Tags: groveling, Perk Is a Beast
These are dark days in the Beast’s dojo. Not quite this dark, but dark all the same.
Thus, in an effort to jolt themselves from the somber doldrums of a lost second-round playoff series to the dreadful and unworthy Orlando Magic, the Beast Lair has generously offered up a free T-shirt to anyone who, well…it’s not entirely clear. In their own words:
“Just give us a reason, any reason…a photoslop, a virtue of the beast, some fantastic statistical anomaly, whatever…and the one we like the best is getting a Beastly T of their choice.”
As of yet, the post has received zero comments, which may be because the site’s commenting feature is too depressed to get out of bed. Every time I try to comment, it says I have to log in or something. But I don’t have a Perk Is A Beast password, as far as I know. So instead, I will plead my case for a free Beastly T right here in my own space.
Dear Beast Lair:
I deserve a free Perk Is A Beast T-shirt because I purchased a size L shirt that was big enough for me, Ashlee, Nola Jane, and Lucy to live in. Since it was ordered through Cafe Press, I didn’t think I could exchange it.
So then I bought a size M shirt. But for that transaction, I was in more of a ringer T mood. Those must be sized differently, because the medium ringer T turned out to be too small. It’s tough to see in the above photo, but those biceps are about to tear the sleeves right the fuck apart. So even though I’ve paid for two Perk Is A Beast shirts, I only have one, and it can only be worn to Europe or when dry-humping coked out bitches at the club.
I also bought a onesie for Nola Jane. It’s a little big, but she’ll grow into it. I tell you this, however, because with those three purchases, by my math, I have invested nearly $75 in the Perk Is A Beast Empire. Of course, all of this waste could have been prevented if I hadn’t gotten small and gone into big-spender mode when I visited your site. But that damage has been done. The only way to rectify matters now is to give me a free T-shirt. Thank you.
Lucy the Dog
Tags: Bea Arthur, Celtics, Kevin Garnett, Mitt Romney, Perk Is a Beast
Dear Kevin Garnett:
I may have a slight man crush on you.
I remember your first SI cover, in 1995, right before you were drafted out of Farragut High. The headline said, “Ready or Not.” I didn’t even have to Google that, its memory is so clear. It hung for a while on my wall.
A decade later, I remember eating a heavenly Peacemaker Po-Boy at the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans in 2004, watching the bar’s TV as you imposed your freakish will in the Western Conference playoffs.
By the time you were traded to Boston, I’d lost all interest in the NBA. But that transaction piqued my curiosity.
Hmmmmmm, I thought. With Paul Pierce and that Beast that I’ve heard so much about, the Celts are suddenly mad talented and funky as all fuck. (And that was before I’d even become acquainted with Rajon Rondo, who’s funkier than my pits at a James Brown concert.)
I nearly pulled a hammy hopping on the Green bandwagon, in large part because of you. I became a basketball fan again, in large part because of you.
I love when you talk to the basket support before the game. I almost cried when you gave your post-championship interview while shedding tears and dropping F-bombs of joy. I get the douche chills watching your Adidas Brotherhood commercial.
A more recent SI pic of you sits in my desk drawer today, along with clippings of Bruce and Bob and Fats and a bunch of pix that I plan to hang in my cube if I ever get around to it. You’re crouched on all fours on the parquet, poised to D-up like a rabid animal. It’s awesome.
I missed watching you this season. But if it’s any consolation, I’ve really been floored by your dope threads on the bench. In another life, I hope to be an enormous, rich, bald black dude who can dunk. Any kind of dunk would be fine. Just once.
In the event of such a reincarnation, I will surely buy diamonds the size of medicine balls and hang them from my ears, just like you. That shit is just too fucking badass. And those sweater vests? Damn, KG. Can I call you KG? You’ve got class to spare.
Which is why I’ve been so troubled by your recent behavior. I realize you’re losing your mind as you watch these games, with your gimpy knee keeping you sidelined. Life is not always fair.
But you’ve been talking a lot of shit to those Bulls. And unfortunately, you can’t do much right now to back it up.
Now hear me out. My admiration for you is clear. And I’m no fan of these Bulls. If I see Joaquin Noah outside the Seaport Hotel, I’ll kick him right in the shins. And that Salmons character? He irritates me. As does Vinnie Del Negro’s dad, who sources tell me does NOT support the troops.
But with that being said, it seems beneath you to carry on like this. I’m all for the unhinged expletives, the fist-pumping, the chest-bumping, the tailored suits, and the manic energy that you bring to the court, even when you’re not playing.
But couldn’t you do that without making those crazy looks toward the Bulls, like you’re going to beat their asses down. Because sadly, circumstances prohibit you from beating their asses down.
When you direct your rage toward their bench, it has the appearance of the drunk wannabe brawler, who screams “Lemme-at-him, lemme-at-him” knowing damn well that his friends won’t allow him anywhere near the lunkhead across the bar, who’s primed to tear him to pieces.
