Talkin' with Tewks: I Love Team Canada, but . . .

Fresh off a glorious bachelor party weekend, I am refreshed and ready to write. Gretzpo and I completely dominated the blackjack tables at Casino Niagara; we were riffing, cracking jokes, making friends with dealers, pit bosses and other casino patrons; we actually had a crowd around us watching us play.

At one point, we were on such a hot streak (three blackjacks in a row) that we dubbed ourselves the BJ kids. For some reason, that nickname garnered quite a bit of attention from a couple of flamboyant fellas. They kept buying us apple martinis; nice guys.

A few of you expressed some anger in not getting your weekly Tewks fix and for that I apologize. The surgeon general should really put a disclaimer on the home page indicating the addictive properties of such journalistic excellence.

Before I dive in today’s topic, let me begin by saying that I am a huge supporter of Canadian athletes. I love all things Canada and will fiercely cheer on Canadian content in international competitions no matter how mundane or silly the sport. I have spent Olympic years transfixed by Canadian medal hopefuls in rhythmic gymnastics, skeleton and synchronized swimming.

That being said, I consider the hoopla surrounding Hockey Canada’s orientation camp for the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver to be nothing short of ridiculous. As a proud Canadian, I may be committing blasphemy with this next statement, but I do not give two shits about four days of practice in August for a tournament that is six months away.

I completely understand and agree with the necessity of creating team chemistry and unity among Canada’s top players; what I can’t fathom is the incessant and, more often that not, inane media coverage of the event.

All of Canada’s sports networks are equally guilty; TSN, Sportsnet and The Score have devoted dozens of minutes of their highlight shows to reporting on the mind-numbing minutiae of each practice.

All of these talking heads keep telling viewers that the team will made during the first three months of the regular season and to ‘not read too much into what goes on at camp.’ Ten seconds after that sentence escapes their lips, they excitedly make wild predictions that so and so might be on the bubble due to a lacklustre practice session.

Let’s use our brains here guys. Do you really think Mike Babcock will leave Rick Nash off the Olympic roster because he messed up a three man weave?

Not only do they report on the mood and efficacy of each practice session, but they discuss and dissect the off day team building activities. I actually had Pierre McGuire and his crack reporting tell me that Sidney Crosby sucks at fly fishing and Jarome Iginla is really good at golf.

In the words of Alex Rios, who gives a fuck?

I don’t care if Crosby clubs baby seals in his spare time; as long as he brings home the gold, I could not care less about his off ice exploits.

The main reason I’m so upset about the coverage of orientation week is the adverse effect it is having on my consumption of baseball highlights. We are nearing the first week of September, the pennant and wildcard races are heating up and I have to waste ten minutes of my morning listening to James Duthie breathlessly examine the possibility of Eric Staal playing right wing.

The nightly baseball recap should be the lead story on every highlight show, not some glorified shinny session which contained exactly zero hits and was just an excuse for Hockey Canada to make a few bucks off 16,000 gullible Calgarians.

Do I think Canada has a shot at the gold? Absolutely. I think we will have the most depth of any country in the tournament. Also, never underestimate the power of the home crowd. The only team that scares me are the Russians; they might have one of the best offences in IIHF history. Imagine this power play unit: Ovechkin, Malkin, Datsyuk, Gonchar and Kovalchuk. If I was a goaltender, those five names would keep me up at night.

I propose a moratorium on Olympic hockey talk until the first of February; or at least until a World Series champion is crowned.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Hiatus

I will not be posting a column this week as Gretzpo and I are headed to Niagara Falls for a Bachelor Party. Needless to say, my mind is on things other than writing at this moment.

We're going to make The Hangover look like the Dead Poets Society.

If any of our valued readers would like to electronically send bail money on our behalf, please email me.

Tewks is already drunk.

Talkin' with Tewks: The Jerkstore Called and They're Running Out of You

Buckle your seatbelts ladies and gentlemen the acerbic and nasty sign has been turned on in Gretzpo’s Sports Blog, so expect to feel some major turbulence at your computer screen at a cruising altitude of great writing.

Disclaimer: if you are Patrick Kane’s mother, grandmother, or any member of his immediate or extended family I would stop reading immediately. My rage over young Patty’s cab incident is palpable and I just washed down a fifth of Jack Daniels. Plus I’m writing in my underwear so literally anything might happen.

It may seem like I’ve waited a week to weigh in on the issue, so I could gather all the facts and then comment in a carefully prepared, well thought out manner. That would be wrong. I’m on a very tight schedule: Monday to Thursday I watch Youporn videos, Fridays I write for the blog and the weekends are reserved for partying and getting rejected sexually by members of the opposite sex.

Also, I’ve never let little things like facts and journalistic accuracy get in my way before so I am not about to start now.

The Patrick Kane incident struck a chord with me because there is nothing I hate more than punk kids with a warped sense of entitlement who think they can treat people they deem inferior like crap.

Let’s be honest: no matter what the extenuating circumstances of the incident are, the issue can be summarized thusly: Patrick Kane, because he is a professional hockey player, is an arrogant, little twerp who thinks he can play by different rules than the rest of us. Rules of social morality and basic human decency do not apply to him.

If he got into a barfight because of the above (say he propositioned some guys’ girlfriend) then that would be a separate issue. Hell, if I was in the NHL I’d have the big wheels on whenever I went out drinking as well.

But Patrick Kane couldn’t try to start something with someone his own age. First, that would require him to not be a huge pussy, which, evidently, is asking a lot. No, he had to pick on an elderly cab driver. Did he start something with this cab driver one on one?

Of course not. He needed the help of his cousin to choke and punch the poor guy because of a fare dispute. Fighting mano a mano, even against a senior citizen, necessitates at least an ounce of testosterone flowing through one’s veins. Obviously little Patty doesn’t have any of that in his system; if he did, then he would probably be able to grow facial hair and weigh more than 150lbs.

The origin of the skirmish is what I find most vexing. Apparently, the two parties squabbled over the change for a payment of fifteen bucks for a $13.80 cab ride.

WHAT??????

Patrick Kane makes $850,000 a year and he’s willing to fight a cab driver for failing to come up with a dollar and twenty cents change? I am not a good enough writer to describe such frugality. That is just fucking ridiculous.

I don’t make any money and I would have let the cabbie keep the change.

