Scurred at the Skirvin!

According to a hilarious true story from the New York Daily News, the New York Knicks were haunted the shit out of at an Oklahoma City hotel.

Well, why wait another second?

in...

"Scurred at the Skirvin!"

Starring...

Mike D'Antoni as... Mr. D'Antoni

David Lee as...Davey

Eddy Curry as...Tiny

and Danilo Gallinari as...Lil' Giuseppe

Featuring: Nate Robinson, Al Harrington, Wilson Chandler, Jared Jeffries


Not Featured on Purpose: Jonathan Bender

You weren't kidding! This album is hot!

It sure is! I could dance all night!

Wowza! What's all this ruckus? We've got a game tomorrow! Get to bed, kids!

Hey Coach, didn't you hear? Staying up and eating candy helps your game!

Get out of town, Al! And get to bed!

12:49 AM

Coach D! Coach D! There's something in the closet! It hurt Jared!

Nate, I'll show you there's nothing in your closet, and Jared is just fine.

Coach, there's a monster in there! And it hurt my eye bad!

Listen, guys. I don't know what's going on, and I don't know why Jared's face is bleeding. But it better stop...RIGHT...NOW. Get to bed! We have the Thunder tomorrow!

We scared, coach. Will you just look in there and make sure?

What are you guys talking about? I don't see a thing! I'm going to bed, and I expect the same from all of you! We've gotta be up at 8:00, misters!

2:37 AM

Coach, Tiny's scared. He said there's something under his bed.

I don't believe this. I don't fucking believe this.

What is it, guys? Is it the thought of playing Kevin Durant? Is it because I let you guys, foolishly now looking back on it, stay up and watch that Final Destination movie? Lil' Giussepe, did you see anything?

C'era un mostro sotto il letto. Era orribile artigli, i denti grossi, e cercò di uccidere Tiny.

Coach, he says there's a monster under the bed. It had horrible claws, big teeth, and tried to kill Tiny.

How many times have I told you? I don't need a fucking translator! I played in Italy for years!

Coach, will you just believe us? We scared, man!


Spirits! Be gone with you! Be gone!

There, we good? Now I'll just tuck you all in and...Tiny? Tiny? What's wrong, Tiny?

Coach, whatever it is that was in the closet...and under my bed...it's...it's...it's in the closet right now!

DARKO!!!!!

THE PICK, JUST BECAUSE EVERYONE MAKES PICKS, EVEN THOUGH NO ONE'S EVER RIGHT

Colts 33, Ravens 16

Will this be the score? No. But hey, why not?

The Sharpshooter Is Locked...

Sometimes you can just see when a legend's career is done. Marvin Harrison clearly lost a step after his knee injury, and Jerry Rice couldn't even make the cut on the Broncos, whose leading receivers at the time were Rod Smith and Ashley Lelie. Shaq's dragging us through it right now, and Allen Iverson thinks he isn't, but he is. When your days are done, they're just done, whether you come to terms with it or not.

Unfortunately, sometimes athletes refuse to admit this, and it gets embarrassing. Take two men who don't know how to say no, when they clearly should be saying no: Mike Tyson and Bret "The Hitman" Hart.

I did something last night I'm none too proud of: watched the last hour or so of WWE's Monday Night Raw.

Wait! Don't exit this window! Hear me out!

I grew up a professional wrestling FANATIC, as did way too many of my friends. Would I be the editor of the Harvard newspaper had I never watched wrestling? A doctor? College professor? Maybe. Perhaps if I cared about anything during the school week other than what would happen on Raw Monday night, or Smackdown Thursday night, or a pay-per-view Sunday night, I'd be a little further along. And I'm not alone.

Anyways, I saw Tyson and Hart would be on, so I wanted to see just how far the product had fallen. Let's just say the distance is greater than the rafters and a turnbuckle. If professional wrestling were pure heroin in the 1990's, it's since been stepped on with baking soda and rat poison.

Wow. I mean, WOW. Ever since the whole "hey, let's pretend to fight and script the outcome!" idea was born, people have made fun of it. I get that. But this...this was HORRID. I would rather work in an early 1900's industrial factory than watch wrestling again. Actually, I would rather watch a sex tape of my parents with my parents than watch wrestling again.

I know it's hard to believe what I'm about to say, but Tyson was embarrassing. Anytime he's doing anything in front of people, it's going to be awkward and horrific. His acting in The Hangover was painful...and he was playing Mike Tyson. The man has a tattoo on his face.

"Fathinating."

