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: Dwight Howard, giraffe fight, Perk Is a Beast
Lucy the Dog has been mad busy lately, but watch these two giraffes beast shit out to get your ass ubuntued up for Game 6 tonight. Dwight’s a bitch.
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: 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: Charles Nelson Reilly, Dan Kennedy, Evil Tribune, Lowell Sun, Pax Arcana, Perk Is a Beast
It’s no secret that the newspaper industry is kinda fucked. There are more professional, dignified ways to state that. And many have, or do on a regular basis.
I’m told that HBO’s “The Wire” has devoted its final season to the newspaper’s demise. But I wouldn’t know, because less than three years of working at a newspaper left me so poor that I still can’t afford anything beyond the most basic of basic cable packages.
The rise of the Internets and technology is most often sited as the force behind declining circulation, ad revenue, and newsroom staffs. Corporate boobs atop the masthead lacked the minimal foresight it would’ve taken to see this train roaring down the tracks. But after years of resistance, they’re finally loosening the vice grip on their piggybanks, and they’ve started to acknowledge that they might have to adjust their thinking. Or at least start thinking.
As reported by Lucy the Dog man-crush Dan Kennedy, The Evil-Tribune recently announced it will make all of its content available for free on its website, a move that even dumb old Lucy the Dog claimed was a dire necessity before the blond cabal of Tribunazis kicked my sorry ass to the curb.
Publishers are also investing more in their technolomogical capabilities. Yesterday, Kennedy posted a nifty story about Catherine Keefe O’Hare, an editor at the Danvers Herald. Kennedy writes:“It wasn’t long ago that a local reporter could head out on an assignment with nothing more than a notebook and a pen. Maybe a camera, but only if there were no photographers available. But those days are rapidly drawing to a close.”
Now reporters and editors like O’Hare get a video camera and editing equipment. So not only do they have to file that story by deadline, they also have to shoot a short film, edit it, and post it on the website, an increase in workload that is surely reflected in their paychecks. Or not.
Because it’s also no secret that no one gets into this truly noble profession to get rich. Or even to break even. Being a newspaper reporter is a great life if your spouse is a doctor or lawyer. If you don’t care about little things like spending quality time with your family. If you aspire to grow man-jugs because you only have time and funds for hasty lunch runs through the Burger King drive thru. But it’s not the racket you jump into if you’d like a comfortable life.
Bloggasm reports that 25% of 770 newspaper journalists polled said they intend to leave newspaper journalism, and 36% said they’re uncertain if they’ll stay. Among respondents under the age of 34, those numbers rise to 31% and 43%.
According to the study’s author:“Those intending to leave indicate that they will freelance, enter public relations, move into academia or return to school…”
In my opinion, this brain drain from newsrooms is as dangerous a threat as anything to newspapers’ survival. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by humiliating wages and 60-hour workweeks. We were all replaced by equally gifted journalists with ideals and hopes that will also, in time, be squashed. The cycle of burnout and turnover will continue, resulting in a sad decay of institutional knowledge. Reporters who’ve been around for years and know their community inside and out will become increasingly rare. And despite revamped websites, complementary videos, and discussion boards, the quality of coverage in your community will suffer. But this is not why I’m writing today.
Lucy the Dog does not have the answers to save the newspaper industry. However, we do have one bit of advice to save the Lowell Sun. It is profound. It is radical. It is so far outside the box that it’s almost back inside the box. It will blow your mind. And it appears after the jump.
(No, it’s not weekly inserts of posters featuring sexiest son of a bitch of all-time Charles Nelson Reilly, though that wouldn’t be a bad start.) Continue Reading EXTRA, EXTRA! Lowell Sun Gets the Gooseface…