What’s the matter Patty? Been spending too much of that entry level contract on convincing drunk teenagers to give you a handjob in the back of your Escalade? Is the extra DOLLAR AND TWENTY CENTS going to make or break this month’s budget? Or are Mommy and Daddy still looking after your finances and they’d be upset knowing you were out drinking underage?

You seem like a White Zinfandel or Bacardi Breezer guy to me. Am I right?

I recall from my university days that you are supposed to make your thesis identifiable in the beginning of your essay. I’m not sure if I did that, so let me do so now.

PATRICK KANE IS A SCRAWNY, LITTLE BITCH.

As I did with my lambasting of Chris Bosh, on the off chance that little Patrick reads this I am laying down the following challenge. Because I have ripped you mercilessly with never having met you, you deserve a chance at retribution. Email me (the link can be found in the Contributor section) and show me that you’re not everything I described above. Christ, you made it to the NHL there has to be a man inside of you somewhere (and your regular Friday night activities don’t count).

And for those readers who will call me a pussy for picking on two guys much scrawnier than me, with no discernible fighting ability, you are absolutely correct. I’m not going to call out someone like Kimbo Slice. Despite evidence to the contrary, I am not an idiot.

Plus I can’t risk having my face disfigured. It’s really all I have.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' with Tewks: US Legal System Going to the Dogs

In a continuing effort to increase publicity and readership to the blog, check out the picture of the hot bitch above.

The news of Michael Vick’s conditional reinstatement to the National Football League, along with questionable off field behaviour of other football stars has forced me to comment on the never-ending legal woes of NFL players. Furthermore, these legal cases have illustrated glaring disparities and misplaced priorities within the US justice system.

Let’s tackle the Michael Vick issue first. Let me begin by saying the accusations levelled against Vick for his part in the dog fighting ring were sickening, reprehensible and inexcusable. Executing underperforming dogs by electrocution, drowning or simply by slamming their heads repeatedly into the ground is absolutely despicable.

This doesn’t even include dogs killed or irreparably harmed in the dogfights themselves. Vick, along with his hometown minions, forced female dogs into ‘rape stands’ to be impregnated by the most aggressive, physically dominant males to ensure selective breeding. Reading excerpts of the court documents makes me hope that Vick himself was propped up into a ‘rape stand’ during his prison sentence and brutalized by a lonely 300lb inmate named Bubba.

The hot topic concerning Vick these days is whether or not he should be allowed to continue his professional football career. I am in the camp that is for reinstatement. He served his time and deserves a chance to regain his livelihood at his chosen profession. The fact his chosen profession pays multi million dollar salaries is beside the point.

The entire point of incarcerating prisoners is to rehabilitate them in the hopes that they can once again become functioning members of society. No one has the right to deny Vick this chance if he has served his mandated sentence, is considered rehabilitated and expresses remorse at his transgressions.

I think the real question is whether Vick can still play the game of football at a high level; it will be tough. He’s two years removed from training and all that forced sodomy while in the clink can’t be good for the legs. Vick’s farts probably sound like air escaping from a punctured bike tire. WHOOOOOSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!

The second malcontent I want to discuss is quite possibly one of the dumbest human beings on the planet: Plaxico Burress. He was charged with second degree criminal possession of a weapon and third degree possession for carrying ammunition. How he was found to be in possession of a Glock semiautomatic is the best part of the story.

The jackass shot himself in the thigh at a nightclub!!

Let’s try to get into Plaxico’s brain to understand his thought process on the night in question:

I’m the star wide receiver on the New York Football Giants. I feel like getting my freak on at the club tonight. What should I wear? I think I’m going to go with sweatpants; I love a nice elastic waistband. Besides, nothing says mature, rich, young professional like wearing sweatpants in public (who is he, George Costanza?). How can I best accentuate my ensemble? I know, I’ll shove my loaded Glock pistol down my waistband in case I need it (I know the first thing I shove down my pants before I go out is a double barrelled shotgun; but that’s only because I want the hotties on the dance floor to think I have big junk).

I don’t know much about weapons, cars or anything manly but I do know it’s probably not a good idea to have a loaded handgun down your pants in a busy nightclub.

Also, why wasn’t the safety on? If a loaded gun is in close proximity to my penis, I want the assurance that said gun will not let fly with a bullet into my urethra. I’ve become quite fond of my manhood and I would to keep it in working order for some years to come.

Now the penalties for his charges are quite severe; the District Attorney wants to put Burress behind bars for two years, while Plaxico’s defense team has countered with one year. There’s an excellent chance this case will go to trial.

I understand why the penalties are severe for having a loaded weapon in public; to act as a deterrent so others don’t start packing heat while out to dinner at the Olive Garden. However, I don’t understand how Burress’ crimes warrant the same punishment as Vick’s. All Burress should be punished for is being an idiot; I think the shame and embarrassment, not to mention the excruciating pain, of shooting oneself in the thigh is punishment enough. Burress should have to pay a huge fine, do some community service and probation and be educated on gun safety.

The illogical sentencing of Burress compared to Michael Vick brings me to my last case study: Dante Stallworth. There aren’t any male rape or penis shooting jokes in this section; the entire story is just too sad and incomprehensible.

In March, Stallworth was driving drunk in Miami after a heavy night of partying in South Beach. His blood alcohol content was nearly twice the legal limit. During his bumper car ride home, Stallworth struck and killed pedestrian Mario Reyes.

What was Stallwoth’s jail sentence? 24 days.

What the fuck?

He killed another human being with a car while under the influence of alcohol and spends just over three weeks in jail. How is that justice? Michael Vick killed some dogs, which is tragic, but he didn't murder another person. Vick got two years. Plaxico Burress is looking at two years in prison and his only crime is being a moron and socially retarded.

What kind of legal code punishes dog killers and those in possession of firearms more severely than someone who has extinguished the life of another human? There is something seriously wrong with the United States justice system.

I have to stop talking about this as I’m getting too upset. I’m going to Wakestock in Collingwood this weekend to party with scantily clad, sexually adventurous coeds so I need to mentally prepare myself.

Have a great weekend.

Tewks is frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Every Rose Has Its Thorn

My last few columns have been entirely too manly in tone and purely focused on sports; discussions meandering from the greatness of Roger Federer, Lance Armstrong’s comeback, the incredible story of Tom Watson’s quest for an Open Title and the possible trading of Roy Halladay.

