Vince Carter

5 06 2008

For anyone that hasn’t heard about this, Vince Dumb-Fuck Carter donated (recently, I think) $2.5 million to his old high school in Daytona Beach to build a new athletic center.

Vince and other hyper-wealthy dumbass professional athletes all over the country just loooooooooove to give ridiculous sums of money to schools, usually predominantly black schools in shitty neighborhoods, which is a great thing. Unfortunately, they almost invariably funnel the money into athletics which is just about the most retarded and irresponsible thing I can think of*.

Figure 1: Moron

Athletes donating money to athletics is stupid for at least three reasons

1.) Athletic scholarships (typically) lead to people majoring in something useless. I’ve been cursing the black emphasis on high school athletics** for years, and always get the argument that athletics are the road to college scholarships. Ignoring the main macro-level flaw in this argument (the fact that even in college athletics, there aren’t anywhere near enough slots to accommodate all comers), I’ll offer this one up: way too many people going to colleges on athletic scholarships are majoring in useless shit: communications, psychology, english, etc. Once they graduate, they do virtually nothing with these degrees…except in some cases pile them on (there are some motherfuckers running around with THREE english degrees.) Personally, I’d rather my children had an associate’s degree in auto mechanics or HVAC repair than a four year sheepskin in communications***.

Aside: Useless Majors – Read this before you get indignant

My stance on these majors is complicated. I tend not to have a problem with these majors when they’re used as a stepping stone to, for example, a law degree or a graduate degree for someone to become a teacher or professor. I do have a problem when people use these majors to ‘find’ themselves or just coast through school, because I believe these are luxuries that, at the moment, only white people can afford.

Here’s a tip: if you don’t know what the fuck you want to do with your life, major in something useful like math or engineering or business just to hedge your bets, and pick up the useless-but-interesting shit like philosophy or african-american studies as a minor. That way when your lost and confused ass graduates, you’ll actually be taking a decent amount of money from white people that you can reinvest into your community. Be a producer, not a consumer, goddammit.

End Aside

2.) The most reliable studies show the odds of success of any person who wants to become a professional athlete at about 1 in 50,000. 49,999 out of 50,000 pro-athlete hopefuls, after having their dreams curb-stomped, are going to have to fall back on something else, and it for damn sure isn’t going to involve athletics.

Figure 2: Would you bet your livelihood on finding this needle?

3.) You don’t need expensive athletic centers to produce top-flight athletes. Extremely talented athletes are going to get good no matter what. You don’t need futuristic weight equipment and state of the art basketball courts – good old fashioned shitty dumbbells and barbells and old ragtag hardwood courts have been producing superstar athletes for decades. If the law of diminishing returns had a leg, it’d be kicking Vince Carter in the ass for the next ten years.

Listen well, black athletes – WE DON’T NEED HELP IN ATHLETICS, GODDAMMIT! Black people need ACADEMIC help. Donate the $2.5 million to teacher salaries to attract more talented instructors and reduce class sizes, or to buy new and updated textbooks, or to fund study abroad programs so black kids can see some of the world. Put the money into private tutoring or remedial education in impoverished neighborhoods. Pour the money into state of the art libraries or computer labs. Use it to set up an academic scholarship fund.

But the last damn thing we need is more athletic centers. It’ll have more and more black children chasing a proportionally shrinking number of slots in professional and college athletics, leaving them with nothing to fall back on when 99.998% of them fail.

Figure 3: We don’t need Globo Gym to be able to do this. The Slave Trade took care of that.

I’m sure there are some people thinking “but it’s Vince’s money! He can do whatever he wants with it!”

I disagree.

When you make $18 million a year in salary and endorsements to put a ball in a hoop, Karma insists that you have a responsibility to the greater good. Given how insanely lucky and blessed you are, you have an obligation to lift up others around you – and though it’s wishful thinking, I hope this obligation is one of the first things President Obama signs into law. Yes, it’s Vince’s money. Yes, it’s his to use as he pleases. Yes, he has the right to turn a blind eye toward or remain ignorant of the real issues facing black children.

But having the right to do something doesn’t make it the right thing to do.

Figure 4: I hate myself

*Except, of course, for the life-sized bronze statue of Vince Carter commissioned to be placed in front of the gym. It’s being paid for by Vince’s asshole of a mother, who is too much of a selfish bitch to put that money to better use for the greater good, like maybe a new science lab or library renovation.

**Notwithstanding it’s value as a tool for keeping kids, particularly boys, engaged at school (in an academic capacity or not) and off the fucking streets.

***These careers are not to be slept on, especially if the person going into them is ambitious and entrepreneurial. I have a cousin who owns a five bedroom house with a pool, tennis court and full-sized gym, a Viper, an immaculately restored Corvette from the 1950s, has three kids, and a wife who doesn’t work. My cousin is a plumber.





The Gym

16 04 2008

I didn’t realize just how awful the gym (or more accurately, the people in it) is until my trip to the local WSC last night.

Figure 1: Hell Hole

There’s some fairly ridiculous egotistical behavior that goes on when people work out, but for the most part I’ve been willing to overlook the flaws of others ever since what I did during The Incident*. Then last night I saw something that set me over the fucking edge:

I was taking a rest from a set of burpees (which I was performing on the same mats I vomited on a year ago) and gazing blankly over the railing. There was a relatively scrawny white dude running at about 7mph on a treadmill when a dude bearing an eerie likeness to Mario Lopez jumps on the treadmill next to him and turns the fucking thing up to like 15mph. He is running on his heels and making an incredible amount of noise. I turn away and do another set of burpees to the rhythmic tune of Mario Lopez destroying his knees. After resting for 30 seconds and getting ready to start another set, I see Mario Lopez bring his treadmill to a halt, turn to the little white guy and say, I shit you not:

“You need to pick up the pace, buddy! You’re gonna be a waif forever at that speed, DUDE.”

…and walks away. I nearly vomited again.

Seeing this asshole reminded me of all the different types of people in the gym that need to die, and I’m going to list them all right here and right now before I lose my fucking mind.

Asshole #1: Spin Top

This is the guy who is 300lbs of solid muscle from the waist up and is 15lbs of bone and tendon below the waist, thus giving him the appearance of a spin top. In spite of his femoral shortcomings, this motherfucker thinks he’s the baddest guy in the gym because he can bench press twice his own weight for reps. He wants you to ignore the fact that his legs are buckling under the weight of his massive torso (and narcissism), which is why he’s always a.) sitting down looking at himself in the mirror and b.) wearing long pants.


Figure 2: Everybody’s seen this guy

Asshole #2: The Man Moaner/Screamer

Every now and again you’ll get a guy in the gym who simply must let everyone know just how difficult each and every rep is. That’s when you’ll be minding your own business and hear some idiot bleat out “uuuuuuuuUUUUNNNNNNNNHHHHHHHHHH” like somebody’s shoving a pineapple up his ass and he’s kinda enjoying it. That’s the Man Moaner.

Then there’s the guy who sounds like he’s having a pineapple shoved up his ass, but he isn’t enjoying it at all. That’s when you hear the “AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” of the Man Screamer. This asshole is usually wearing one of those stupid leather weight belts, a raggedy baseball cap worn backwards, a severely undersized wifebeater that’s struggling to cling to his body, and really really really tight biker shorts. You’ll also notice the blood vessels in his neck, forehead, and forearms to be inordinately large, which is why women often mistake his penis for a ramen noodle.

Figure 3: Man Screamer

Asshole #3: Leather Girl

This is the white girl with an inordinate amount of muscle and orange skin with the texture of an old leather wallet. All these chicks look the same: between 5’4″ and 5″8″, thin muscular build, orange skin, freckles, Underarmour workout gear consisting of the tummy-revealing top and tight pants that flare out to bell bottoms at the mid-calf, etc. They’re almost always brunette, but you’ll get the occasional blond and even redhead.

Figure 4: Her dick is bigger than mine

You are convinced that these chicks LIVE in the gym, because everytime you’re there…they’re there. They will be there when you arrive, and they will be there when you leave. When you come back three hours later because you left something in a locker, they’re STILL there. When you drive past the gym on the way to work in the morning, they’re hanging dormant by the ankles from the building’s rafters waiting for the gym to open. If you’re a guy you briefly think about trying to have sex with one of them. But then you realize that she kinda looks like a man, and she probably feels like sandpaper on the inside.

Asshole #4: Unnecessary Stretching Girl

There’s always that motherfucking chick in the gym contorting her body into positions that are as senseless as they are impractical. Typcially, these poses are flagrantly sexual, and the guys in the gym have to fight themselves to keep from ogling her and thinking about how she’d look in that pose naked and on top of you.


Figure 5: You cruel fuck

This girl is not a gymnast, she is not in training to become a gymnast, nor does she even know what gymnastics is. All she’s doing is placing her butt and vagina into positions that make you say “hmmm…” and waiting for the opportunity to catch you checking her out so she can get indignant and pretend to have no idea why you would possibly be staring at her.

Asshole #5: The Bold and the Bare-Chested

You don’t usually see this in public/membership gyms, but if you’re like me and have a private gym in your condo, then chances are you’re going to see some fucker on the equipment with his goddamn shirt off. For some reason, it’s never the hot chicks with the big boobies that exercise bare chested – it’s always some nasty old dude with leathery skin and more hair on his chest than any normal man has on his entire head and body.