Want to imagine something that's never going to happen? Tyson as an old man in a coffin. Whether it's an overdose of a thousand different bizarre prescriptions, or a white tiger attack, or a murder-suicide, is there ANY doubt Mike Tyson dies weirdly, and at a reasonably young age? Any doubt in your mind at all? There's none in mine. He'll die, and we'll all reflect on how no one did anything to help him, and we'll coddle his memory for a couple weeks, at least until the magazines with his face on the cover stop selling by the registers at supermarkets. His upbringing is a sad story, his fall from grace is a sad story, and his death will unquestionably be a sad story.

I know what you're thinking. "But Matt, how can someone so charismatic and good with words embarrass himself on live television? And it's not like he oddly surrounded himself with memorabilia celebrating his dead career...right?" Ummmm...

What are the odds he's said that exact phrase to a woman in the early 90's?

And yet, Mike may not even be the saddest story in his own episode of RAW.

Bret "The Hitman" Hart, my favorite wrestler for a good portion of the early 90's, made a guest appearance in the WWE. No big deal, right? Just a legendary wrestler showing up at his old stomping grounds? Well, not exactly.

To anyone unfamiliar with the Hart story, WWE owner Vince McMahon (my vote for the most evil, immoral businessman of the 20th century) publicly screwed Bret out of a match everyone agreed beforehand Bret would win. Oh well, right? Wrestling's always scripted. At least that was the worst thing Vince ever did to the Hart family.

Yeah, about that. Bret's brother, Owen Hart, died during a pay-per-view when his harness snapped and he fell from the rafters to his death. Like, real dead, not wrestling dead. McMahon promptly ended the pay-per-view, right? Wait, what? He didn't? He said the show must go on, despite a death? Awwwwwkward. I'm going to start a rumor right now that McMahon was even happier one less hand dipped in the take at the end of the event.
And yet, Hart still crawled back, just long enough for him to stand in the ring so McMahon could kick him in the nuts. Unreal.

Imagine greeting St. Peter at the pearly gates...wearing this.

I recently went to Bret Hart's official website, and, no shit, you can book him for personal appearances. Anyone want in with me on a weeknight at the Holiday Inn, listening to a tearful Bret Hart recollect his personal memories in between snorts of a powerful Vicodin/cocaine concoction?

Both of these men are sad, sad characters. Let's pay attention to the tragedy while they're both still alive.

Take The Under

Saturday, January 8, 2010

Man, if only I could bet on the NFL. Why, I'd never have to work a day in my life! I could just sit back and watch the game...for a living!

If only those bookmakers weren't so smart with their exact lines. If only I had an advantage to beat them at their own game!

Oh well, I guess I'll just go to my 9-5 art museum job, where nothing supernatural at all will occur, and dream of a life as a rich, successful sports gambler...

Witness Mr. Matthew Strosnider, a charter member in the fraternity of dreamers. A bookish little man whose passion is the Sunday line, but it was conspired against by a credit card limit, and a girlfriend, and a world full of savvy bookmakers, and the unrelenting hands of a clock. But in just a moment, Mr. Strosnider will enter a world without any financial limit or sound gridiron logic, for he will discover the key to victory. Of course, this key only turns...in the Twilight Zone.

(Dun-DUN-duuhhhhhn-doo-doo-doo-doo)

Dude, you're never going to believe what I found! It's a piece of paper...from the future! It says it's from January 11. That's this coming Monday!

And it's not just some boring stationery, either. It has things written on it! Like, statistics from tomorrow and Sunday's wild card games! I'm going to use this information, bet on the games, and become a millionaire! After all, everyone says quarterback play and controlling the ball by running the clock matters in the playoffs, right? Well, check these out:

CEDRIC BENSON WILL RUN FOR 169 YARDS (AN EIGHT YARDS PER CARRY AVERAGE) AND SCORE A TOUCHDOWN AGAINST THE JETS

MICHAEL VICK WILL HAVE A QB RATING OF 135.4 AGAINST THE COWBOYS

JOE FLACCO WILL GO 4-11 FOR 34 YARDS AND AN INTERCEPTION (A QB RATING OF 10.0) AGAINST THE PATRIOTS, WHILE WES WELKER'S REPLACEMENT, JULIAN EDELMAN, WILL SCORE TWO TOUCHDOWNS

AARON RODGERS WILL THROW FOR 422 YARDS AND FOUR TOUCHDOWNS AGAINST THE CARDINALS

I'm sitting on a goldmine! I would be doing a disservice by not betting on the Bengals, Eagles, Pats, and Packers! Vegas, here I come!