It’s time I got back to my roots of writing superfluous pop culture pieces so fluffy that a new visitor to the site would be unsure of my sexual preference. That being said, I’m sure most of my veteran readers still aren’t convinced I’m straight.

That’s right sports fans it’s time to discuss the culmination of the current season of The Bachelorette. I’ve never actually watched a season of this before because the entire premise of finding a spouse on national television in two months is just so mind-numbingly stupid and insane. But I digress.

The only reason I started watching this season (and only halfway through) is due solely to the cohesion and success of our beach volleyball team, Team Top Gun. You need one girl on the court at all times and our girl, let’s call her Red, is the best female player in the league. Needless to say, it is in our best interests to keep her happy; which is also why I play shirtless so she can ogle my impressive musculature glisten in the setting sun.

We play Monday nights so our games always coincide with The Bachelorette; Red, being a female, is a huge fan of trashy reality television and it got to the point where her desire to play volleyball was waning due to her trash TV obsession.

Fearing the downward spiral of Team Top Gun into the bottom half of the standings, Gretzpo and I capitulated to Red’s demands and PVR’d each episode with the promise to watch it immediately after our games commenced.

We grudgingly prepared ourselves for our Monday nights to be filled be with crying, overwrought emotion and conniving backstabbing. Then we would watch The Bachelorette. Ba-dum-cha!

However, once we started watching, we became hooked. It is a fantastic show: polarizing characters, excessive drinking, questionable morality, great one-liners and a bachelorette who vacillates between hideous and hot in a matter of frames. Really it’s remarkable. Sometimes she looks like a Peregrine falcon and others times, the gorgeous girl next door.

What made this season great was a fellow by the name of Wes. A Texas country singer, he had no qualms that he was on the show solely for the purpose of garnering publicity for his career. Plus he has a face that you just want to hit with a baseball bat. If you looked up douchebag in the dictionary, Wes and his smarmy shit-eating grin would be staring back at you.

I have to give the guy credit; he preyed on Jillian’s insecurities and horrible decision making and parlayed it into a top four finish.

Here’s what I can’t stand about women and why they are crazy. Everyone could see that Wes was not there to fall in love, except for Jillian. She kept saying that she liked his bad boy persona and that he was misunderstood. Here’s a tip: if you allow guys to treat you like shit, they will treat you like shit. Plain and simple.

Wes even told the other guys he had a girlfriend back home and when they tried to tell Jillian she refused to listen. Jake, aka Mr. Perfect, even returned to the show after being eliminated to out Wes for the colossal prick he is. Did Jillian listen and make a reasonable, logical decision? Of course not.

She said and I quote: “I don’t know who to trust, the All American good guy or the Texas bad boy?”

Your answer is in the fucking question!!!!! What a moron. I would love for a woman to explain this thought process to me because I am at a loss for words. The she sent Jake home and kept Wes around for another a week.
And she wonders why guys have hurt her in the past.

I’m getting too upset, let’s move on.

The final two guys up for Jillian’s affection were Kiptyn and Ed. Kiptyn is way too good looking for her and Ed has just the right amount of goofy everyman in him to be a good fit for Two Face.

I really think Kiptyn dodged a bullet; he has every woman in America thinking he’s a great guy, he’s famous and lives in San Diego; he’ll spend the next 3 months preying on every B and C list actress and model with a 50 mile radius. Good for him.

Ed was the underdog going into the finale but came out on top. A couple episodes earlier he had a bout of erectile dysfunction and had Jillian worried that the physical connection wasn’t there.

Ol’ Ed got right back on the horse and must have embraced his inner Sting with a marathon sex session in the finale because Jillian was starstruck after their second opportunity to ‘make love’.

Congratulations Ed and Jillian. You’ll be broken up by Christmas.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Should He Stay or Should He Go?

I write this column with a deep-seated malaise welling up at the bottom of my heart and the acidic taste of bile in my throat (no, I did not just see Gretzpo without a shirt on).

The reason for my melancholy is the very real possibility that my idol, Roy Halladay, will be traded by the MLB trade deadline next Friday (if that happens, I will not be writing a column next week; instead I will attempt to cheer myself up with a healthy selection of Youporn videos).

Tonight, Doc Halladay goes up against the Tampa Bay Rays in what could be his last start in a Blue Jays uniform. I hope Rogers Centre is packed to the hilt with 40,000 strong clamouring to pay tribute to the greatest pitcher in franchise history (and that’s not even up for debate; Dave Steib is a distant second).

The entire trade situation has been handled worse than a hot potato at a birthday party for epileptic kids. 100% of the blame should be placed squarely on the shoulders of Toronto’s smarmy general manager, JP “Falcon Nose” Ricciardi. He has used misdirection and flat out lies to convince the Rogers conglomerate and the Jays’ fan base that he is committed to bringing a third championship to Canada’s team.

Now, Ricciardi has done a great job in stockpiling young arms and the Jays have an abundance of talent in their farm system, but we’re on, what, year 8 of his supposed five year plan to make the team a contender?

Even Stalin didn’t take this long to transform Russian socioeconomics and do, uh, some other stuff.

Before this season even got underway, Ricciardi had the audacity to say that 2009 would be a “transition” year because of the season ending injuries to Shawn Marcum and Dustin McGowan, and 2010 would be Toronto’s ‘year.’

I have a question: how the fuck are we supposed to contend for a World Series by trading arguably the best pitcher in baseball? Call me crazy, but if pitching and defense wins championships, then having Doc on the staff might be a prerequisite for a deep playoff run.

Unfortunately, because Ricciardi has the Toronto media in his back pocket (I don’t think I’d be able to recognize Mike Wilner without his finger up JP’s butt), there seems to be a lack of outrage among the Jays’ beat writers.

There is an appropriate amount of consternation in the blogosphere, as that is the arena where true fans have a voice and don’t just spend their time grazing at the buffet in the media room while periodically glancing at the play on the field.

If Roy wants a trade, then I say more power to him. He has been nothing short of amazing during his 10 or so years with the Jays’ organization. Halladay is a consummate professional, a warrior on the mound and has been a terrific ambassador for city of Toronto.