Figure 6: Struttin’ to a gym near you

These people leave a cubic meter of sweat on whatever machine they were using. They wipe themselves off with a towel, but never EVER the equipment. Guess they figure a little man juice marinating on the recumbent bike will make everyone else stronger. I’m going to start putting itching powder, sulfuric acid, and leeches all over the equipment in my gym. Bare skin will be punished quickly and with extreme prejudice.

*About a year ago I was in training for the powwow season and decided to do the Spartan Workout – a weightlifting regimen modeled after that used by the guys that starred in the movie ‘300’. It was about 11pm and the gym was virtually deserted when I’d just finished my second set of 100 straight excruciating reps of heavy compound exercises, and my body officially told me to go fuck myself. I knew I was going to throw up, but between me and the bathroom was a good 10 yards, a stairwell, and another 20 yards in the opposite direction. Ever so gingerly, I sprinted to the stairs and flew down the stairs as fast as I could without jiggling my stomach. I failed. At the bottom of the stairs I threw up in my mouth but somehow managed to swallow it. I made it about halfway to the bathroom before my stomach decided to re-heave the vomit I’d just swallowed…and then some. This time it was more than I could hold in my mouth. I vomited all over the rubber mats in the stretching area of the Capitol Hill WSC and, since I was still running, a good amount of it wound up on my pants and shirt. I went to the bathroom, cleaned up as best I could, and tried to walk out of the gym with a big stupid smile on my face like nothing happened. I spent the next six weeks training at home out of fear of being recognized.





X-TREME SPORTS!

10 04 2008

One of the most annoying fucking things about X-Treme sports is that you can’t just say “Extreme Sports” in a normal tone of voice. This is completely unacceptable. When you’re talking about X-Treme sports and actually mention the genre by name, you have to scream “X-TREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEME SPORTS!!!!” at the top of your lungs, chug a can of Surge, crush the can on your forehead, use your eye sockets to open your buddy’s beer, then use your penis to build a house. If you don’t, you are a pussy.

Figure 1: X-TREME CONFERENCE CALL!!!!!!!

Black people typically blame white people for starting the ridiculousness that is x-treme sports, but the blame doesn’t lie with white people. X-treme sports had a dual-genesis among two games played stupid fucking Native Americans.

First, there was a form of handball played in pre-Columbian central America. These crazy assholes would divide themselves into two teams and try to chuck a tiny ball between a stone ring mounted on a wall. It’s almost like those rigged and semi-unintentionally sexual carnival games where you have to throw balls into the mouth of the life-sized cardboard cutout of a woman…except people who play the carnival game aren’t ritualistically killed for losing (usually). This is the world of Aztec handball.

Figure 2: Blow the game, and you’ll lose way more than your fucking Nike endorsement.

Then there was lacrosse – and I’m not talking about the pussy ass stickball game played by khaki shorts wearing white dudes named ‘Todd’. This was real lacrosse. Indian lacrosse. A game so hardcore it was called Dehuntshigawa’es (which translates roughly to ‘little brother of war’). The games were so brutal that rival Indian nations would often play lacrosse instead of going to war. The field could be miles long. There could be HUNDREDS of players on EACH side. There were no pads, no rules, and no fucking mercy. People routinely died playing the game.

Figure 3: (l to r) X-Treme, X-Tremely Gay

After white people killed all the Indians and the Vietnam War ended, white people concluded that their lives weren’t being threatened often enough anymore – so they decided to steal yet another Indian tradition and endanger their own lives through sport. They started doing shit like jumping out of planes, hurling themselves off bridges, and starting shitty alternative rock bands for no goddamn reason. They disguised the inherent stupidity of these acts by giving them cool names like ‘skydiving’ , ‘bungee jumping’, and ‘Linkin Park’.

Figure 4: Betcha he’s got an X-TREME HARD ON!!!!!!!!!

Modern X-treme sports are particularly offensive to the segment of black people who grew up in dangerous neighborhoods. These black people grew up having their lives under constant threat against their will: being shot at for wearing the wrong color shirt, getting beaten half to death for not joining gangs (or beaten completely to death for doing the opposite), hearing nighttime gunshots which, at any point, could shatter your window and kill someone in your family, and so forth. After surviving all this, we have to put up with spoiled white people subjecting themselves to life-threatening idiocy ON PURPOSE under the trite explanation “TEE HEE, IT’S SUCH A THRILL! YOU SHOULD TRY IT!”

No thanks, fuckface. I’m already black.

Jumping out of an airplane for ‘fun’ is like shaving your head in front of a chemotherapy patient just for the hell of it.