralphie would say, "The fucking whores down at the Bing know more than this asshole." And he was right, that asshole.

Rumor Mill - 04.24.09

- Denver Nugget on market for 6-bedroom ranch house with 5-7 bath, hwf, eik, and large closets. Also needs pool for boyfriend's Olympic training.

- Josh Smith has a wig man.

- Sources indicate that James White is confident he'll be tapped to serve as member of Lance Stephenson's entourage.

- From Twitter: which NBAer is at the Garden State Plaza right now? Hint: slept with a TV's most-desired buxom brunette last night.

- This former Duke star once caught mouthing off about the media loves the Goobers-and-popcorn combination at the movies.

Where Are They From?

One time, Mother took us to see Dad at his work. Me and Raymond got to put things in the cart. Mom liked the hammer I picked out. She said it was smart and useful. She also said something about teaching my grandpa a lesson with it, but she said it in the way that she talks when she's saying grown-up things, so I couldn't really hear it. I think grandpa knows how to use a hammer, though. I went to Mom's old house one time and she said Grandpa had built it with wood and a hammer and nails. So I wasn't really sure why Mom would need to teach him more. I guess it's like when Mom or Sarah or Margene read to me: I know how to read, but they still help me. I can read almost 15 words every minute! Ben timed me once, and I set a record. That's fast. So then maybe Mother was just being nice. Right?

That same day, we saw a man who looked different than anyone I ever saw. He was the tallest person ever! He was so tall. I looked up at him, and his head was almost as high as the lights. I think he was a mailman; that's what I heard someone call him. I think he must be really good at it, or maybe really nice, because everyone walked over to talk to him. He wasn't wearing his mailman clothes, though, so how did they know it was him? Does he deliver everyone else's mail? Not ours; our mailman is shorter and fat. Also, he had dark hair, and his skin was like a candy bar. Mother said he was a "black" man, but he didn't look black. I know what black looks like. The wheels on a car are black. I asked why he wasn't really black, and she just said because. Raymond asked if we could be like that tall man, and Mom said no, because we're "white." But I know what white looks like. That's the color of the clothes we wear when we all go swimming together. That's fun, but scary, because dad puts your head under water and it feels icky in my nose. So why are we white? We don't have skin like those clothes, just like that man didn't have black skin. Like I said, it was more like a candy bar.

I never saw a man like that again. Until tonight. Mother was taking a trip somewhere, and Ben was in charge. We played Fort for a long time, but then he went outside to talk with Sarah. She was crying, but that's been happening a lot lately. She's a great big sister, so I hope it's OK. I don't like it when Mom cries, either. When Ben went outside, Raymond turned on the TV, even though I told him it wasn't allowed. We can't watch it too late because Heavenly Father likes us to not think about the bad things that come on. Well, Raymond didn't listen--as usual--and we saw this:

There were so many of them. Everyone looked like that tall man from Dad's work. What was going on? Is it normal for so many black men to play basketball? Where do they all live? Why was everyone so excited?It's just a game, right? What's BOS? I want to ask Dad about this, but then he'll know that Raymond turned on the TV.

Also, I don't like the man in the suit and tie. He looks scary. He was yelling and making mean faces. I am glad I don't see him every day. If he ever becomes the mailman here, I want to move. Or maybe we'll make Raymond get the mail.

Carlo's Gonna Owe Me

Get this: I'm out with T's nephew, right? We're going over to pay a visit to Pete Fagole, this chiacchierone of a jamook. Can't keep his fuckin' trap shut. All day he's talking--about who's got what jobs, who knows who, who's getting what table where. Worse, he's always making jokes about Italians and Catholics, like he isn't one. One time, I saw him outside of Patsy's. I was walking out with a calzone. This fuckin' guy, he's standing there with some girl I once saw with the deacon. So naturally, I stop to pay my respect to the young lady and ask that she give my best to Deacon Forza. I gave $65 to that retardation shit the church ran last fall, and I never heard one word of thanks. I deserve the credit! Anyway, Fagole, he says to me, "Paulie, you think it's the fuckin' Virgin Mary over here? She can't save you. Italians and the niceties about the church." Can you believe it? It's embarrassing, and a disgrace that I can't stand for. He should know better. Say what you will about my ma, but she raised me to respect certain things, to have a sense of decency. If I don't stand up for the church, who will?

Where was I? Oh right. So me and Chrissy, we're going to see this guy, and we stop at the gas station. I ask Chrissy if he wants anything from inside, but he says no. I told him that I was going in, and that he'd better have his shoes on when I get back. Last time, he took his shoes off in the car, and the smell seeped into the leather. I had to pay $300 to have it cleaned, and it didn't even really work! I come back out with a Vitamin water. I like them because it has natural minerals, and those are important. Especially for someone like me. I do OK staying in shape, and I could take out most of these young guys that Chrissy has in his crew, but still, you can never be too careful. I'm always telling T that--at our age, it's important to be careful. And that's why it's good to have some minerals and shit. So I come out with this water and Christopher asks for a sip. I let him have a taste ("taste," get it? See what I did there?) and before I know it, that jerkoff drinks the whole fuckin' thing. Gone. And it's not the money--though he owes me. It's the principle. Who drinks a whole drink after he says he doesn't want anything from inside? Madonn, it's rude. But what would you expect from T's nephew? That fuckin' kid.

So we show up, we visit with that mortadell, and it's time to leave. I tell Chrissy we should stop and have a drink--and he's buying! Ha ha. So we stop at some bar. He buys me a drink. We're sitting there, talking. I look up, and Houston is playing Portland. It's a fucking terrible game. Who's surprised, though? I'd bet Carlo $50 that Houston would win because everyone knows that the Rockets have Yao Ming. Have you seen that guy? He's the tallest chinaman I've ever seen. I point it out to Chrissy, but he didn't get it. I said, "Look at that guy," but Chrissy was confused. He said, "Yeah, it's Yao Ming. Some fucking Chinese guy. What, you want me to buy some knock off Bruce Lee shit? Stop hassling me, Paulie." Can you believe it? This idiot. He didn't get it. So I said, "Madonn', that's a lot of fucking lo mein!" Ohhhh! Hahahahahahaha.

It was a bad game, like I said. Portland didn't play defense. The other reason I bet on Houston--they're tougher. You could see it. Not only do they have that tall stack of dumplings, but they got that guy Artest. I heard he started a riot in Detroit, and if you can survive that, you can probably handle a little rain in Oregon. Although, I once forgot my umbrella and had to drive T around in a monsoon, and my socks were wet. It was awful. Plus, that guy Scola, he's from Argentina, I heard. That's where the fuckin' Nazis went after World War II. You don't wanna mess with a Nazi. It was pretty obvious that the Trail Blazers knew better. Houston got every rebound, it got so many loose balls. It was like Portland thought it just had to show up as opposed to playing. Whatever it is, Carlo's gonna owe me $50 unless Portland figures out a way to take a punch. Which reminds me, I don't even really like basketball. I am into boxing. The Blazers needed Marciano. He could fight a Nazi, no problem.