Your 2009 Sun Ming Ming All Stars!

Please allow me to indulge in some self-satisfying cultural writing here.

Recently I read this article in the NY Times article about the state of basketball in China. If you don't feel like reading, basically the article discusses the imprint the NBA basketball has left in China, and thus how it directly affects the likes of the CBA, China's own bastard league of Sun Ming Ming lab experiments.

Unfortunately for the CBA, things have taken a turn for the worst, and the league has assumed a Tim Donaghy nature of sorts, with several of their games reportedly being fixed. To the ears of Sir Charles and the 5th teenage mutant ninja turtle formerly known as Antoine Walker, that's easy $$ towards redemption. For the average AzN bball fanatic, this completely ruins and hinders the development of China basketball into a reckoning force among the international sports community.


Some things that brought Chinkball to the forefront in the first place:

1). in 2002, our friendly 7'6" giant Yao stepped foot (not broken yet) into the NBA hardwood with the high hopes of 1.3 billion people resting on his Atlas shoulders. The Great Wall of Yao made an immediate impact, reclaiming the torch of Nigeria left by the departure of Olajuwon before him. What he lacked in mobility, he made up with shear lanky size, a soft hook/10 ft. jumper, not to mention an uncanny ability to hit from the stripe (.832 FT % lifetime). Paired with a dynamo Stevie Franchise and sidekick Cuttino Mobley, it looked like the Rockets would regain some of their mid 90's swagger that was loss amidst the Jordan, Little Flying Warrior, and Stone Buddha dominance of that age. Within the larger lens, Yao was the bridge that spanned the gap between East and West, ultimately bringing soy sauce and sirloin steak to harmonious matrimony. Now slanted eyes everywhere across the world had a reason to focus on the NBA, a favorite team to root for, and an increasingly amount of media outlets to watch their iconic hero. His raw, soft-body post moves would soon morph into the 20/10 consistency that we have come to expect today.

2). We're talking about a nation that is obsessed with basketball. While David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo have the international passport to get their di-acks sucked anywhere, and futbol americana, wardrobe malfunctions, and Tony Siragusa captivate our hearts at home, basketball trumps all in the Land of Lo Mein. Wherever there are courts, you can be sure to find players coming out in droves. Young people, old people, students, laborers, poindexters, and the wanna-be Triads; all earn their cred on the court. And don't think that Davie Stern hasn't noticed. With an estimated 300 million Chinese playing basketball, (equal to the entire US), and NBA revenue jumping 30-40% from the China market each year, you'd have to be a Isaiah Thomas, dumb Hahvahd beetches to not pounce on that shit.

3). The Olympics really blew the scene wide open. The country's publicity jumped magnitudes from Michael Richards (NSFW) to Michael Chiklis stardom China was inviting not just basketball, but the entire assemblage of sports nations into its humble fengshui homes. With their eternal emblem carrying the Olympic Torch in the opening ceremony, you could feel the pride emanating from the crowds. He inspired an entire fucking country! All 25,000 tickets for Men's Bball sold out in 11 hrs (that's standing in line). During the game against the Redeem Team, you could see Yao shake hands, exchange high fives with the likes of Superman and D-Wade, as if they were brahs from DU. It's like going abroad for a few years, coming home, and showcasing your new smoking hot supermodel girlfriend to meet your parents; it was legit proof for the masses that Yao was successful. For a population generally ridiculed for their athletic ineptitude and penile shortcomings, this was a victory to make the emperor smile.


The ugly truth....

1). The Chinese play like weak sauce. I'm talking typical bell pepper registering 0 Scoville Units weak sauce. The way they are taught to play ball (or the lack of teaching more so) has essentially mutilated the meaning of "physical contact." Playing with kids from Beijing University, I couldn't even brush a sweaty ass2ass against a dribbler without being called for a foul. You can see this weakness of play in early-Yao videos. Yi Jianlian is currently stunted by the same problem in his game. When Yao first entered the league, I was under the impression he was afraid to dunk. He would let pudgy guards speed by him with nary a hand check. As the years went by, Mount Mutombo taught him a finger wag or two. Enter the Dragon: now Yao dunks with more authority, and sizes up opponents with ease. However, as impressive as it is that he's improved his vocabulary to a 6th grade level, he still get's pwned by small shits every once in a while.

Potential impossible solution: Send guys there to train them! People always complain about NBA teams mailing it in after the point-of-no-return in the season. How bout if the team with the worst record in each conference get exiled to the CBA for one year, additionally scattering the players among Chinese teams? No longer will NBA teams decide to "tank" their season in hopes for a better lottery chance. Meanwhile, the exiled players will be forced to educate the primitive Chinese players, diffusing a certain knowledge of court physicality. And even though I devour the stuff, no one wants to live on the dumplings, General Tso's, and the avian flu diet for a year.