He has taken the ball every five days, pitched in front of shit teams, mediocre teams and decent teams without ever once complaining about a lack of run support. The guy throws over 200 innings a year and has been invaluable in showing Jays’ prospects how to properly prepare for a start and hone their craft.

He is the only active major leaguer with at least 100 career wins and zero playoff appearances. That’s not fair. A talent like Doc deserves to pitch in October.

Furthermore, Roy deserves nothing but adulation and respect from the city of Toronto. If, in fact, this is his last start, the cheers should ring long and loud, deep into the night. And, when Roy returns with his new team, I will be at the game and be the first one to give Doc a standing ovation for the years of greatness he provided the Blue Jays organization. And I hope every other fan in attendance will do the same.

In fact, if I hear one boo mixed in among the multitude of cheers, I will personally find that person and beat the living shit out of him (well not me, but one of my friends who is, you know, not a pussy).

Back to Falcon Nose: he wants to trade Vernon Wells. I, for one, think this is great idea but unfortunately there is only one general manager dumb enough to pay Wells $20 million a year. Oops.

Also, there are rumblings that he’s shopping Scotty Rolen around as well. If that happens, I am done with this team until Ricciardi’s reign of terror is over. How can you trade a player like Scott Rolen? He’s the heart and soul of that clubhouse. Gretzpo and I are such big fans of Rolen that we contemplated heading down to the Rogers Centre, with homemade signs and shirts declaring ourselves ‘Scotty’s Hotties”. Unfortunately, the idea fell through when we realized there is no way to make that seem less gay.

Please do yourself a favour and watch the Jays game tonight. It could be one of your last chances to pitching as an art form. Here’s to you Doc; the greatest pitcher in Blue Jays history.

I’m starting to get a little misty right now. I’ll let Tina Turner express how I feel about Roy. Enjoy.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Elementary, My Dear Watson

Similar themes are permeating throughout the sports world recently. After last week’s discourse on the incredulity surrounding Lance Armstrong’s comeback in the Tour de France, sports fans have been treated to another old lion attempting to recapture past glory in Tom Watson’s march to the top of the leaderboard in the British Open (or Open Championship for all you insufferably pretentious Brits).

I consider myself to be a student of golf history, but I am embarrassed to admit that, until this week, I was not that familiar with the career of Mr. Watson. I think this is due in large part to the fact he played the majority of his career in Jack Nicklaus’ shadow (I think Phil Mickelson will share a similar historical fate due to his time in the Tiger Woods era).

After a quick perusal of the most reputable source on the Web (Wikipedia), I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to Tom Watson. The guy had an incredible career: 39 PGA Tour victories, 6 Player of the Year awards and 8 major championships, including a phenomenal 5 British Opens.

His most memorable victory came at the 1977 British Open, which coincidentally also took place at Turnberry, in a classic confrontation with Jack Nicklaus that came to be known as the Duel in the Sun (that sounds like an Antonio Banderas/Selma Hayek straight to DVD release).

They were lovers on the run from the law. Their crime: Passion. With a heat hot enough to melt ice. Sex, sweat and salsa dancing. Banderas, Hayek and Steve Buscemi star in Duel in the Sun.

I’m pretty sure I would rent that movie; I gave myself an erection just writing that tagline.

Back to Turnberry 1977: after two rounds and identical scores, Watson and Nicklaus were paired for the third round one shot off the lead. After a pair of 65s, Tom and Jack found themselves alone at the top in the hunt for the title.

What followed was probably the greatest final round in major championship history as both guys came out swinging. After 16 holes, both legends were tied: ten shots clear of the rest of the field. Watson birdied 17, Nicklaus sank a 50 foot bomb for birdie on 18, but Watson followed with his second birdie in a row for the win and his second Claret Jug.

Watson shot 65 on Sunday and Nicklaus shot 66. Can you imagine that final round taking place in today’s 24 hour sports news cycle? My God, all those creaky, old school golf writers would have heart attacks from the excitement and Johnny Miller would have an orgasm live on air.

During his prime, Watson’s playing style was described thusly: he had abundant length coupled with sufficient accuracy, played aggressively, developed a superlative short game, and was skilled and confident with the flat stick.

That also accurately describes my bedroom performance.

Yesterday, Watson was able to give Father Time a swift kick in the groin with a virtuoso 65 that left him one shot out of the lead at the age of 59. Can you believe that? I hope I’m still above ground at that age and Tom Watson is in contention for a major title.

Most pundits believe that Watson is just a feel good story and he can’t possibly keep up his stellar play. However, his game is suited to links golf and he has more Open Championship experience than anyone else in the field, so look for Tom to acclimate nicely once the nastiness of Mother Nature rears her ugly head and turns Turnberry into a battle of attrition.

Not only is Watson a great golfer but he is also the consummate professional. I love how he’s paired with Sergio for the first two days; there’s such a great juxtaposition between the two. Sergio gets all huffy and bitchy if someones farts within a 200 yard radius of him on a golf course. The guy is a basket case and always blames external influences for his poor play instead of looking inward. Probably the biggest reason why he has yet to win a major. That and he can’t putt worth shit.

Contrast that demeanour with the calm, even-keeled approach of Tommy Watson. He never gets down on himself, always keeps plugging away and doesn’t let bad luck or poor shots affect the rest of his round.

Case in point: Watson’s second round. He bogeyed four holes in a row at one point, clawed all the way back and capped off his day with a bomb from the fringe to go into the weekend tied for the lead and looking for his sixth British Open title.

Here’s hoping Watson can continue on this magical run and become the oldest winner in major championship history.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

My Favorite Swedish Gang and a Johnny Lawrence Tribute

Your pal Gretzpo, after awaking from his slumber this morning, made his way down to the parking garage to begin his daily commute.

However, his driver side front window was smashed in, and his GPS stolen. The ruffians who stole my GPS though will not need directions for where they're going: because they're all going straight to hell.

I can only assume that it was a group of punks who stole from me and vandalized my car: what if I had caught the perp in the act? Surely he'd need backup in order to take care of me. Or some kind of weapon. Or some form of martial arts training. Or the ability to throw a punch. But I digress...

Because of my ordeal today we will be saluting the greatest gang leader of all time: Johnny Lawrence. If I have to provide any sort of backdrop for who that is, you're definitely on the wrong site.

With every additional viewing of the Karate Kid I start to secretly root for Johnny Lawrence more and more and Daniel LaRusso less and none.

Let's start with one of the opening scenes at the beach: school's about to start, Johnny is ready to re-invent himself in order to win back the affections of Ali, and she's already being playful with some punk from New Jersey. He rides down on his motorbike, and says that he "wants to talk" to Ali. And in order to hear her, he tries to turn down the volume on her 1980's freakishly oversized boombox. Ali and Daniel both flip out, Johnny tries to hand the boombox to Daniel, and because he's so weak he falls over.

Daniel then takes a wild running swing at Johnny, which he easily evades, and does some leg sweeps before finally finishing him off with a roundhouse kick to the stomach. He then asks Daniel if he's "had enough", clearly believing the fight has reached its conclusion. Daniel then proceeds to throw the biggest sucker punch of all time. "Now we're even!" Johnny sets him down one more time, even though Daniel's actions warranted a much more gruesome beating. The whole fight can be seen here.

And that's just the beginning: later Daniel is riding his bike down the street and is approached from behind by Johnny and the rest of the Cobra Kai on motor bikes. Instead of moving to the right like slower traffic should, he tries to speed up to avoid them. So the Cobra Kai do what I want to do to every cyclist who gets in my way: run him off the road. Then he goes and gets pissed off at his mother. Nah... "A GOOD SCHOOL!".

Here's another note: every time the Cobra Kai are involved in a scene the music turns dark and evil. Music can be such a strong device: this is why I try and avoid hitting on women to songs like "Psycho Killer" by the Talking Heads. Yeah... I'm going through a real David Byrne phase. You see that canary-coloured polo and tight khakis? That's been me for the past 3 months. And do you see the creepy way he leers at his bassist at the beginning of the song? That's actually still a staple in my "game" with the ladies.

Back to Lawrence and Russo. There's a respite in the deserved beatings Daniel receives, but Daniel breaks the unofficial armistice by hosing down Johnny when he was rolling a joint - kind of like Hitler broke the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact between the Nazis and Soviets in 1941. Am I saying that Daniel LaRusso is Hitler? No ... I'm just saying they both broke Non-Aggression Pacts.

Where else are you going to get 1980 movies paralleled with World War II references? Our readership should be in the millions...

So after Miyagi agrees to train Daniel we don't see Lawrence for a while: unti he's kicking ass in the tournament. Because of injury, it appears as though Lawrence will win the tournament by default: but then they stop the trophy presentation when Daniel says he's going to fight after Mr. Miyagi molests him with his warm hand technique.

I know athletes are supposed to be tough: but what amount of damage do you think this did to Lawrence's confidence before the fight? Can you imagine being awarded the Stanley Cup and then having to play a 5th Overtime after it was found that the game winning goal was high sticked in? I think the All Valley Karate tournament was conspiring against him.

So here's to you, Johnny Lawrence. YouTube has paid you the homage you deserve.

Talkin' with Tewks: Lance Romance

Fresh off Roger Federer’s historic Wimbledon victory, outlasting Andy Roddick in the most fascinating fifth set in Grand Slam lore, the sports world has another incredible story taking place across the Atlantic.

Lance Armstrong, he of the record seven consecutive Tour de France titles and countless conquests of Hollywood starlets (I’m not sure which is more impressive), finds himself a fraction of a second behind the leader after the first week of the 2009 tour.

Unlike most North Americans, I was subjected to the exhausting beauty of the Tour de France from a young age; Papa Tewks is an avid cycling fan. I remember watching Miguel Indurain in the mid 90s win five Tours in a row; pundits said Indurain was like no other and the cycling world would never see another talent like him. There were rumours that the guy’s VO2 max was the highest ever recorded; or that his heart was equine in size (although I’d rather have a different organ bring similarities to a horse).

And then Lance showed up and turned the cycling world on its ear. I know stories about Armstrong have been written ad nauseam over the past decade but let’s quickly summarize his career path because it really is incredulous to fathom.

Diagnosed with testicular cancer, lost a nut, and given a 40% chance to live. Not only does he recover from the horrible ravages of chemotherapy to become a healthy, functional human being again, but he is able to race in arguably sport’s most gruelling test of endurance, the Tour de France.

Extraordinarily, he is able to win, not one, not two, not three, but SEVEN Tour titles in a row! The guy went from having the Last Rites read to him during his darkest hour to being the greatest cyclist the world has ever seen.
This is where all the Frogs in France get their panty hose in a twist and say that Armstrong must have been doping; there’s no way he could have beaten their Euro trash fruitcakes without succumbing to the wonders of modern chemistry. Of course they forget to mention that Armstrong has never failed a drug test, the International Cycling Union has the strictest drug testing protocol in sports and legions of great riders have found themselves mired in doping scandals.

Let’s take a look at his personal life during this time period as well. After beating cancer, he gets married and pops out a couple of kids to ensure the bloodline of his progeny. At the height of his popularity, Lance realizes American chicks now think the bike is sexy; so he dumps his wife, becomes best friends with Matthew McConaughey (who cannot be spoken more highly of on Gretzpo’s Sports Blog) and embarks on a shirtless workout/casual sex odyssey that cuts a swath of female orgasm (which I do not believe exists) induced destruction all over the United States.

Two of his conquests were Sheryl Crow and one of the Olsen Twins. I’m not ecstatic about the second one. Is it weird or creepy that I think the Olsen Twins were cuter on Full House than their present form (don’t answer that)? Having sex with one of the Olsen Twins would be like trying to make sweet love a broomstick. And that’s not fun. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Plus he gave one of the best athlete movie cameos in film history with his performance in Dodgeball (Watch it here).

Tired of the above, Armstrong decides, at the age of 38, to re-enter the world of competitive cycling. Critics, mostly European, lambasted this decision saying Lance would tarnish his legacy and risk making a fool of himself.

Once again, the good ol’ Texas boy is making those journalists choke on their camembert and sauvignon blanc. As the riders begin their assault on the hellish climbs consistent with every Tour, Armstrong is poised to capture the maillot jaune (yellow jersey) for the first time since 2005.

How great is the maillot jaune as the indicator for the leader of the tour? I want this to catch on in real life. Say Gretzpo and I go to the bar and I pick up and he doesn’t (not a very big stretch I know). I should get to wear a maillot jaune until Gretzpo is able to match or surpass me. That way everyone knows who the Alpha Dog is; or if I deadlift more than Gretzpo at the gym, I should get to wear the maillot jaune past the hotties in spinning class.

If Lance wins it will be the most improbable victory since Jack Nicklaus won the Masters in 1986. Armstrong might even be able to get a date with Megan Fox if he wins; and I will buy a replica maillot jaune.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Greatness Defined

For the impetus of the inclusion of Miss Johansson in this article, click here.

There’s an excellent chance that this weekend will be witness to the coronation of tennis’ undisputed King, Roger Federer. After winning the French Open in May to complete the career Grand Slam, Federer is poised to capture his record 15th major championship Sunday morning at Wimbledon (I just may eat strawberries and cream off a young lady to commemorate the occasion).

I have always been a somewhat casual observer of tennis; I’d usually watch the finals of a major if I found myself in front of the TV but I would never describe myself as a fan. However, this year, knowing Roger was on the brink of history, I’ve begun watching tennis in earnest.

The guy is an absolute magician with a tennis racket. Every time he plays it’s like a master class on how to play perfect tennis. The grace, poise and breathless fluidity in his game is truly a joy to watch. I never had the chance to watch guys like Rod Laver and Bjorn Borg play but I find it hard to believe that they made the game of tennis look easier to play than Roger Federer.

What fascinates me most about Roger is that he is the epitome of serenity and calm during his matches; it doesn’t matter if he’s playing some qualifying scrub in the first round at Indian Wells or Rafael Nadal in a Grand Slam final. Most guys prance and preen around the court like peacocks, screaming at the top of their lungs, berating ball boys and generally engaging in prototypical douchebag behaviour. But not Roger; he is always in complete control of his emotions and just slowly breaks the will of his opponents by playing shots that other players would never dream of hitting.

To use a baseball comparison, I equate Roger Federer with someone like Roy Halladay. They are both surgeons in their fields and can beat you in so many ways. Federer can use power strokes to beat opponents; he can change speeds, hit corners and basically disrupt the flow of his opponents so they are unable to get into proper hitting positions. Which is exactly what Roy does every five days and what I do once a week.

Not only is Federer the most talented player in the world today, but he exhibits an aura of cool not seen since Martin and Sinatra terrorized the Las Vegas Strip in the 60s. Somehow he has the ability to look like he’s dressed for a formal event in his tennis gear. Federer’s streamlined tennis whites accentuated with gold trim looks exquisite and his hair is always coiffed to perfection (this is beginning to sound like Queer Eye for the Blog Guy). Plus I’ve never actually seen Roger break more than a light sweat; the guy is just a machine.

Contrast Federer’s style with the blue collar bashing of Spaniard Rafael Nadal. Rafa is just brute strength and unbelievable physical conditioning. There is no beauty in his game. Anyone who prefers watching Nadal over Federer probably also enjoys monster truck rallies, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and has a car on cinderblocks parked on their front lawn. Plus I can’t be a fan of a man who wears sleeveless t-shirts and Capri pants.

Now before you accuse me of blindly fawning over Roger like a 12 year old girl in love with the Jonas Brothers, there is one glaring problem I have with King Federer: the way he celebrates tournament victories.

Without fail, after winning championship point, Roger flops to the ground like he’s had a stroke and weeps effeminately. Come on RF; act like you’ve won before. You are the greatest tennis player in the world and a classy gentleman; let’s have a little discretion in your celebrations. A fist pump and a smile is all you need. Especially when you win in three sets; it’s not like outcome was ever in doubt. A couple classes at the Bobby Orr School of Celebration would catapult Federer onto the Mancrush list.

Also, his wife could be a little bit hotter. She’s a tad too frumpy for my liking and actually looks like she could beat Roger up.

But let’s be honest, nobody’s perfect. And Roger Federer on a tennis court is as close to perfection as humanly possible. Good luck on Sunday Roger. And here’s a quick prediction. Victory number fifteen will just be a quick stop on the road to 20 major championships and will give me stories to tell my grandkids one day.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

A Tribute: to the Greatest Sister in the World

Oh... so we're putting hot chicks' photos in our blog to try and boost readership? Allow me to kick off this post with a tribute to Margaret Thatcher: what? No one here finds power sexy?

I fear I may be suffering from a severe case of writer's block though: it all came to me in a dream I had recently:

I sit at my keyboard, just like I have dozens of times before. Armed with a University education and a flair for wit, I prepare to churn out another masterful column that will draw both praise and ire.

But something's wrong: the thoughts aren't coming to my head. I'm drawing a complete blank. I try and write a sentence about being unable to sexually satisfy a woman - not funny anymore. I write a sentence about Tewks and how he'll be living with his parents until he's 35: but it comes across as cruel and unfunny.

I can feel the bile rise from the top of my stomach into my esophagus: I feel like I did when I read that excerpt from Tewks' book: like I'm going to throw up.

I wake up in a cold sweat and realize it was all just a dream: if I was truly suffering from writer's block I could just take another 4 month hiatus from updating this site.

So what's going on in Gretzpo's world? My sister (and only sibling) is getting married on Saturday.

My sis is a cool chick: when I lived in Budapest for a year she came to visit me and we travelled together. She's more than a sister to me, she's my best friend. (Aw...)

When I was 16 she brought me out to her university town, and got me absolutely hammered for the first time in my life. She even stuck up for me when people were smoking in her apartment and I had to go to bed because I was having an asthma attack (I've gotten cooler). She even paid for the bottle of Febreeze we had to use on the futon I slept on because I threw up all over it.

So... here's to my sister and her awesome fiancee... may your adventures be numerous, and your happiness be boundless.

Talkin' With Tewks: A Pitcher's Nightmare

A Pitcher’s nightmare . . .

I know my usual writing focuses on jackass observations wrapped up in a delicious little biscuit of humour, but I wanted to spread my wings this week and try my hand at dramatic writing. In another effort to avoid a real career, I’ve started work on a book about baseball. Basically, I’m Brian from Family Guy.

The following is a quick excerpt from what I have written so far. It describes a dream that any pitcher worth his salt has had at some point in his career (if he denies it, then he’s lying; or just not a very good pitcher).

I have used my name in the excerpt to protect the kickass awesomeness of the real protagonist’s name. Enjoy:

Tewks opens his eyes and finds himself on the loneliest hill in the world. Ten inches of dirt and clay. The pitcher’s mound. Fifty thousand pairs of eyes bear down on him, like they’re trying to peer into his soul.

He grabs the resin bag, feels the fine powder cling to his sweat-soaked hands and forearms, tosses it once in the air and flings it to the back of the mound. Tewks slowly rubs the snow white pearl in both hands, tracing the stitching and cowhide leather with his fingertips.

He squares his shoulder, taking a hip-width stance on the rubber, wipes his left spike across an imaginary undulation in the dirt in front of him and focuses his gaze on the hitter.

Both the hitter and the crowd are faceless. It’s just Tewks and the mitt, a tempestuous relationship that, when working, can be a form of artistic perfection.

Tewks steps back with his right foot to start his balanced, sound, mechanically efficient delivery that’s been honed through thousands of repetitions and hundreds of hours of practice.

But something’s wrong.

The motion is anything but smooth. His joints flail wildly like they’re attached to a puppeteer’s strings. Tewks tries to regain control of his limbs but his body ignores his brain. He has lost complete control and a sick feeling develops in the pit of his stomach. Bile rises up from his digestive tract and burns his esophagus.

The wild gyrations continue as Tewks’ left arm comes forward at an obscene angle and attempts to release the ball towards the mitt. The resulting “pitch” is a cross between a shot put and a five year old flinging a mosquito off her shoulder.

The ball lands fifteen feet in front of the plate and rolls towards the batter which he stops with the ball of his left foot. Boos and catcalls rain down from every corner of the stadium. Tewks gets the ball back and with great trepidation tries another pitch. This time the delivery is even more awkward and the ball loops over the batter’s head and strikes the base of the backstop, fifty feet from home plate.

Again and again Tewks pitches fly all over the place; some falling short, some going too long, others thrown halfway up the baselines. None come close to the strike zone.

He’s powerless to stop it. The crowd’s taunts become more derisive and vitriolic. The boos thunder down onto the field and rattle Tewks’ eardrums.

The walks and runs pile up like stacks of cordwood; Tewks looks in desperation to the bullpen, longing for relief and an end to the nightmare, but no one is there. He’s completely and utterly alone . . .

Michael Jackson No Longer Able to Look at Himself in the Mirror

Michael Jackson's dead: I don't care. What's more interesting is how I'm not going to be able to walk three feet without hearing about it for the next week.

It's funny how the same media that built him up as the King of Pop, vilified him as a child molestor and ridiculed his Lord Of The Rings-like appearance will now collectively treat his death as important as Jesus Christ's.

The public is just as stupid: the guy molested children. Let's say that a registered sex offender named Tewks moved into your neighborhood: you have no idea what kind of crime he committed, only that he has an unhealthy obsession with giving girls a move he colourfully refers to as "the choke". He's a great baseball player and a talented actor that has enjoyed a moderate level of fame. He dies of a heart attack after trying to deadlift 575 pounds. Will there be a candlelight vigil outside of his parent's house? No... there will be a gathering of unsatisfied women lining up with bruised tracheas demanding compensation for their pain and suffering.

Why are we obsessed with assailing people and their accomplishments while they're alive, but sanctifying them once they're dead? Here's how my life could be described right now:

- Stuck in a dead end job
- Unable to hang onto a woman
- Power drinker
- Poor sexual stamina

But here's how I'll be eulogized:

"Gretzpo was a committed worker who showed the type of patience and dedication to his job that surely would have broken down a lesser man. While he was a frequent dater of women, he seldom had a relationship lasting longer than two months: this can be attributed to his keen sense of individuality and desire to express himself without being held back. While no women have gone on record as being sexually satisfied by Gretzpo, surely the law of large numbers states that he must have gotten a girl off at least once: even if by accident. He also enjoyed an occasional, social beverage: but never to the point of excess. He certainly never did anything like take home a girl two weight classes above him, bleed on himself, get kicked out of a Springsteen concert or throw a beer at a bouncer. His truly was a life of excellence."


Gretzpo is the founder of this site. He's like Larry David, and this site is Seinfeld. He wrote a lot during the beginning, and now leaves the majority of the creative work to a lesser writing staff.

Talkin' With Tewks: You Give Pitchers a Bad Name

First let me begin by saying that I love Cito Gaston. He has rejuvenated the Blue Jays’ organization and actually has people in Toronto believing in a team that has two stiffs in the middle of their lineup (I’m looking at you Vernon “I can’t hit with runners is scoring position” Wells and Alex “I’m a huge douche who won’t give autographs to young fans after a 5 strikeout night” Rios).

But I take serious umbrage with Cito’s recent comments about American League pitchers batting in National League parks during interleague play. The following is a summary of his comments (I don’t feel like looking up the exact quotes because I want to watch Phil Mickelson begin his quest for a US Open title; get well soon Amy):

I don’t want my pitchers hitting. It’s dangerous for them; they aren’t used to it and are risking serious injury every time we play in a National League park.

Are you fucking kidding me Cito?

Sure he’s upset since Scotty Downs was forced to take an AB in Philly earlier this week and sprained his big toe (I didn’t even know that was possible), but to me this seems like an egregious knee jerk reaction.

Cito is not the only big league manager to express his concerns about the safety of AL pitchers hitting. Last year, Yankees starter and current pitching corpse, Chien Ming Wang hurt his ankle rounding the bases and missed the majority of the season; Joe Torre got up on his soap box and espoused on the horrors of pitchers doing insane activities like running and swinging a bat. You know basic baseball tasks.

Here’s my problem: as a pitcher myself, I have a hard enough time convincing non baseball fans that I am indeed an athlete. They think you just stand on a little hill and throw a ball; how hard can that be? I don’t need respected members of the baseball establishment saying running and swinging are too difficult for pitchers.

We already have a reputation of being high maintenance, quirky and diva-esque (I am absolved from such generalizations because I am in better physical condition and can lift more weight than most position players); comments by Torre and Gaston just add fuel to an already gasoline soaked fire.

This is the part I don’t get; no National League managers are calling for the institution of the designated hitter to protect their pitchers. Joe and Cito will argue that their pitching staffs aren’t used to the supposed ‘grind” of running the bases.