This is an imperfect analogy, of course. If they did allow you on the floor tonight, you’d surely send Noah fleeing like a child – jockstrap dripping with filthy Joaquin Noah urine – to the teat of Daddy Yannick’s sloppy seconds. It would not be pretty.
But that reality makes your present antics all the more perplexing. To quote Mitt Romney, former Massachusetts governor and a proud Gooseface recipient, “it’s unbecoming.”
Throughout your career, you’ve not only proven yourself as an otherworldly athlete, but you’ve conducted yourself with grace and dignity. So all that I’m saying is this shit seems beneath you. You can keep the boys geared up through your playoff run – and perhaps join them in June in LA? – while keeping your cool, can’t you?
We are nothing if not classy here at Lucy the Blog, and that is why we’re such big fans of yours, Mr. Garnett. We appreciate your understanding.
Lucy the Dog
ED. NOTE: After the jump is that painting of Bea Arthur’s boobs that I promised on Tuesday! You know you want it!
Tags: Boston Marathon, Guns for Ganja, Lucy the Blog Relaunch, Red Sox
Today is Marathon Day here in greater Boston.
This means that the EZ Ride Shuttle does not operate. And that means that I had to take the subway to work.
Which means that I saw lots and lots of bloated Red Sox fans drinking Dunkin’ Donuts ice coffee en route to getting tanked at the Caskon Flagon, or whatever it’s called, prior to the first pitch at 11:05 AM.
Why are they so bloated, these Red Sox fans? We know they are retarded, but the same can be said of most sports fans, including those of our dear New York Yankees. But Red Sox Nation is without question the most fattiest of all nations. Imagine what those Fenway bathrooms will look like by today’s final out, following hours of iced coffee and beer. Absolutely vile. And certainly, a handful of these neandrethals will be riding my train home this evening, nice and boozy.
(On a semi-related sidenote, I was taking a leak at North Station last weekend, and a drunk guy in the stall was LOUDLY singing Joni Mitchell’s “You Turn Me On (I’m a Radio)” during an equally loud bowel movement. A true mash-up if ever there was one.)
Elsewhere in town, people are running very long distances. This is something I would like to do myself some day, though not really. Instead, I would settle for someday being the type of person who wants to run a marathon some day. But even that is unlikely. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, after all.
Finally, happy 4/20 to all you potheads out there. You really need to give that shit up though. Seriously, grow up. It’s kinda pathetic.
To help you toward that end, while honoring Patriot’s Day and the soft relaunch of Lucy the Blog, today we announce a public safety initiative designed to sweep soft-core drugs off the street. We’re calling it “Ganja for Guns.”
All you need to do is drop off any amount of unused marijuana at Lucy the Dog’s home, and she will personally issue you a brand new firearm. That’s it; no questions asked.
So let’s get those drugs out of our neighborhoods, people, and into the secure paws of Lucy the Dog. Immediately. Post haste. Please. For the kids.
Tags: 2008 Summer Olympics, Holy Fuck
9:14 PM: Holy fuck.
Tags: Pau Is A Puke, Perk Is a Beast, Tim Russert
We interrupt this hiatus to pour a cold one for Tim Russert.
The heart breaks on so many levels. But I’m buoyed by the thought of him joining my grandfather in the great unknown. Pop-Pop watched Russert every Sunday and taught me to do the same.
I’m prepared to bawl my eyes out tomorrow morning. I almost lost it on the EZ Ride to North Station yesterday, which definitely would’ve been awkward. Tomorrow, we let it all flow.
Then it’s time to get smaller than Eddie House’s son. Funkier than Rondo’s grill.
So Lucy the Dog offers a premature and hearty congratulations to Perk, Boo Licious, Carl Spackler, the Crack Staff, and the rest of gangrene. You made us like the NBA again.
Tags: Celtics, Hawks, information about your mother, Perk Is a Beast
Because the Beast Master is presently confined to his courtside luxury suite, please allow Lucy the Dog to offer her uninformed analysis of Number 43’s performance after 12 minutes of basketball.
Perk is totally a beast.
Tags: Boston Dirt Dogs, Change for change's sake, More StubHub ads please
I don’t know if it was forced upon them. But the once-independent and now Boston Globe-owned Boston Dirt Dogs website just got fuglier than Kevin Youkilis’ taint.
Message to Dirt Dogs: There is no shame in failure. You tried. But your shit looks terrible. Please return to the old design.
Tags: $3 Trillion Shopping Spree, Dumbass war
But then I decided not to because it seems futile. I have nothing to say. Even a doped-up grad student who spent most of his time on campus gazing lovingly at the exposed thong-tops of freshmen coeds could’ve predicted this clusterfuck. If you think the war has benefited or will benefit America in any way, shape, or form, then you are a retard. Leave this blog now.
However, while performing a Google image search for Arianna Huffington (SafeSearch set emphatically to OFF), I stumbled upon The $3 Trillion Shopping Spree, a nifty site recently linked to by The Huffington Post, which Lucy the Dog sometimes contributes to under the pen name of “Deepak Chopra”.