2). With every developing nation, there comes some level of corruption and greed from those that think they prevail through dishonesty. The CBA is a microcosm of that, a functioning league, yet a fledgling at the core. Refs fix the games to appease the bettors. Players don't get paid. And to top it off, lifetime pinewarmers from the US looking to swindle Grandpapa Johnny Hsu arrive only to eviscerate the competition, disregarding the Commie-team play mindset. Bonsai Tree Wells, ironically a former Rocket himself, played in China and scored a Kobe-crushing 40+ pts. in most games. Dontae Jones, a blip on the radar screen in Celticlore, now leads the CBA in scoring. Instead of bearing the fruits of wisdom, they're hoarding all the fucking bananas. These outcasts know the Andrew Jackson's are good there, too. If BronBron knew any better, he would carve out part of his Fortune 500 empire over there, where he can buy a small rice paddy province with geisha honeys to rub his feet when he's a sourpuss.

3). Flash forward to 09: 1 infected big toe, 1 broken right leg, 3 x broken left foot later, and we have ourselves a very, very hobbled center. Even walls eventually crumble under their own weight. Along with a decrepit T-mac, and Startest jumping ship for greener pastures, things are shaping up to be pretty shitty in Houston. With Yao sidelined for the next season, does the mantle of Asian emissary pass to Chariman Yi? Or perhaps Sun Yue, a guard currently mired on the Lakers bench (but has a ring!) behind, oh Derek Fisher, Sasha Vujacic, Jordan Farmar.....what becomes of the love/hate USA and China relationship?

While they claim players like Bonzi and Dontae are cancers, perhaps the answer lies not in letting the CBA run rampant under their own autonomy, but rather in integrating the NBA even further, to at least teach BEEF mechanics and introduce MUSCLE MILK. Here's to Olympics and Obama in 2012!

Over/Under, Volume V

It's Monday, July 27th, 2009, a dark and stormy night somewhere in New England. Outside The Ugly Duckling orphanage, lightning splits the sky, and a cold wind whips through an old apple orchard. Inside, two frail boys are huddled around a computer screen, clutching each other for warmth. Suddenly, the old grandfather clock strikes twelve ominous times.

Little Orphan Billy: What... what's going on, Timmy?

Little Orphan Timmy: I don't know--I--where is it?

(Little Orphan Timmy begins to cry)

Little Orphan Billy: Quiet, Timmy! You'll wake the mistress!

Little Orphan Timmy: Just... (sniff)... just click refresh--maybe there's an update.

(Little Orphan Billy refreshes the screen, and as the old dial-up modem churns away, they cling to each other, sending Little Orphan prayers up into the ether)

Little Orphan Timmy: Something's coming on the screen! Read it, Billy!

Little Orphan Billy: "We interrupt your regularly scheduled--"... No!!! It's not here!

(Little Orphan Timmy cries inconsolably)

Little Orphan Billy: But it's Monday! Where--where are the Over/Unders? What's become of Mr. Naked Warrior?

Little Orphan Timmy: I'm scared, Billy.

Little Orphan Billy: Me too, Timmy.

(Crashing footsteps on the stairs)

Both little orphans: Nooooo, the mistress!!!!

(End scene)  

This edition of Over/Under is dedicated to all the Little Orphans who were beaten for staying up late on Monday waiting for me to post. May you find loving parents in heaven.

But now, alas, the show must go on:

• 0.5 - number of 100-steal seasons there will be in future seasons of Major League Baseball. This question goes out to Rickey Henderson, the greatest thief in baseball history, the best leadoff man to ever play the game, and the newest member of the Hall of Fame. Of all the unbreakable records in sports, Henderson's 1,406 career stolen bases has got to be in the top three. Only nine other players have stolen half as many bases as Rickey, and Lou Brock, his closest competitor, trails him by 468 swipes--or almost exactly half of Brock's total. Those 468 alone would be enough put Rickey in a tie for 41st all-time. It seems completely improbable that Rickey's career mark will be matched, so let's ask another question: will anyone ever touch triple-digits again? Henderson did it three times between 1980 and 1983, but since Vince Coleman bagged 109 thefts in 1987 (his third straight season over the century mark), no one has repeated the feat. Only Rickey himself has even sniffed 100 since then, stealing 93 the following year, but in the past twenty seasons, no player has managed even 80 steals. A month ago, it looked as if Carl Crawford had a shot (21 steals in May alone), but he's slowed down considerably and is now on pace for only 78. The game tends to fluctuate, and while the steal might sneak back in vogue, the current climate suggests 100-swipe men might be a thing of the past. OVER/UNDER?