Monday, January 11, 2010

No! No! It's unfair! It's unfair! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

The best laid plans of over/unders, and Mr. Strosnider, the thin man with the dumb blog, who asked very little of life. Who wanted nothing but a slight advantage, only a moment out of an eon of moments, a mere instant out of eternity...for a tip. Matthew Strosnider, now just part of the landscape, smashed beyond all recognition. Just another piece of rubble, a fragment of what man has deeded - to himself, in the Twilight Zone.

(Actually, I didn't bet on one game this weekend - and I loved every second of it. I looked at every game, dissected it a hundred times, and always came up with a hundred different outcomes. Sometimes the best bets are the ones you don't make. At least that's what I'm gathering from everyone I know who gambled this weekend.)

Pictures Lazily Made By A 25 Year Old Man At Work

Inevitably coming later...more athletes who would never snort cocaine snorting cocaine!

Union! Union!

Searching for the first rung of that corporate ladder you've heard so much about? Has this economy got you sick and tired - of being sick and tired? Look no further than LITTLE CAESARS PIZZA!

Here at Little Caesars Pizza, we specialize in turning "just pizza guys" into "just pizza MANAGERS"!

Oh, do I have your attention now?

Just follow these simple steps to become a valued member of the Little Caesars family!*

(*Offer valid only at participating Little Caesars, like the one on 38th street in Indianapolis)

1. Look in the mirror. Your face should admit your failure.

2. Stop by your favorite Little Caesars and, without shame, ask for an application.

3. Learn how to hold a sign for Little Caesars' $5 "Hot 'n' Ready" pizza promotion.

4. Wait for horrible weather. Say, over six inches of snow in what feels like two degree temperature:



5. Stand outside by a busy street with your sign, you fucking loser.

6. Endure the physical and emotional abuse. As a matter of fact, enjoy it! Customer satisfaction is tops here at Little Caesars! I mean, how are our customers supposed to know of our deals if you don't stand out there on that street? Commercials? Ha!




Little Caesars: Shitting and Vomiting on Our Employees Since 1959!

But hey, it could be worse! We could be Domino's, who willingly spends their advertising dollars like this:

Part II: In IMAX 3D!

So Matt stopped the car and I ran out to retrieve the mysterious purse.

After getting to his parents' house at a little before 2 AM, we searched for any form of identification. Nothing. There was actually even a slot in a leather holder that specifically said "PHOTO ID", but of course it was empty. What the bag did contain was a digital camera, iPod, $25 PacSun giftcard, and eighty different kinds of make-up and mascara, along with a shitload of dirt inside. There was also a phone charger that perfectly fit my BlackBerry, and I just so happened to have forgetten my charger at a friend's house after Polian's Folly against the Jets earlier in the week.

Matt (terrified of his parents finding a woman's purse in his trash can and assuming he was a modern day Decatur Central Saucy Jack, which looking back I wish had happened) wrapped the purse in a bag and buried it at the bottom of the trash can in the garage. At this point we honestly felt like murderers. We were carefully planning and discussing how to get rid of a teenage girl's purse. God help us if his parents had woken up and discovered us pacing the room.

We ultimately decided to drive back to the creepy-as-shit house we dropped her off at to leave the purse (in the bag, with all of its belongings) on the front yard. Did we take nude photographs of each other on her camera, for her to confusingly discover the next morning? No. No we didn't.

Scenarios Going Through Our Heads Driving Back To The House

1. The girl would be crying on the front porch with two very big, aggressive men. Out of confusion, she would then say something like, "There they are! That's the guys who picked me up!" and our tires would be immediately slashed, as would our throats.

2. Those same aggressive men would say, "Man, sucks that we got every number on that license plate except the last one. Our extortion plan isn't gonna work if we don't have that number. Wait...is that...is that them again? Mother fuckers came back to check on her! It's...it's a 7! The plan is a go!"

Notice how none of them include something like, "Thanks guys for saving my daughter's life!" or "Wow, they don't make chivalrous gentlemen like you two anymore!" I think that says something about us. Needless to say, it was a weird night.

Since this happened, I've had people ask the same questions:

1. Why did you pick her up?

2. Did she reek of shit?

3. Why didn't you just call the police?

4. Why the hell did you pick her up?

5. If that were a man, would you have picked him up?

Answers:

1. It was a teenage girl in ten degree weather. We're both in our mid-to-late twenties. Didn't feel threatened whatsoever.

