Tag Archives: basketball

NERDS! a treatise on a gaggle of geeks.

NERDS! Who doesn’t love them, hell, I was the biggest nerd ever -my wife says I still am. I got this awesome picture from Deadspin.com and I couldn’t resist sharing it on Facebook with commentary. Then I realized Facebook didn’t offer the space required to do the in-depth analysis this picture deserves.  For me, it will go down as the single best photo of the 2013 NCAA Tournament, if not the best sporting picture of the year. If you haven’t figured it out, it’s of the Harvard Band. Their joy was captured during March 21st’s Crimson’s upset win over New Mexico. Warning! If you’re sensitive to fun being poked at rich white and Asian kids, go away.

First it’s obvious that the band is the team’s best weapon, and the reason Harvard was invited to the big dance in the first place; the fact is, the band’s mere presence distracts opposing teams so much that they can’t concentrate on their game. It would take a team loaded with narcissists,  or a team who grew up in Nerd infested environments and thus have a natural immunity, not to be distracted by this motley collection of Poindexters. Unfortunately for Harvard, most teams at this level of competition are indeed the former.   Notice I’m trying to sound intelligent, so that any Crimson student or alum who happens to stumble upon this blog would be impressed and not sneer and dub me a heathen. Enough of this ridiculous preamble, let’s get on with our in-depth analysis.901402_10152674904895072_636020931_o

The first person that deserves mention, other than Lewis, the joyous band leader, who is politely clapping in honor of his team’s momentous achievement is the member on the upper right with his hands atop his head. He doesn’t look happy, as a matter of fact, he seems distraught – as if he has bet his future stock options against the Crimson or he procrastinated in completing his dissertation on the bet they would be back at Harvard by Friday night in time to cram all weekend. Whatever the case, he seems to be in the initial stage of panic and is considering relocating to San Jose and becoming a mid-level manager for a high tech firm.

Next to Lewis, we have Poindexter who in his excitement pitched his violin and is doing the Macarena. Cymbal Girl, now she’s intriguing, I can’t tell if she is going to climb the ladder at the FBI or if she’s a serial killer. She’s not celebrating the victory as much as revealing in her opponent’s misery.   The kid to Cymbal Girl’s right is an athlete, but not good enough to make the team, even at Harvard, his reaction indicates a rich fantasy life in which he’s just sunk the winning basket.

The gal in the second row waving her fist is activism personified. And tonight her spiel is painful for New Mexico, because she’s about to say: “Not only are we smarter than you, we just kicked your ass.”  The fat trumpet player next to her seems to be the love child of John Candy and Truman Capote, I’m happy that his team’s fate isn’t depended on him sinking a free-throw with no time left. Next to Truman Candy we have a leader, only I can’t tell if she’s the winner of the next papal conclave or if she’s taking over the North Jersey Mob. Whatever the case, she’s internalizing the moment and will use it against someone, someday, somehow. The redheaded guy next to Pope Soprano, he’s the underachiever; he could be the smartest one of the lot, but he has the least confidence and will end up drinking himself to death, become a novelist, or both.  Asian guy next to Ernest Harvardway is simply happy, he will probably produce an algorithm unlocking the secret to attaining that blissful state.

Third row, second from left looks like Lurch with a brain. Big enough, but not coordinated to play round ball.  The guy next to Lurch is in a way the most intriguing: The lack of emotion indicates he is a deep thinker, and eternally inspired by what he sees, so much so that in watching the course of the basketball during game he began theorizing the effects of a black hole’s gravitational implication on spherical objects. If the game were to have gone on another two minutes he would have completed the Unified Theorem, but the game ended and the crowd’s outburst derailed his train of thought and now a great moment in science was ruined by a bunch of guys in shorts chasing a ball.

And then there’s the flute girl. Potentially the most complicated of the lot. She’s wearing black and a hat, so immediately the band even considers her an oddball. If her hair is an indication, her brain is boiling and is a time bomb ready to go off. That she plays the flute is symbolic of something. Her expression says that her team’s victory grants external validation to complex, tangled emotions that Freud wouldn’t tackle and Dickens couldn’t write about. It is my opinion she should lose the hat and allow some pressure to vent before her head explodes.

For those in the band that I didn’t mention, congratulations, because this means you will slip into the life of a multi-millionaire almost unnoticed and with little fan-fare, you are the king makers and truly hold the next generation’s power.

A word or two about those not in the band, but had their suffering sitting behind this Gaggle of Geeks digitally captured – wrong place at the wrong time people.

The African-American guy on the left, well, South Park has Token. The lady in the teal is looking at herself on the megatron and thinking: Do I look fat?    The redhead is thinking: I’m going to keep my kids watching the Kardashians, I don’t want them to grow up and be as embarrassing as these nerds, I mean, who wears jackets and ties to a basketball game?  The Cougar thought she was in Candy Land when she heard she got seats behind the band, but then she realized what band it was and had to settle for the ex-jock in red sweat-suit next to her.  The ex-jock is haunted by Bruce Springsteen’s Glory Days playing over and over in his head.

In a seriousness, what a great picture. Congratulations on your moment of joy. It allows a fool like me to take an hour and create stories. It was almost as much fun as being there. Band members, if you ever vacation to my little corner of Montana, look me up, I’d be honored to buy you a beer… ah, I mean a cocktail.

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The Shithouse Poet Returns – The Men’s Room… The Barroom Chronicles… Episode 9

It was only a matter of time, you knew it was coming –  the yin to the  women’s room yang, or is it the yang to the yin? Who knows? All I know is that I can’t help  reading this stuff multiple times a day – no wonder I’m twisted. 

Without further ado, allow me to reintroduce the shithouse poet – the Men’s Room edition.

If you're weak kneed, sensitive, or a stick in the mud, do not attend!

Warning: If you’re sensitive, easily offended, or are politically correct…  Oh wait, you wouldn’t be here. If you managed to stumble across this blog and don’t know my tastes and find it offensive, tuck your skirt in or leave before you stain this beautiful poetry with your tears of sensitivity and good taste. 

Phew, now that we handled that and you’re still here, did you ever consider that good taste is a euphamism for a humorless stick in the mud. I know of such a person who took offense to what follows and in protest demostrated his outrage by urinating over the bathroom walls. But then his name was on the wall and next to his name is an activity in which I cannot confirm nor deny the said person is alleged to have participated. 

Without further ado, let’s step into the men’s room. Just don’t step on the butt print in the floor. We don’t know where that bottom has been other than sitting in wet concrete at a specific point in time.  (Hopefully picture is forthcoming. An edit is required to live up to wordpress standards.)

The first thing you may notice is a note about our town:

Shithouse Poet at it again!

Alberton: Where you don’t lose your woman, you lose your turn!

Placement is everything, and it’s no wonder I have a complex. Every time I pee, this chestnut stares me in the face: 

Why are you looking up here, the joke is in your hand.

Of course there’s plenty to read about men’s favorite topic, and it ain’t football, hockey or basketball:

I like them in frills…  I like them in lace…  But I like them better when they sit on my face!

Snow is like pussy… Fun to play in, you never know when it will cum, and only some of it is clean enough to eat!

Here’s to the breezes that blow through the treez’s and lifts little girl’s dresses above her kneezes… Lil boy seezes, does what he pleases and catches social diseases.

A trick is a trick, a ho is a ho, it ain’t no fun less you get some mo.

Now that we’ve discerned a man’s favorite topic, here’s a little lit about what we do when we get what we want:

The religious amongst us pray:   Now I lay me down to eat, I pray her muff don’t smell like feet, and if it smells too much to lick, I hope she’s good at sucking dick!

Others boast our own accoutrements:    It’s as long as me arm and thick as me wrist with a knob on the end as big as me fist and it just longs to be kissed.

Other’s wax poetic:  Love me tender, love me sweet, wrap you lips around my meat! Watch me smile, watch me grin, watch my cum run down your chin.

Other’s wax to the wax: I’ll love you tender, I’ll love you sweet, but it won’t be my lips you’ll see on your meat.  We’ll see a smile, we’ll see a grin, and we’ll see who’s cum is running down who’s chin!

And then there’s the result of such shenanigans:  As I stand here trying to piss, I think of the girl who gave me this!

When us men tire of pussy, there’s always our best friend:

My dog is smarter than you… She’s spayed!                                

Lady, keep your hands to yourself!

It’s a dog’s life… If you can’t eat it, fuck it, piss on it.

Some of us prefer a different kind of pet:                                          

I’m not a Spring Chicken… I’m the Rooster!

And often when we sit to contemplate we give birth to the following drivel:

 Here I sit buns a flexin’  givin’ birth to another Mexican!

Often contemplation leads to the philosophical:

Civilization exists by nature’s consent – subject to change without notice.

If the creator was a pessimist, he would have put your asshole in the middle of your face!

And then there’s the management’s promise:  We shall serve no whine before it’s time!    

Orson Welles has served 'whine' in his time... but he agrees literature is best enjoyed upon thy throne!

Please ignore the beauty right above the hopper,  it may cause you to piss on the walls:  Blankety Blank, you Blankety Blank, don’t you?

That’s funny, it didn’t cause me to do it either…

I’ve hope you enjoyed this tour into the filthiest of all places… and I’m not talking about the men’s room, I’m refering to man’s one track mind.