• 3 - number of Jorts Guys it takes to win a party. Because no man is an island and no jorts stand alone. Because jorts derive power in numbers. Because every Jorts Guy deserves a Jorts Girl. Because while some may say that jorts are frivolous and decadent, the wasteful relic of an era in which yards of otherwise useful denim pant were discarded to create a single pair of jorts, others refuse to let jorts vanish from the earth. Kudos, Jorts Guys, and godspeed. OVER/UNDER?

• 4.5 - number of adulterous U.S. Presidents. Including Barack Obama, there have been 43 different Presidents, so that's the size of our pool.  For now, let's restrict this discussion to transgressions while in office only. Two--Bill Clinton and John F. Kennedy--are gimmes. After that, though, it gets interesting. A number of Presidents can be ruled out immediately because they didn't (or haven't yet) spent enough time in office: Obama, William Henry Harrison, James Garfield, and Zachary Taylor. Another one, James Buchanan, was a bachelor and by definition is exempt from this discussion. William Howard Taft was probably too fat to commit adultery. So, by my count, that leaves 2 in the YES column, 6 in the NO column, and 35 up for debate. My most likely candidate: Thomas Jefferson, because we know for a fact that homey loved the mocha lattes. OVER/UNDER?

• 10 - number of pounds I gain during the next calendar year. Exhibit A: I don't play a team sport anymore with regularity. Exhibit B: I'm on the verge of unemployment, which correlates to buying low-cost, high-calorie foods, like these staples of poverty. Ramen for breakfast, hot dogs for lunch, and a three-course McFeast for dinner? How long before I start looking like this and have to change my blogger handle to Fat Naked Warrior? Exhibit A for the defense: If I don't have enough money, I just won't eat. Exhibit B for the defense: No dining hall = no two-hour buffet binges. What's the tale of the waist? OVER/UNDER?

• 15.5 - minimum length of time, in weeks, someone must wait before hooking up with a friend's ex. Keeping this strictly confidential, I have a friend from back home who broke up with his girlfriend not-so-long ago. About six weeks later, a mutual friend of ours hooked it with my boy's ex-girlfriend. Now, I know some people believe that a friend's ex is strictly off-limits for good, but this is the 21st century, and people gotta live their lives. I get it, shit happens, we're all horny, all that. But when is too soon? I was pretty surprised to hear about this, which is what got me thinking. What other variables are involved? Obviously, it depends on how close your friend is to you, and how well you the knew them when they were a couple. Is there anything else that comes into play? How do you justify this? Would this piss you off, if you were the friend with the ex, or am I making too big a deal out of this? OVER/UNDER?

Alright, bros, that's it for now. I'm over and out.

RIP TIMMY AND BILLY

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program....

The freaks will take a week off in observance of the Waldwood holiday. My prognostication for this weekend is a girl talk mashup of these three videos (Oh yeah, and PAIN):

Somebody Once Told me the World is Gonna Roll Me...

Ten years ago I received a call on the morning of July 13th. The voice on the end of the line was an excited baritone that proffered, "How would you feel about going to tonight's All-Star Game at Fenway?" Being a pre-pubescent fego, my voice triumphantly warbled back, "Awesome!" The night before I had bear witness to the Cerberus of McGwire, Sosa, and Griffey blasting bombs onto the Mass Pike and now I was going to see Jeff Bagwell and Pedro go head to head from the glass perch of the 600 club? I felt like one of those My Wish kids from Sports Center, sans congenital heart defect.

Flying High in the 600 Club

My Pops and I picked up the tickets at the Ritz and back-doored our way into the stadium buying a program along the way. We stepped into an elevator to begin our ascension into the sanctuary of Fenway when my dad starting nudging me. "Don't you want to ask him for his autograph?" I looked back glassy-eyed, "Who?" I raised my eyes to follow the path extending from my dad's index finger and met the thin face of a graying man. It was 1983 All-Star game MVP Freddy Lynn, one of the few guys to win ROY and MVP in the same year. He willingly Hancocked my program and ambled with us to our seats explaining how it was going to be hard for him not to get emotional during the Ted Williams entrance. Acting like I knew what he was talking about I kind of whispered to myself, "Teddy Ballgame."

"Get off the field it's Smash Mouth time!"