2. No, she did not reek of shit.

3. I have no good answer for this question, even still.

4. See number one.

5. No, probably not.

And there you have it. Did something terrible happen to that girl? Should we call the police and let them know what happened? Well, we would, but Matt has outstanding narcotics offenses, and I've dabbled in abductions, so that was off the table. (Kidding)

My guess is she was just really, really, really drunk. And hey, we're life savers! That's more than Bill Polian and Jim Caldwell can say, those playing-the-starters-in-the-snow-while-risking-injury-for-meaningless-season-statistics hypocrites.

What, You Mean YOU'VE Never Found a Girl in a Ditch on New Year's Night?

I swear on Peyton Manning's health in the upcoming playoffs the following is true:

The first time I "saw" OMG The Hangover was at my friend Nick's apartment a couple months ago. I arrived in the middle of the movie (which was a bootlegged version on his computer, where the dubbing was annoyingly off) and left with a vote of "eh". Since I don't normally criticize films until I see the first half, complete with normal dubbing, I reserved judgment.

Which brings us to January 1, 2010. One of my best friends, Matty McPike, was in town from Atlanta (yep, the one who wants to savagely pound Diana Taurasi the way the Frenchman fucks Diane Lane in the hallway in Unfaithful) and we went to his sister and brother-in-law's house for a relaxing night of adults unwinding and watching a movie. That movie turned out to be OMG The Hangover.

While I love both Galifianakis and Helms, and did have 3-4 big laughs, I still thought the movie was pretty "eh". Was it Bradley Cooper? Was it the "BEST COMEDY EVER" hype? Was it the fact that whenever the movie was mentioned anyone within a five mile radius dipped their hand in Bath & Body Works Eucalyptus Spearmint massage oil and feverishly masturbated? Maybe. Probably, actually. But an OMG The Hangover review is not what I'm about to write.

OMG The Hangover was about to become an ultimate reality for two terribly strange men named Matthew.

The time: 1:30 AM. The place: The Decatur Central area.

So Matt's driving his mom's car and I'm in the passenger seat. We're literally 15 seconds away from his house when we see something lying in the ditch outside my window. After 20 seconds of "Was that a person?" and "Should we go back?" at a stop sign, we decide to turn around. Sure enough, a fucking GIRL is lying in the ditch. At 1:30 in the morning. In ten degree weather. Without a coat on.

We roll the window down:

Us

Are you OK?

She was dead.

Just kidding.

Her (Incredibly slurred speech)

Who are you? It's cold.

At this point, we realize her pants are halfway down (not creepily, but her ass was definitely showing) and she's wearing a Twilight hoodie. If I were Edmund Kemper and Matt were Gary Ridgway, we would have high-fived while salivating. Luckily for her (and us), we're not.

It continued:

Us

Do you need a ride somewhere? You probably shouldn't stay out much longer like that, you know.

Her

Sure.

If she were Aileen Wuornos, she would have high-fived herself while salivating. Luckily for us (and her), she's not. She then tried getting up.

You know how a baby deer tries to stand? Real frail and pathetic, only to keep falling back down? Let's just say a baby deer and Vin Baker were standing next to the road laughing at this poor girl trying to stand and walk to the car.

She's now in the car, and actually kind of "little sister" cute. Dark hair, dark eyes, and eight pounds of eyeliner. And the previously mentioned Twilight hoodie.

Her

Just go up this road.

Me (Noticing a purse right next to where she was lying)

Hey, is that your purse out there?

Her

No.

Me

But...there's a purse out there. Right next to where you were lying. There's no one else outside right now, or even close to where we are.

Her

That's not my purse.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh-kay. So it's not her purse. I'll go with that. After "go(ing) up this road" for a few minutes, she informed us we were going in the wrong direction. Gee. Thanks.

I wanted answers, damnit.

All we got from her was that she was 18 (I guess she could have passed for that, but I would have guessed 15-17) and from California. When someone is lying, isn't "18" and "California" the first two responses that pop up in the bullshit database?

Me

So...are you just, like, really drunk or something?

Her

Long story.

Me

Well, would you like to tell your 'long story' back in the ditch?

Just kidding again. I didn't say that. I guess I shouldn't joke so much, considering something serious could have happened to this poor girl. Or is it because I wouldn't want to lose my precious credibility on my prestigious Blogger account? I'll let you decide.

So she points out a house about two minutes away from the ditch and we drop her off. I think she said "thank you", I don't really remember. It's just Matt and I now.

Me

Let's go back and get the purse...

PART TWO COMING TOMORROW

***

PICS OF THE WEEK

Most degrading graphic ever?

You know how you can tell someone wants to kiss by the way they intently watch your lips while you talk? Ummmmm....

(No commentary)

Happy New Year!