The shopping spree gives you a chance to fritter away $3 trill and damn near two hours, filling a shopping cart with the money our president invested in “occupying Iraq and killing over a million people.”
You’d be surprised how far $3 trillion goes. I could only spend $2,239,298,606,460.96 before I ran out of steam. I mean, I could’ve thrown in some debt relief for Liberia or treatment for malaria, but fuck that. I’m not one to spend just because the money’s there. The remainder will do just fine in my ING Orange savings account, thank you kindly.
So here’s the list of what I bought. I encourage you to make your own list and then feel totally annoyed by this colossal waste of dough over the last five years.
B-2 Bomber – 1 purchased for $2,200,000,000
Just because I oppose the Iraq War doesn’t mean I’m some yellow peacenick. Far from it.
With this B-2 bomber, I intend to make Lowell a leading power here in the Merrimack Valley. We will not rule with recklessness. But as Thomas Jefferson wrote in the Declaration of Independence, we will hold the rest of the Valley “as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.”
So be on notice, Merrimack Valley. Lucy the Dog has a B-2 bomber, and she will bomb the shit out of you. Continue Reading Keep the Change…
Tags: Bob Lobel, Lloyd Lindsay Young, slow death of journalism and America
Fifteen years later, I returned to the Commonwealth and was shocked to power up the television machine and find Bob Lobel right where I’d left him.
I have no idea why the memory of Lobel stuck with me for all those years. But before the ESPN-ification of sports media, Bob was The Man here in Boston. Or at least he was in my feeble, developing mind.
When I came back, it was comforting to find a familiar face in a landscape that I scarcely remembered.
In 2005, Lobel told Boston Magazine:
“They call it ‘sunsetting’ in this industry: They ‘sunset’ their talent. I don’t know how they’re going to sunset Lobel. But I hope we all know ahead of time, because there really aren’t that many happy endings in this business.”
As it turns out, they were going to sunset Bob in April 2008. On Monday, WBZ announced it will cut 10 percent of its workforce including Lobel, ending the longest tenure for a sports anchor in the Boston market. (Lobel started at WBZ in 1979.)
To borrow a phrase from Hillary Clinton’s borrowed phrase from John Edwards, Bob will probably be fine. But his departure marks a sad loss. Even though I barely watch the guy anymore, it’s reassuring to know such connections to youth and ‘the good ol’ days’ still exist. With all due respect to whoever will replace him, it’s like watching Ruby Tuesdays replace your local bar.
But all things must come to an end. And surely Perk is a Beast will soon remind me of why Lobel is a turd-sucking douche who should burn in a flaming bag of dicks with Peter May, Bob Ryan, Dwight Howard, and John Mayer.
Until then, please enjoy this clip of another voice from my childhood, the brilliant Lloyd Lindsay Young. I couldn’t find any interesting Lobel clips.
Tags: Chris Webber, Earth Hour, Egg McMuffin, Fab Five, stool softener
This will be a stretch. But on a snowy Do What You Feel Friday, Lucy the Dog would like to draw your attention to three not-quite-related-but-we’ll-try items: Chris Webber, Herb Patterson, and your light switch.
Firstly, we wish a Happy Retirement to Chris Webber, who turned the lights out on his basketball career this week.
Like any good suburban whiteboy, Lucy the Dog idolized Michael Jordan as a young pup. It was MJ that inspired me to beg Mom and Dad for an adjustable hoop.
Little did I know that you can’t recreate The Lean or a foul line dunk without Jordan’s hangtime – even on an 8 1/2-foot rim in $120 sneakers. However, you can hang on that rim and throw your legs around in a violent rage like Chris Webber. And I did. During Webber’s two years at Michigan, I rode the Fab Five bandwagon hard. The shorts, the sneakers, the attidude, the joy, the failures. I ate that shit up.
Though I was more of a Jalen Rose guy, this shot of C-Webb hanging above a bewildered Lawrence Funderburke is one of my favorite photos of all time. It hung on my bedroom wall for years, inspiring me to think that if I could experience just one pure, top-of-the-world, badass moment like that in my life, I would die happy. (It violates the Lucy the Blog style specs to run a picture this large, but I can’t bring myself to shrink it down.)
He will never be mentioned with the all-time greats, but as J.D. Adande wrote beautifully on ESPN.com, “To watch Webber’s failures was endlessly more fascinating than to see most people’s successes.” Another piece tangentially related to Webber recently appeared in Sports Illustrated, exploring our fascination with slam dunks. Writer Chris Ballard notes that just as some of us will never stop gawking at boobs, we’ll never outgrow our obsession with dunks. “It’s part instinct, part the lure of the unattainable and part the hope that we’ll see something spectacular.”
So while Webber’s retirement saddened me as yet another sign that I’m getting old, it made me feel like a kid again to waste 20 minutes YouTubing through his dunks and finding that picture in the SI Vault. Thanks, Chris.
Which brings us, naturally, to the Egg McMuffin. Because also this week, it was lights out for McMuffin creator Herb Peterson, who on Tuesday set out for those golden arches in the sky. As we say in the newspaper business: He was 89.