We arrived at our seats as Nomahhh was finishing his batting cage session and the stadium was going fucking nuts as the cheers seemed perfectly audible through the 3 inch plexiglass. The player introductions came as did the tears for a wheel chair bound Splendid Splinter. This moment was bigger than my historical perspective at the time, and I'll admit that I got more amped up when Smash Mouth started playing their signature song moments later. I was denied an autograph by an icy Tom Seaver, post Fox interview, and by the time Pedro grabbed the rosin bag I was antsy.

What happened next was the greatest display of precision, power, and charisma that I will ever see live. I remember watching Pedro's curveball from that elevated perspective and it changing direction 10 feet from the plate like a Golden Snitch. This 5'10" 170 pound jheri curler was mowing down these bulbous adonises, like they had done to Roger Maris' home run record the year before. Larkin, Walker, Sosa, McGwire all swung like a feeble Mahktar equipped with a whiffle ball bat. When Matt Williams reached on a booted ball in the second, there was a collective gasp from the crowd as though they imagined Pedro striking out 27 straight that night. Appropriately, on the very next play, he fanned one of my childhood heroes (Bagwell) with me cheering on, and Pudge gunned down Williams in a strike em out throw em out double play. This was NBA Street Vol. 2 '86 Jordan shit. Tecmo Bowl Bo physics. Everyone trapped in the fishbowl chanted in unison with the outside crowd, "Pedro! Pedro! Pedro!" The mid-summer classic was back!

But then it wasn't. The rest of the game trudged along replete with boring pitching (anybody remember Kent Bottenfield?) and anemic offense. Pedro's showmanship proved to be an exception to the rule that had become sports most doggedly unchanging showcase game. Although it may be another 30 years before Bud Selig dies at the age of 120, I want to make a formal request for restructuring the game so that generations after us don't wait their whole lives hoping to see something that approximates '99 Pedro (cause that ain't happening).

When broken down into its most empirical form, baseball is the most fun when we experience two things. 1.) Our favorite players and 2.) our favorite players succeeding while doing cool shit. Fortunately, it's usually the case that our favorite players are the most successful and the All-Star game should stand as the perfect medium for them to all compete together. Kinda like late 80's/early 90's SNL. So why is the All-Star break a Selig fail and what could make it better? Let's go Zapruder Film on this shit, starting with the home run derby.

Henh?!?

The Derby

Unlike the NBA's troika of fun that is the skills competition, dunk contest, and three point shootout, the Derby stands as baseball's only outlet of entertainment where nothing is at stake. As members of the CGI generation I think we NEED this competition to be as video game as possible. The closer the big dodes teeing off on pitchers are to transformers, the better. The problem is that as children we had no expectations for these decepticons, and any prodigious moonball sent us into a "Nintendo 64" like frenzy. Now that we've logged a few hundred hours of Ken Griffey Jr. Baseball and are cognizant enough to make sense of the numbers, getting guys who can "crush" is important. So why is it that MLB continues to put the Brandon Inges, Dan Ugglas, Joe Mauers, and Hee-Seop Chois (this isn't a joke) of the league in the Derby? Sure these guys can rake, but shouldn't at least one 30 homerun season be a pre-requisite to this competition? I understand that Fego-Rod and Mark Bitchxiera don't want to ruin their swings like big boppers of the past (See: Abreu, Bobby) so in recent years they've been given the chance to abstain. This choice is the same reason why the NBA dunk contest has devolved into the D League's ugly step sister. So I'm proposing a Fan's Suffrage for the Derby that only provides player exemptions for the injured or Ichiro. As stupid as the average baseball fan is, he is equal parts enamored by the allure of the homerun, so I think we'd see a thinning of lightweight fegos in the competition. The ballot would include all players in the league (even pitchers), not just those deemed "All-Star Worthy," giving pure sluggers like Adam Dunn, Carlos Zambrano and Pronk Hafner a chance at admission. If this falls short, what about a Mitchell Report Derby that pits clean guys vs. black-marked foes? Imagine bringing back ex players in a Pros vs. Joes format that teams up the likes of Canseco, Bonds, A-Rod, and Manny. We'd have to mic these guys up so we could hear Manny's diatribe to Bonds on how to pack the perfect bowl. Since ESPN currently censors the at-bats, there'd have to be a parallel showing of the derby on HBO. This could easily be the pilot episode for a reality TV show called "A Canseco Way of Life" that pits a team of former roiders against others athletes in their respective sports. Oh wait, Shaq is already doing this. If Bud can't handle the roid rage how about bringing in a pitching machine for 5 outs in the final round to relieve the Alzheimer's Arms that have hurt guys like Josh Hamilton and David Wright in the past. I can only imagine Berman's head exploding when Pujols goes yard, "He's a Cannibal! The Machine off of the MACHINE!" I also like the idea of introducing the aluminum bat as a lifeline for one out so we could see a Bryce Harper Space Jam shot. Fuck fan safety. How is this not more fun? In the event that all else fails let's just go Halloween on this muh'fucker. Allow the players to dress up with no exceptions. Now batting for the NL, Dr. Do Itch Big!

The Suns Gorilla never fails to get the fans going

The Game

The biggest beef most fans have with the All-Star game is that, like most baseball games, it drags on forever. Data analysis has been compiled in season long intervals on lengths of baseball games and it has been concluded that the distribution is in fact Gaussian with the average game running at almost exactly three hours long. After compiling my own data from the past 16 all-star games (I wanted to star with the McGriff game), I found the average game length to be 3 hours and 26 seconds. Take away the 5 hour long Dan Uggla Experiment of 2008 and the average plummets to 2:53. This proves there is no deviation from what we would normally expect from a baseball game in terms of time, and I have represented this information in the bubble chart below (size of bubble represents # of innings played) The question must be asked, "Then why can't anyone sit through one of these once heralded games?"


As the games moniker suggests, this event should showcase the most well-known premier talent of the league. This is simply impossible with the current socialistic approach where every team is represented. There were 30 fist time all-stars this year which is nearly half of the entire roster. Let's downsize the rosters to a more manageable 25 (actual roster size) and eliminate the undeserving guys. This won't price out small markets because it is still the managers and players who vote on the reserves. The "Tie of '02" really fucked things up because it catalyzed the new rule that gives the winner home field advantage in the World Series. Since the game "counts" managers can't justify cutting down rosters with the real possibility of having to play an 18 inning sludge fest. With a diluted talent pool and a shitty "game is real" vibe, there needs to be an injection of alternative thinking. First, let's cut the home field advantage aspect. Instead the losing team should make a new rule for the next All-Star game a la most college drinking games. Something like "All righties from the Dominican Republic must bat left-handed." Maybe we'd see guys parachuting into games or having pregame dizzy bat-offs. The whole league would be tweeting up their ideas during the year long gestation period. Harping back to the video game motif of the HR Derby, why not have the starters of the AS game be the two pitchers with the worst ERA in each league? Have them pitch a mandatory 3 innings just in case the game goes extras and watch this shit go Wii. The incentive for these bottom dwelling hurlers would be a psyche boost if they were able to tame the best bats of the opposing league.

At this point I really don't care what the league does, just stop doing nothing. I can't take another year of Carlos Pena opposite field shots in the derby and Zach Duke parading around with a video camera on the field. And for you Mr. Selig, some parting words from Fegonomics friend Tupac:

Over/Under, Volume IV

Well, another week has passed, meaning that the Earth has traveled 18,144,000 kilometers through space, your share of the National Debt has increased by $2, Scott Steiner has cheated death seven more times, and I've got a fresh batch of Over/Unders for all you starving guys and dolls. This volume's a doozy, but trust me, it's worth the read.

Get 'em while they hot...

• 7 - number of episodes of The T.O. Show that air before cancellation. We all knew that T.O. would find a way to stay in the spotlight despite playing in one of America's shittiest cities. What we didn't know was how. With his recent appearance on and subsequent elimination from ABC's Superstars--where he was outdone by such brilliant performers as the Doritos girl and Lightswitch Iglesias' older brother before being humiliated by his own teammate (maybe now he knows how Donovan McNabb feels)--we might have seen this coming. Recently, VH1 announced they were giving T.O. his own eponymous reality TV show, releasing this promotional picture specifically for the Makhtar demographic. In all honesty, reality TV might be a better medium for Owens' to express himself than football, given that reality TV and egomania--T.O.'s specialty--were made for each other. Owens doesn't need attention. He craves it to an extent that rivals physical dependence. For him, the prospect of playing in Buffalo must be similar to a crackhead quitting cold turkey, and The T.O. Show is a symptom of his withdrawal. In Maslow's hierarchy of needs, self-actualization rests at the top, and for Owens, self-actualization is contingent upon observation. Despite his enormous physical gifts (see: the promotional picture), Owens' insecurity is dwarfed only by his ego, and he expresses this insecurity through the need to be observed. Achievement isn't enough for him. He needs an audience to witness and revel in his feats or it's as if they didn't happen. If T.O. scores a touchdown, but nobody is around to see it, is it still worth six points? Remember in the movie Mystery Men how Kel's character, Invisible Boy, can only disappear when no one is looking? Owens, it seems, fears a similar fate--that when the cameras turn off and the fans go home, T.O. himself will disappear. This ill-fated reality show is just another attempt to stave off invisibility. Now, as for the show itself, its most obvious forebear is The Magic Hour, Magic Johnson's extremely brief and comically awful talk show. Magic was on the air for eight painful weeks, and his show is remembered as one of the worst of all-time. That's setting the bar pretty low, and The T.O. Show also has the advantage of being reality TV as opposed to a talk show, so Owens won't have to do anything live and will have the benefit of, I can only imagine, generous editing. Still, while making it through the first season seems a stretch, if Bret Michaels and Scott Baio can thrive on reality TV, literally anyone can. OVER/UNDER?   

• 56.5 - number of home runs by Albert Pujols this season. Albert the Great aka The Almighty Pujols is currently on pace for 59 dingers, and despite a sub-par showing in the Home Run Derby, has come blazing out of the gate in the second half. Homers, of course, are only part of Pujols' incredible game, and he was recently described by Bill James as possibly the perfect player. James is one of the most respected and innovative baseball analysts to ever crunch a number, so if he's making a claim like this, there's probably plenty of evidence. I won't bore you with the details, but if you're interested, mosey over to Pujols' page on Baseball-Reference and see for yourself. Coming off an an eight-year run that stacks up favorably with almost any in baseball history, Pujols is outdoing himself this season, leading the league in virtually every significant batting category outside of batting average, where he is third. His adjusted OPS (which reflects a player's contributions relative to the environment in which he performs, taking into account factors like ballpark and era) is currently the highest among non-juicers since Ted Williams and Mickey Mantle in 1957. When you add in the fact that he's a superb defender and a superior base-runner, it's easy to see where James is coming from. Barring a momentous upset, this will be Pujols' third MVP award, making him the only the third player ever to win three MVPs before the age of 30 (Stan "The Man" Musial and Barry "Backne" Bonds are the others). But can Pujols become the first clean player to touch 60 since Maris? OVER/UNDER?  

• 0.5 - number of articles posted on Fegonomics by Coach Coolbaugh in 2009. Like fellow coach and Fegonomics favorite Eric Taylor, Dean Coolbaugh hails from the Lone Star state, the steak-eatin'est, square-dancin'est, football-playin'est state in the upper forty-eight. Like Taylor, Coolbaugh came from humble means, paying his dues in high school ball before landing a dream job at his alma mater, Texas Tech. Taking over for reputed mad scientist Mike Leach, Coolbaugh made sweeping changes, eschewing the way Leach occasionally punted or refused to go for that extra TD to make it 48-3 with 0:12 remaining. The Red Raiders responded immediately to Coolbaugh's cutthroat attitude and folksy Texan sensibilities, and within a few seasons, Tech had registered a perfect season and claimed multiple National Titles. Coolbaugh, however, wasn't satisfied with his dominance, and eventually left his dream job for what many called a nightmare: the head coaching position at Northwestern. Insisting that this would be his greatest challenge and cement his legacy as college football's best coach, Coolbaugh took control of a Northwestern squad that hadn't won a bowl game since the Truman years, bringing along his longtime assistant and protege, Kenneth D. Hogensen. After a couple of lean years, people around college football began to question Coolbaugh's genius, but he would soon prove them wrong, completing another undefeated season and winning another National Title, the first in school history. After his victory, Coolbaugh shocked millions by announcing his retirement, saying that he had "nothing left to prove in this game or any other." In a surprise move, Coolbaugh accepted an offer to become a contributing editor at the upstart sports blog Fegonomics, a signing that was heralded at the time as a major coup for the young website. However, in almost nine months with the site, Coolbaugh has yet to produce a single article. While some believe this is one of the Coach's famous ploys, an attempt to lull the readership into a state of complacency before unleashing one of his patented gadget posts, skeptics have begun to question whether Coolbaugh has still got the chops. Time, it seems, will tell. OVER/UNDER?

• 145 - number of times Makhtar says "Don't Close" next weekend at Wildwood. While it is undeniable that I am the Progenitor of all mankind, the timeless father of humanity and ancestor to us all, even I am forced to admit that Makhtar is the progenitor of almost every stupidly addictive catch-phrase known to fegos. His talent is unparalleled. A hundred Phallus Coopers chained to a hundred typewriters with a hundred 30-racks of Natty Ice couldn't match Makhtar's prolific career. Already the creator of such standbys as "Striii," "OOOPS!!," "Waaaaaaaaaoow," "Oh, graaayt," and "lightswitch, bay-bay," he unveiled his latest prototype last night: "Don't close," taken from this video (VERY NSFW). Like so many before, the debut of "Don't close" was met with strong support, but does it have the legs of a "Striii" or will it burn itself out like "OOOPS!!"? Analysts agree that Wildwood will be a pivotal testing ground for the new phrase. OVER/UNDER?

• 16.5 - minimum age a girl must be for a guy to safely admit he thinks she's hot. This, my friends, is Wooderson's Dilemma, a question as old as these girls are young. Now, the name may be a misnomer, since clearly, Wooderson didn't have much of a dilemma. Regardless, this question is a tribute to him, because at some level, every guy is a Wooderson. Guys like younger girls. This is not up for debate. If you need any evidence, feel free to contact my friend RJ, and I'm sure he'll happily share with you Phannenstill's Corollary (possibly NSFW?). As an aside, a lot of girls like older guys, but I digress... Wooderson's Dilemma simply states that, as guys get older, the girls they are attracted to generally remain in the same age range. The reason this is a dilemma is because, when I was 18 and a senior in high school, I definitely thought there were some cute sophomore girls running around. They were 15 or 16, but hey, nobody thought it was skeevy at the time. Now, however, I'm 22, and if I were to express such an opinion in certain company, I'd elicit a reaction to the effect of "Dude, those girls are not old." So, to avoid being stigmatized, I keep my mouth shut, but if I'm honest with myself... some girls mature early, and... well, there are some still some cute sophomores running around. Yet, if I continue to believe this, society will judge me more and more harshly as I get older. By seventeen, there are some undeniably cute girls out there, and I might get away with saying so now--but what about when I'm 28? Does it become creepy then? If 18 is legal, does that mean it's fair game for guys of any age to admit a girl is hot? This issue has become far more complicated in recent years with more and more teenage girls becoming famous as jailbait sex symbols. Britney (age 16), Mandy (15), Miley (16)--RJ could write a thesis. Is the scale different for celebrity chicks? Why or why not? What I want to distinguish is where the line is drawn between the creepy, dangerous sketchballs--the Humbert Humberts--and the playful, harmless Woodersons. How old does she have to be before I can recognize her as a member of Babe Nation--and does it depend on how old I am? OVER/UNDER?

Looks like my job is done--the world made safe for fegos for at least another week. But will Scott Steiner be so lucky?

MILF in the Mirror

Before we venture through more examples of siamese twins separated at birth, I have a story that I am obligated to share with y'all.

Approximately 400 years ago, Samuel de Champlain sailed the ocean blue and discovered what was to become Lake Champlain, the body of water bordering the "Get Em High" cannabiscentric zone of Burlington, VT. A few weeks ago, Burlington hosted a massive 400th Birthday Celebration by the waterfront, with love, peace, and shartastic cremees galore. My long time friend who we shall call Steve Urkel, happened to attend the festivities. Now the codename Urkel actually suits my friend quite well; a gangly genius lurking behind glasses, his potential only limited by his socially prepubescent mind and tendency to get overwhelmed by the mere smell of estrogen Vonwafering through the air. Think 5th grade dinky dink boners from watching Honey for the first time.

Me and Urkel met at a music bar for Reggaeton Night last week (the Nigerian Nightmares came out in droves) and he told me he had been working on meeting chicks, thus his reason for going to the waterfront celebration. There he stroke up a conversation with a (supposedly) lovely female. Either someone was subliming shrooms into the air, or perhaps Urkel had brushed up on his agragrian precapitalist economic modalities in the southern colonies, but sparks flew, and they brought their conversation to a nearby club. They proceeded to get Xtina Dirty (this is the part where Urkel leans over to me and whispers, " I cupped her breasts and my penis got really stiff"), but the night ended with them only exchanging numbers.

Flash forward to next morning, Urkel's cell rings, and it's the woman.
She asks, "What are you doing?"
He replies, "Just taking a nap."
She says, "Would like to take a nap at my place?"

He rushes over (forgets the condom), perform the mattress mambo (she has a spare), but the kicker came at the end, when she tells Urkel, "Hey this was fun, but I gotta go now because I have to pick up my 4 year old son." Congratulations Stephon Urquel on bagging a fresh-on-the-market 39 yr old mom! A special thanks to Sammy C. for all his weary sea traveling and eradicating the Abenaki with small pox.

And now on to the look-a-likes!


Ah today we have triplets! This one comes courtesy of Dream. The fellow on the right is 2008 WSOP main event champ Peter Eastgate, dethroning crybaby Hellmuth as the youngest player to win it all. If I had a clone like that, you know a wife swap (1:30) would be in order sometime in the future.





This is a personal favorite. This girl lived down the hall from me and Dream during our fetal years as frosh. Throw in Jar Jar, some alien aztec-rubbed meat from the dining halls, a sprinkling of DDR, and we had our own fucking sci-fi show of Space Cases going on. A genuine stunner and intellectual person to say the least, she probably embodied more classy Natalie than sassy Natalie.

BONUS!!!!!

You can still see the strings if you look hard enough.

Freaks v. 2

We here at Fegonomics are all about full disclosure, so let me share two little nuggets of wisdom for you before we get started with the freaks of huck:

1. I thought that this "Freaks of the Week" business was going to be a lot easier than it has turned out to be. You know, I thought that I'd see a Jarron Gilbert here and a little Heather Brooke there, and the article would write itself. What I failed to recognize is that we're currently in a Pro-Sports no man's land, especially with baseball at its All-star break. If you've had the misfortune of flipping to ESPN recently, you've probably realized that all they're showing right now is the World Look at My Pubes competition, and the Fossilman picking his ass. I guess what I'm saying is, enjoy the dregs, the best is yet to come.

2. (Unrelated to point 1) I got felt up in a restaurant by a kid who was twitching around in a wheelchair. I think we all recognize that this is the most action I've gotten in pretty much a year. I think the whole "FML" thing has jumped the shark, so here's its heir apparent: waaaoooowwwwwww.

Onto the freaks:

90 Inches of Pain Freak
Anthony Randolph

Don't let his Earthworm like physique fool you--Randolph is a straight up baller. I realize that it's kinda like saying that he won a Planet Fitness Body Building competition, but Randolph has been tearing up the NBA Summer league (Though there's a 60% chance that one of his opponents was the original Makhtar N'Diaye). The guys at FreeDarko have been rubbing themselves over him for quite some time, and it looks like their preoccupation has not been in vain. Brotha man tied the Vegas summer league record for points with 42 against the Bulls. Sure, the former record holder was the immortal Von "Necco" Wafer (Speaking of Wafer, he's part of the funniest look-a-like galleries I've ever seen, esp. Battier), but Randolph's summer league line is nonetheless impressive: 26.8 pts, 8.5 'bounds, 3 Blocks and 60.5% FG pct per game.

At 6'10" with a 7'6" wingspan, Randolph certainly has the measurables you'd want in a hybrid 3/4 (Aside from being built like Prancer). And the man can certainly show people how his ass tastes:



But certainly the big guy's best marginal advantage is his ability to handle the ball. How many 7 foot salamanders can do this:


And let's just be thankful that he shoots better then this Asian Guy from Saw.

Mass Monster Freak
Brock Lesnar - UFC Heavyweight Champion

Surprise, surprise, Makhtar dips from the wrestling well again. I mean just look at that picture, Brock has literally no neck--his massive, massive traps have simply devoured the area his neck used to occupy. Brock's doesn't have the size or definition of our favorite, Ronnie Coleman, or even his long-time rival, Jay "Soy Sauce" Cutler, but his functional strength is off the charts. How do I know? Well...last weekend he ANAL-yzed MMA legend Frank Mir to unify the UFC heavyweight titles. If you haven't seen the footage, here it is. The neckless one served up 10 minutes of utter domination. Here's what Frank Mir Looked like after the fight:
I haven't seen a piece of meat so old and broken down since the end of this Kimbo Slice fight (Borderline NSFW, hideous ending).

At 6'3", 265 lbs, Lesnar represents the new prototype for the burgeoning MMA's heavyweight division. Not only does he often outweigh his opponents by 30 or 40 pounds (Mir weighs in at 240), but he's also generally faster and more technically proficient than his counterparts. Lesnar was a legit collegiate wrestler, as runner up to future NFL'er Stephen Neal in 1999, and winning the NCAA Heavyweight championship in 2000. The Lesnar/Neal matchup is fairly ironic, as both men both went on to ply their trade in the NFL, with varying success. The fact that Brock made it to the last cut of Minnesota Vikings camp, despite not having played since sophomore year of high school is impressive. Though, perhaps not as impressive as this(GOTCHA!).

Oh yeah, this is fucking funny, too:

Freak in the Sheets
Emmanuelle Chriqui

The new season of Entourage premiered last weekend, and frat boys across the nation collectively jizzed their pants. By this point, the show's gotten pretty played out, primarily because the characters are so damn predictable. Vince is aloof, E is a meta beta, Lloyd is gay, Drama is dramatic, and Turtle is a worthless piece of shit. Plain and simple, that shit don't change. But, as flaccid and worthless as the guys on Entourage are, the girls are equally as FOINE. One needs to look no further than Sloane as proof of this point. I'd rather not devote more space to a show that's leapt well over the shark, so here's more Sloane to end the post. Soldiers OUT.