3/17/2006

NCAA TOURNEY, NOW WITH HALF THE UGLY

Since Jeff Ruland and Iona got bounced last night, that only leaves Gonzaga's Adam Morrison in terms of brutally homely indivduals left in the tournament. (Disclosure: I've only watched about an hour of college hoops since 1997. Some of the guys on UW-Milwaukee look 44 years old.)

Anyway, I admire Morrison's moxie. Slamming the ball off of his own skull when he is fired up. Getting a huge rebound last night. I have no problem with the guy. Though that recent story about texting Duke's JJ Redick about who scored the most on a particular night is Dungeons and Dragons-style lame. It's like hearing about Troy Aikman and Sandra Bullock's (fake) relationship where they faxed each other love notes, back in around 1994. What Redick and Morrison should do is just fax each other neat drawings of alternate road jerseys they came up with. Like "here's one with wings coming off the back of it...this one has a slice of pizza stitched on to it. I like olives."

What I don't admire is (a) Morrison's hairdo. I know what he is trying to do with it, but the result unfortunately says: "My name is Dawn, I live in Bakersfield. It is 1983. The janitor makes me sleep under the boiler with him, and then he compensates my parents who are busy selling speed to my older brother's friends. And (b) the 'stache. It says: "I am the janitor." This is what we call a schizophrenic look. Maybe Wonderland, Part 2 is coming out and he plays John Holmes's long lost kid, then I am wrong.

Unlike most of the guy's critics, I don't need Morrison's mustache to be Tom Selleck/Freddie Mercury thick. I need it to be gone. Unless he plans on winning the whole fucking tournament, then killing the arena lights, and returning for his trophy under one white-hot spotlight in a silver satin jumpsuit, surfing on the hood of a smoking Camaro with a baggie full of ditchweed pilfered from the Dokken tour bus. Then by all means, live it up.

Ruland on the other hand, is just plain obese. Or maybe not. He looks like a guy who (against better judgment) occasionally throws a wind sprint or two into the equation. He's like a blood-bloated tick, but his fat has not yet curdled underneath his skin. It is fresh fat. It is fat that occasionally gets introduced to Vitamin C or a treadmill. Some sort of intervention that lasts around 19 minutes before he says fuck it. (I sense that he likes to go thru drills with his players, throwing elbows in the lane.) And when his head, which is roughly the size of Utah, gets paired off with those Jimmy Cagney, gangster-in-1937 suits he wears, it is a huge nightmare. Just stay in sweats, dude.

If I were making a sandwich for Ruland, it would be:

One long loaf of bread.
Split in the middle.
Soak both halves in bock beer for two months.
Fill soggy bread with chives, pickles, assorted caramels, and chocolates.
In between bread, place:
1 lb of gyro meat
1 lb of turkey breast.
1 lb of habanero peppers (this is why he is so angry)
3 lbs mayo
Two all beef patties
Two vegan burgers
1 lb radishes
1 lb corned beef
1/4 lb mustard
1 lb mozzarella.
12 dozen egg whites.
salt and pepper
two strawberries
1/4 ketchup
one can of peanuts
one pound of boiled peanuts
one pizza, folded in half
19 oysters
41 slices of kraft singles
one red onion
1 lb kippered beef jerky.
44 shrimp.
hollandaise sauce
diced garlic
two pig's knuckes
one lb ham

Deep fry and serve with a pitcher of Michelob Light.







REL: Sports Mustaches

No comments: