reinforcements

from espn's columnist john hollinger's blog:

Some other notes from Thursday night:

• A lot of Cleveland fans are upset that Rasheed Wallace didn't get called for an offensive foul on his winning shot for pushing off Varejao. Sorry, I'm not with you on that. Based on the replay I saw, Wallace may have been guilty. But Varejao makes it impossible to tell, because he's taken more dives than Jacques Costeau. Cry wolf that many times and you're bound to get burned eventually.

• Haven't seen much comment on this, but LeBron James made an incredible play to get in position to challenge Wallace after Varejao hit the floor; Wallace just made an even better shot, from nearly behind the backboard. Thursday night in general was perhaps the most active I've seen the King defensively.

• Maybe the NBA conspiracy theorists' take on this year's playoffs is that the league is trying to prove there's no conspiracy. With every incentive to set up a Cavs-Suns final, the two biggest officiating situations in the postseason thus far went against those very two teams. Not to mention a lottery that sent two hugely marketable rookies to the far corner of the country -- as opposed to, say, Boston and Chicago.

• To be fair, Pistons fans will probably point out that they're due a bit more luck in some respects in future games -- they won't go 9-for-19 from the line, for instance, and Tayshaun Prince's 1-for-19 shooting in Games 1 and 2 has to be considered a fluke.

SUCK IT

http://insider.espn.go.com/espn/blog/index?entryID=2882291&name=hollinger_john
(espn insider required)

LEBRON DIDN'T GET FOULED SO SHUT THE FUCK UP

the populace of ohio can bitch all they want; they still lost the game and they're all still a bunch of pussies

unbelievable. all day long it hasn't stopped. "was lebron fouled? why didn't the ref call a foul? didn't rip hamilton foul lebron? why didn't they blow their whistles?"

Shut
The
Fuck
Up

if you know anything in the slightest about communication studies or even anything about psychology (or just have some common sense) you'll know that the media has a tremendous effect on people that goes farther than you'd normally think. when something is repetitiously pounded into the minds of an idiot (although even smart people are suceptible to such bullshit) they tend to repeat the ideas and beliefs of the source, like a parrot who doesn't understand the words and phrases it's trained to say. people think lebron was fouled based on the sole fact that the media raised the question. so, the media may not be completely to blame, except that you can tell espn is biased against the pistons when they ran a segment on today's sportscenter called "most famous non-calls in sports history".

lebron didn't get fouled. first of all, lebron created the contact. he threw his body into rip and threw his elbows in the air as if he got fouled. that was obvious. it's also partly because the refs decided to let shit go late in the game and let the players play. varejao's flop is the first case. yes, it WAS a flop. i'll admit, sheed pushed him, but he couldn't have pushed varejao as far as he fell. the replays clearly show varejao diving to the ground in a soccer-like manner. i mean shit, they guy is from BRAZIL. they teach kids there how to take flops from birth, regardless of whether or not they play soccer. if he really wanted a call he should've just taken the push and let the refs see it. even the announcers on TNT said that varejao has a reputation for being a flopper, so the refs did justice and let the play go.

on PTI, mike wilbon said lebron didn't get fouled because he isn't at the level of a superstar yet. but he is at that level, at least in terms of getting calls. thus far in the playoffs he's averaged 10 free throws a game, a number that can clearly impact the result of a game. lebron IS a superstar and get superstar calls, but like varejao's instance in the paragraph above, the refs decided to let shit fly and didn't blow the whistle.

but there's one obvious, OBVIOUS reason why lebron didn't get fouled. lebron outweighs rip by 57 pounds of pure muscle. earlier in the game, if you skeptics were actually watching the game and not just talking bullshit, you would've seen that when rip attempted to hack lebron on a fast break, he failed miserably and lebron dunked it. rip just isn't strong enough to stop him. lebron missed with a bad shot because he was trying to draw a foul that wasn't there. luckily the refs did the right thing.


and ultimately, it doesn't matter that lebron didn't get fouled, because he should've taken more shots, his team should've scored more than 26 points in the second HALF, and larry hughes should've hit the WIDE OPEN jumper he had from five feet away from the basket. not to mention that tayshaun prince hasn't been able to score at all (because of his intense defending on lebron), but that will change.

even though i've had a rocky past with him, bob ryan, who was subbing for kornheiser on PTI, put it best. there was contact, but that doesn't mean it's a foul. lebron could have gotten fouled, but he also may not have. rip hamilton may have bumped and touched lebron but he didn't blatantly hack him (which, like i said before, wouldn't make a difference anyway). it was a case of GOOD DEFENSE, which is what the stones are symbolic of. so enough with this non-call bullshit, the cavs, their fans, the media, and everyone else who thinks lebron got fouled should shut their mouths and plan for the next beatdown on sunday (830 PM on TNT).



BALL DON'T LIE


woooooooooooooooooo

just like me

"Here are some of the ways you could say I am 'white':

I listen to National Public Radio.
I wear khaki Dockers.
I own brown suede bucks.
I eat gourmet greens.
I have few close friends 'of color.'
I married a white woman.
I am a child of the suburbs.
I furnish my condo a la Crate & Barrel.
I vacation in charming bed-and-breakfasts.
I have never once been the victim of blatant discrimination.
I am a member of several exclusive institutions.
I have been in the inner sanctums of political power.
I have been there as something other than an attendant.
I have the ambition to return.
I am a producer of the culture.
I expect my voice to be heard.
I speak flawless, unaccented English.
I subscribe to Foreign Affairs.
I do not mind when editorialists write in the first person plural.
I do not mind how white television casts are.
I am not too ethnic.
I am wary of minority militants.
I consider myself neither in exile nor in opposition.
I am considered 'a credit to my race'

I never asked to be white. I am not literally white. That is, I do not have white skin or white ancestors. I have yellow skin and yellow ancestors, hundreds of generations of them. But like so many other Asian Americans of the second generation, I find myself now the bearer of a strange new status: white, by acclimation. Thus it is that I have been described as an 'honorary white,' by other whites, and as a 'banana,' by other Asians. Both the honorific and the epithet take as a given this idea: to the extent that I have moved away from the periphery and toward the center of American life, I have become white inside. Some are born white, others achieve whiteness, still others have whiteness thrust upon them. This, supposedly, is what it means to assimilate.

There was a time when assimilation did quite strictly mean whitening. In fact, well into the first half of this century, mimicry of the stylized standards of the WASP gentry was the proper, dominant, perhaps even sole method of ensuring that your origins would not be held against you. You 'made it' in society not only by putting on airs of anglitude, but also by assiduously bleaching out the marks of a darker, dirtier past. And this bargain, stifling as it was, was open to European immigrants almost exclusively; to blacks, only on the passing occasion; to Asians, hardly at all.

Times have changed, and I supposed you could call it progress that a Chinaman, too, may now aspire to whiteness. But precisely because the times have changed, that aspiration-and the imputation of the aspiration-now seems astonishingly outmoded. The meaning of 'American' has undergone a revolution in the twenty-nine years I have been alive, a revolution of color, class, and culture. Yet the vocabulary of 'assimilation' has remained fixed all this time: fixed in whiteness, which is still our metonym for power; and fixed in shame, which is what the colored are expected to feel for embracing the power.

I have assimilated. I am of the mainstream. In many ways I fit the psychological profile of the so-called banana: imitative, impressionable, rootless, eager to please. As I will admit in this essay, I have at times gone to great lengths to downplay my difference, the better to penetrate the 'establishment' of the moment. Yet I'm not sure that what I did was so cut-and-dried as 'becoming white.' I plead guilty to the charges above: achieving, learning the ways of the upper middle class, distancing myself from radicals of any hue. But having confessed, I still do not know my crime.

To be an accused banana is to stand at the ill-fated intersection of class and race. And because class is the only thing Americans have more trouble talking about than race, a minority's climb up the social ladder is often willfully misnamed and wrongly portrayed. There is usually, in the portrayal, a strong whiff of betrayal: the assimilist is a traitor to his kind, to his class, to his own family. He cannot gain the world without losing his soul. To be sure, something is lost in any migration, whether from place to place or from class to class. But something is gained as well. And the result is always more complicated than the monochrome language of 'whiteness' and 'authenticity' would suggest.

My own assimilation began long before I was born. It began with my parents, who came here with an appetite for Western ways already whetted by films and books and music and , in my mother's case, by a father who'd been to the West. My parents, who traded Chinese formality for the more laissez-faire stance of this country. Who made their way by hard work and quiet adaptation. Who fashioned a comfortable life in a quiet development in a second-tier suburb. Who, unlike your 'typical' Chinese parents, were not pushy, status-obsessed, rigid, disciplined, or prepared. Who were haphazard about passing down ancestral traditions and 'lessons' to their children. Who did pass down, however, the sense that their children were entitled to mix and match, as they saw fit, whatever aspects of whatever cultures they encountered.

I was raised, in short, to assimilate, to claim this place as mine. I don't mean that my parents told me to act like an American. That's partly the point: they didn't tell me to do anything except to be a good boy. They trusted I would find my way, and I did, following their example and navigating by the lights of the culture that encircled me like a dome. As a function of my parents' own half-conscious, half-finished acculturation, I grew up feeling that my life was Book II of an ongoing saga. Or that I was running the second leg of a relay race. Slap! I was out of the womb and sprinting, baton in hand. Gradually more sure of my stride, my breathing, the feel of the track beneath me. Eyes forward, never backward.

Today, nearly seven years after my father's death and two years after my marriage into a large white family, it is as if I have come round a bend and realized that I am no longer sure where I am running or why. My sprint slows down to a trot. I scan the unfamiliar vista that is opening up. I am somewhere else now, somewhere far from the China that yielded my mother and father; far, as well, from the modest horizons I knew as a boy. I look at my limbs and realize I am no longer that boy; my gait and grasp exceed his by an order of magnitude. Now I want desperately to see my face, to see what time has marked and what is has erased. But I can find no mirror except the people who surround me. And they are mainly pale, powerful.

How did I end up here, standing in what seems the very seat of whiteness, gazing from the promontory of social privilege? How did I cover so much ground so quickly? What was it, in my blind journey, that I felt I should leave behind? And what did I leave behind? This, the jettisoning of one mode of life to send another aloft, is not only the immigrant's tale; it is the son's tale, too. By coming to America, my parents made themselves into citizens of a new country. By traveling the trajectory of an assmilist, so did I."

- Professor Eric Liu (University of Washington), Notes of a Native Speaker

draft day

today and tomorrow is the nfl draft, the most exciting day of the season of a detroit lions fan. as of 8:50 pm it's the second round still, with the lions taking calvin johnson in the first round, the fourth time in five years the lions have taken a receiver as a first round pick (charles rogers, roy williams, mike williams, cj). in the second round we took of all players drew stanton from state (obviously just to keep him in MI) even though trent edwards was our projected qb pick. although stanton did well with his wonderlic scores, i want to see if he's receptive enough (as the wonderlic is supposed to determine) to learn an NFL playcalling system after leaving state's simplistic ass shotgun rollout system.

in any case, here's a mock lions draft board, courtesy of mike sanders' profile:

2007 Detroit Lions Official Draft Board
(as of 4/16)

1. Greg Oden
2. Brent Petway
3. Brady Quinn
4. Dan Marino
5. Joe Thomas
6. A 3-way trade putting us down at #20 with a great opportunity to snag Tedd Ginn Jr.
7. Agim Shabaj
8. Gaines Adams
9. Calvin Johnson (cant draft a wr too high anymore) - CORRECT
10. Mike Hart
11. Fred Rouse
12. Tim Allen
13. Flipper the Dolphin
14. Jamarcus Russell
15. Adrian Peterson
16. Run out of time
17. Paul Tagliabue
18. Greg Anderson (Bonds' trainer)
19. Keeanu Reeves
20. Drew Stanton - CORRECT

why i'm off facebook

"Facebook Informercial Parody"



"just...can you please make it stop? please? he's really creepy."

[Verse 1]
About they never talked about the guns or the drugs
Til I saw the guns and the drugs
There's tons in the hood
I'll admit, I never sold a sack in my life
Watchin' Scarface thinkin' that was a life
Slingin' dope or coke, respect, money and power
But what happen when things start to go sour
Everybody wanna see more cash
But ego's clashin', that's when egos crash
See the two of them started when they was in dimes
Graduated, now they movin' bricks at a time
Down to do whatever even wet up cops
Tryin' to build an empire so they set up shop
They got themselves a connect ready to tie it down
A buster went from Philly straight to China town
Now there is dough poorin' heads thinkin' it's the same
All of a sudden there is weak link in the chain
He's a 6"2, brawler cat -- nickname Bolo
Caught beef with his man so he had to go dolo
But that was a no no
You know the code of the streets; everybody gotta eat
And that's how shit in the hood be
Ain't sayin' it's a true story, but it could be
For the next three months Bolo is nowhere to be found
They say 'cause of the beef that's why he left town
And everybody knows why they don't get along
He's a greedy bastard - stole half a meal from Fom
Fom is the quiet type, silent and deadly
You play with his money now he's violent and ready
They was partners - betrayed by his own man
So he really gotta take actions into his own hands
Father forgive me for the sins I commit
But when I see they're forgiven, that's it

- Jin, The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly

NEED FOR SPEED

the only way i'd ever do this on a crotch rocket is if i'd have god mode turned on

top gun recut

happy easter

happy Jesus Resurrection Day

i didn't go to church today, nor did i have any initial plans or desires to. (why is it that people think they can go to church just for christmas masses and easter sundays and all of a sudden think the divine scales are tipped in their favor?) i didn't go to church on ash wednesday or good friday, didn't give anything up for lent, and i damn sure eat meat on fridays. there is, however, one thing i will do in easter tradition.

i want a chocolate bunny and some PEEPS. and i still have some mj left from hash bash too so i'm gonna eat 50 chocolate bunnies and a thousand peeps.


a PEEP ORGY!

"yeah, you don't use the key to lock the door on the inside"
- zeke

prof curzan: "you can find anything on youtube nowadays"
brent: "except porn"

true freedom

i'm eating a junior bacon cheeseburger for breakfast. i might have some chocolate chip cookies too. i could have a bowl of wheaties, but why? why would i eat such shit food in the morning? because i can. this is america, and i can choose to clog my arteries if i fucking feel like it. a junior bacon cheeseburger sounds bad, but it's just as bad as eating an egg mcmuffin with cheese and cookies are just as bad as fast food hash browns. for fuck's sake, the first ingredient in fast food ketchup is high fructose corn syrup, so you know that pretty much everything on the menu (except for these new "alternative"- aka pussy - items) are heart stoppers.

(just as a side note, if you have to eat bad food, it's actually better to have it in the morning because you have the entire day to work it off)

as colin farrell said in SWAT, "you treat your body like a temple and i treat mine like an amusement park. thats the differences that make this country great."


the title of this picture is "family food.jpg"

uh, crap?

i'm looking over my paper and realizing that none of the shit i just typed makes any sense. the stuff that's barely sensible is commonsensical stuff that i took out of the book. i'm forcing myself to stay awake by listening to disney music. fuck it. i only need two more paragraphs. so much for revision.

warmup

Auto response from AZIANeyedKAT: fucking flying fuck

theres no way i'm finishing the 15-some odd chapters in charlotte temple for english 470. i hope i don't have a quiz tomorrow. i'm too busy working on this discourse transcription analysis for godforsaken english 305. yeah, i put it off til the last second, but this is what college students, let alone english majors, do. i finished the first two phases of the paper; now i'm on the final one, which is writing a 1 1/2 - 2 (clearly, i'm writing just barely 1 1/2) page analysis. its doesn't sound bad, except that the 1 1/2 - 2 pages is SINGLE SPACED. who asks for single spaced pages? this is college man! but first, because i've hit a wall, i need to warm up. my mind usually works better after i've been writing on something, particularly the blog. my mind also usually works better while i'm listening to techno of some sort, but the stuff tends to come out disjointed. so right now i'm listening to the current favorite, mims - this is why i'm hot. the song is the same shit over and over again, but its an incredible club song, and like the guy in the song says, "i don't gotta rap, i can sell a mil sayin nothin on the track." nuff said.

so i'm gonna type random shit to get my mind fired up. let's see how many tangents i can go off of:

i want to go to the bar tomorrow. or the club, whatever. ricks is a combination of both. i've burned lots of money at the bar/club scene already and i haven't even gone often enough yet to consider it a regular thing. shit. oh well. at least the sun is out. but it's raining. fucking bullshit. april showers may bring may flowers, but they piss me off nonetheless. i'm not a chick, i don't need flowers. i can just buy some from a fucking florist. of course, the last time i did that, it was a complete waste of money.

(those roses deserved better.)

in the midwest they take it slow. drive slow homie. foreigners, particularly british, think americans speak english too fast and our speech is too cluttered. at least we don't call fries chips. and thank goodness we don't call french fries freedom fries anymore. i just fucking call them fries.

another very good song that i haven't heard yet in the club that would be great for it is freaky by juelz santana. i just want to blast this shit in my car. last time i saw alan branch in the club and sohail regularly sees football players there. i wonder who'll be next? adrian arrington shaking his ass at the club? oh wait, he got kicked off the team so it doesn't matter.

good, let's get the boat rockin'. rock the boat, don't sink the ship. shortie, take your pick, who you leavin with?

ok, we ready

paper write activate generate actuate initiate energize on start begin commence go

FAIL (I DONT WANT TO WRITE THIS SHIT!)

goodbye six pack

spring break fucked me not only academically, but physically as well. per usual, since i was so close to having a six pack, i had to hit a wall. i could see the damn muscles formed under a very thin layer of fat in my stomach, but since spring break, with a combination of marijuana, a terrible diet, a lot of alcohol, and lack of fitness, i'm down now to a two pack. getting the lower abs to be cut is the absolute hardest part of a six pack routine, and any rippedness i had there is now gone.

i'm disappointed primarily because it's only been a matter of a few weeks. i've legitimately had little time to work out, and when i have, laziness and nagging minor injuries have prevented me from hitting the gym. i've gotten some time in the ccrb sporadically, and i still hold myself to good general fitness and in better shape than most people, but considering this is a country based on obesity, it's not such a big accomplishment. most of my time in the gym has been playing ball, and while it's a good workout for the entire body, i want to improve on my distance endurance and i need to hit the weights more. i can run multiple games of basketball without getting too winded, and considering the fact that i want to get a tattoo when the school year ends, i need to get my arms in good shape.

i guess there's always the summer (four LONG weeks away) to work on my abs, but i can't but help feel disappointment for slipping so much when i was so close. i guess it's more of a driving force to not do so the next time and to make sure a six pack is absolute.

"indeed i do repent, from my soul: but while discretion points out the impropriety of my conduct, inclination urges me on to ruin."
- charlotte: a tale of truth

RIP CAPTAIN AMERICA

national hero since 1941

on march 7, 2007, steve rogers aka captain america was shot fatally in the back (and three more times for good measure) after surrendering to authorities. his anti-registration faction/resistance movement stance clashed with the pro-registration movement that would allow superheroes to act as law enforcement and also military authority. he saw this as unpatriotic and un-american and so he led a battle against the pro-registration authorites that ultimately led to his death.

yeah, i used to love comic books as a kid. spider-man was the shit, but a lot of other comics were good too. i bought superhero video games, action figures, graphic novels, novels, board games, backpacks, POGS, and had birthdays with superhero themes. i haven't read a comic book probably since middle school, but the movies have kept me in the universe and also when dramatic events like this happen, it's likely to cause a public uproar. events like these are on such a grand scale that i first found out about captain america's death as the new york times front page headline story.

there's no fear, however, that by some magical turn of fate captain america will be back. superman died by the hands of doomsday and came back, batman was paralyzed by bane and nearly killed by his batman replacement, azrael, and spiderman died too, except that it turned out to be his clone, scarlet spider. as much as writers, creators, artists, etc. may want to let a character's persona live forever through their death, ending such an important franchise is hard to do. like athletes who can't walk away from the game, these people have known this comic character all their life and so abandoning them suddenly is more than likely out of the question.

not to mention that there's a captain america movie coming, so it's very unlikely he's permanently dead. they'll find some incredible healing machine to impossibly remove the bullets from his body or something.

more millionaires

part of the college experience, if you go to a school of respectable athletic measure, is to randomly run into the athletes around campus. i hung out with one basketball player during orientation, another one played on my IM football team, and graham brown lived in my apartment last year. i randomly met one of the all-ammerican male gymnasts playing ball one time, and once an unnamed former roommate drunk dialed michael phelps' cell from mirasol's phone. last night at rick's i ran into the fifth michigan football player i've shook hands with. yeah, it sounds stupid, but these guys are future millionaires, and when i watch them on tv catching a touchdown or sacking a quarterback, i can say that i shook that hand.

alan branch, michigan's all-american defensive tackle who's slated to be a top 10 nfl pick in this year's draft, was at rick's last night dancing his ass off. he was with the rest of the defensive line, or maybe the offensive line i can't tell because they're all fucking huge guys. i thought gabe watson was a giant in person, but alan branch is like 1 1/2 times gabe's size. the guy is enormous, and i'm honestly glad that i didn't have to go up against people even half his size playing in high school because he would eat me as a post-workout snack.

i've shook hands with him, steve breaston and braylon edwards at the gym, gabe watson at a fasa football game, and mike hart at a very random house party freshman year. it's not like i've really had conversations with these guys or are part of their entourage but contact is contact.


imagine this 6'6", 331 pound guy shaking his ass in the club. then imagine being the girl

MGoBlue: Alan Branch

blogger is gay

america is the definition of consumerism. so it's no surprise that blogger teamed up with google (no doubt for $$$) and forced me to upgrade this fucking thing, which in the end makes it out to be exactly the same as before, except that i had to go through the inconvenience of making a google account, which is basically my hotmail email. what a waste of time, thanks a lot you assholes.

why don't i see any of this money?

bullshit.

my RIO

OneShot315: where would i be without you as my wingman
razzburya: lost, lonely and afraid

she's not actually my wingman, because that term wouldn't be correctly used (and i'm not cold-hearted enough to leave a wingman behind in the dust, so i wouldn't need one to begin with). rather, razz is my RIO, or NFO. unlike a wingman, who takes one for you, the RIO is a co-pilot, a navigator. they get you through cloudy skies, turbulence, and make sure hostile fighters are either avoided or shot down (which has been done before).

either way, my BA is still pretty low, but it's ok because it keeps me (sorta) studying. like i just said (see article below) i don't have time to fuck around anymore, so i need all the time i can spare.

in any case, let it be known that if you ask me for advice, i think it's obvious that i'm not fucking hitch, so if you try the shit i tell you and fail, don't hold it against me. throughout my life too many people have asked me for counsel when i honestly believe i'm the wrong person to ask. i make judgements for other people based on what i think is the best thing to do, but that doesn't always necessarily mean that it's the right decision. in my mind i'm a bad son, a terrible catholic, and in an extraneous case, an awful best buddy/big brother, so i don't think i'm particularly qualified to be used as a shrink. the only thing you should really be asking me for advice about is exercise, nutrition, and fitness (which is why i should be a pt major and not an english one). i'm just a regular guy who listens, responds, and tries to help because i'm a nice person and i don't like letting my friends down.

the crossroads

this weekend marks the end of the line. crossroads are up ahead. not just any crossroads, but the crossroads.

i have to make the decision to either shape up or ship out. my birthday weekend has to be the end of my slacking or else i'm overly fucked like a pornstar gangbang come finals. turning 21 with the tempation for bars and sunny weather on the horizon will only work to distract me even more. i know my willpower isn't near strong enough to make it through, but i've got to try anyway. that's the only thing i learned from the second and third matrix; that regardless of the circumstances and no matter how overwhelming the odds, you've got to try (otherwise, aside from the motorcycle scenes, the movies were shit). not really because you choose to, but because it's an innate human instinct; it's survival. either i get shit done or i am done.

in either case, i fucking hate school. college is great, classes are shit.

of course, if the two became mutually exclusive, there would be no point in being here.

ktrain/razz's 21st birthday party

this friday (march 16), 10:45 PM at 1700 Geddes Ave. APT #A3 (on the street).

we're gonna try (but fail) at staying up until the bars open on st. patty's morning.

come or die.

FUCK YES

"After the defeat of their old arch nemesis, The Shredder, the Turtles have grown apart as a family. Struggling to keep them together, their rat sensei, Master Splinter, becomes worried when strange things begin to brew in New York City. Tech-industrialist Max Winters is amassing an army of ancient monsters to apparently take over the world. "

i like the fact that this movie is a continuation of the film series (as shredder's ass already was crushed by a garbage compactor) and not the same old shit over again.

the movie opens on march 30th. no doubt i'm getting sauced and watching this.

COWABUNGA DUDE!

twins?

the big ten tournament final is right now, with nationally ranked #3 wisconsin against the buckeyes.

if you don't watch basketball, you haven't noticed how similar some players look to celebrities. for instance, wisconsin's kammron taylor and chris rock:



no doubt he's chris rock's illegitimate son

steve francis and jamie foxx:



robert horry and will smith:



yao ming and mao zedong:


andre agassi also looks a lot like robert, my boss at work

tracy mcgrady and doc rivers have droppyass "i-look-like-i'm-high" eyes:



let me know if you know anymore and ill post em

other random basketball pictures:



this fool used to live in my apartment

hot

michigan weather is such a tease. yeah, it's currently 48 and a nice day by our standards, but it looks like its damn near 80 outside. good thing its almost spring.

i am an idiot

two retarted things i just did:

- ordered jimmy johns
- put my powder gatorade in the fridge

wtf

very fun night, but theres no way i'm getting any shit done tomorrow.

happy 21st birthday razz, only a year before we have to figure out wtf to do with our lives.

off routine

my internal clock is fucked. i guess that's what i get for sleeping in until 1pm (at the earliest) every day during spring break. my old habits washed over me with a high water mark, leaving me feeling ridiculously down this week. it's only tuesday (wed morning). this is not only because i haven't adjusted yet to getting eight or less hours of sleep, but also because i did absolutely no work over spring break (i fell asleep multiple times trying to read textbooks) i have some serious catching up to do. on top of that, because i slacked and munchied so much over spring break (spring break? really? since when is spring break supposed to be freezing temperatures?) i forced myself to workout to exhaustion the past two days and it's making it impossible for me to stay up and do homework as long as i want to.

i skipped class on monday (after promising myself not to skip anymore this semester) and i'm trying to babystep my way back into the routine. but i feel like instead i'm only babystepping my stress levels up and eventually they'll peak and i'll snap, leading ultimately back to the road of slackerdom and academic apathy. its gotten me by the past two and a half years, so i should be able to last a few more days (or weeks?). right?

right?

it doesn't help that the heat randomly shut off in my apartment and i hate sleeping in uncomfortable sweats. i'm going to sleep an hour before usual and i've shortcutted my homework the past two days. i just popped my last diphenhydramine hydrochloride pill (basically, any OTC sleep aid) in the hopes that it'll give me some much needed rest and let me wake up with a better attitude than this, because right now i feel like skipping my classes to failure.

x_X

yummy antioxidant flavor color changing magic

if you don't want to be grossed out don't read beyond this line.

but i've noticed that after i drink green tea my piss turns a strange tint, like a (obviously) greenish yellow. at first i thought i had some crazy shit in my system but now i know what it is. that wasn't so bad, was it?

foojoy lungching dragonwell green tea is the shit.


my pee looks slightly brighter than this color

dipshit

fuck you ron artest, that's what you get for getting retarted haircuts

read this


gay


sweet

the pistons suck by the way, i have no fucking idea how we're first in the east (see current 75-95 score against golden state).