Here’s a new rule: if a guy can’t sprint a maximum of 360 feet without injuring himself, then he is not allowed on a major league roster. I don’t care if Stephen Strasburg can throw 102 miles per hour; if he can’t run a windsprint without pulling a hammy then he can ready himself for an enlightening career in Rookie ball.

Running, and lifting weights for that matter, should be an integral component of any pitcher’s training regimen; there is no better mechanism to build stamina, endurance and durability.

At some point in every pitcher’s career, he played alternate positions growing up before focusing all of his talent on the hill. Also, more often that not, pitchers were usually the top athletes on their teams. So how do these guys go from athletic prodigies to not being capable of running without falling down? American League pitchers are like PFC William Santiago in A Few Good Men. And I’m Colonel Nathan R. Jessup.

Who the fuck are these American League Pitchers? Apparently they aren’t very happy with having to hit and run and be real baseball players. They are supposed to be professional athletes and for some reason they can’t run from here to there without collapsing. What the fuck is going on with these AL teams? What are we going to do about this?

No we’re not going to bring in the designated hitter in games in NL parks. We’re going to train the lads. And if we can’t go through a season without a pitcher getting hurt on the basepaths, then I’m going to blame the strength and conditioning coaches. And then I’m going to kill them.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin With Tewks: To Swayze or not to Swayze

I am currently suffering through an existential crisis; the outcome of which will definitively determine my path as a male member of the species. Will I follow my current arc as a beacon of rugged masculinity or will I devolve into an emotional, withering pretty boy with a predilection for apple martinis?

This conundrum I find myself in concerns my forthcoming Friday night activities. This evening I am pitching in a high level senior baseball tournament; this is not that interesting. Obviously I am going to throw a gem. That’s just how I do.

Moving on.

No, I am concerned with the television choices available to me after the game. On one hand, there is Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final. Any self-respecting Canadian boy should be amped for the opportunity to see Detroit and Pittsburgh battle for hockey supremacy in a winner takes all tilt.

Don’t get me wrong, I am pumped for tonight’s matchup; I may even consume a few adult beverages in order to make Don Cherry sound coherent.

However, the other option to satisfy my television palate starts at 9pm on W. Patrick Swayze, fresh off his Youngblood, Dirty Dancing and Roadhouse murderer’s row, stars in the dramatic classic, Ghost.

Now, I am a huge Patrick Swayze fan. His omission from my inaugural Mancrush List was an egregious travesty. I am also a massive fan of Ghost; I hesitate to call the movie a chick flick because I would like to maintain the tenuous grip I have on my testicles.

The pottery sex scene with Demi Moore to the Righteous Brother’s timeless ditty, Unchained Melody, is one of the greatest love scenes I have ever seen on film (next to the threesome I saw in my first porn, Generally Horny Hospital; thanks to older cousin Tewks for showing me that one).

I tried to recreate that scene with a special lady friend a few years back. It left something to be desired. I ended up with clay in places where clay doesn’t belong and also contracted a urinary tract infection.

What do I do? Commit fully to the hockey game and switch over to Ghost after the Cup presentation? Watch Ghost during breaks in the action? Watch hockey during commercials in Ghost?

I have no idea what I’m going to do. Normally I would be confident in my manhood no matter what path I end up choosing; but I’m feeling quite vulnerable this week because of an audition I had on Wednesday.

I auditioned as an underwear model for a print magazine shoot. I love any chance I get to be shirtless, but not when I have two dudes leering at me and taking my picture. Also, normally when I’m in my underwear that means an amourous embrace is in the offing so Tewks Junior gets himself into the launch position. If that had happened on Wednesday, I would have had a whole new set of problems for my therapist.

Another thing I noticed is that a lot of these model dudes have pretty weak ass physiques. Sure they have unbelievable definition in their abs, but at the expense of being 6 feet tall and weighing a buck sixty; whereas your man Tewks is 195lbs of pure beef.

I will gladly sacrifice an alien-looking 8-pack for the ability to squat and deadlift a metric ton. You fellas can have your loser modeling gigs; I’ll be sleeping with your girlfriends and flipping over your Honda Civics while you eat soy and throw up after meals.

Enjoy the game tonight; I’ll be thinking of the Penguins big win whilst bawling my eyes out when the Swayze and Demi kiss one last time.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin’ With Tewks: Don’t Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

(Quick Aside: What’s more pathetic? That Gretzpo, after a three weeks hiatus, mails it in with a weak ass column that would take me five minutes to write, but probably took him a day? Or the fact that he’s only dated five women; not including one night stands he picks up at Wal-Mart? Discuss amongst yourselves)

Dear Mr. Bosh,

As a fan of the Toronto Raptors organization, due primarily to geographic factors, I take umbrage with your comments in today’s edition of the Toronto Star. With your impending free agency in the summer of 2010 looming overhead like a dark thundercloud in Raptorland, you had the gall to insinuate that you will not resign with the club.

Not only that, but you intimated that you belong in the same conversation as the jewels of next year’s free agent crop, Dwayne Wade and King James. Uh. No. Let me paint you a picture. As the owner of a robust three digit SAT score, I feel qualified to make the following analogy:

Your basketball ability is to D-Wade and LeBron’s as street meat is to filet mignon.

You are a perfectly serviceable second banana. There is no way you should ever be counted on to lead a team. Sure you’ll get your 20 and 10 a night, but no one is buying tickets because Chris Bosh is in town.

Say what you will about Vince Carter (he’s a huge pussy), the greatest villain in franchise history, but when he decided to make an effort the guy could flat out play and will a team to victory. Carter was the catalyst behind every playoff series victory in team history. How many playoff series have you won Christopher?

I have the answer right here. It also doubles as the number of women who have been able to climax during a sexual episode with me. Zero. Nada. Zilch (Although I did get a moan one time; I think I was just lying on her hair).

Why the decision was made to build the foundation of the Raptors around a 215lb ninny like you is beyond me. When negotiating your current contract I assume that Bryan Colangelo’s designer shirt was too tight around the collar, cutting off the blood flow to his finely coiffed head (the dude has fashion sense; he looks like a European douche, but still).

You have such little self-awareness that you have no idea how big of a joke you’ve become. First of all, you actually look like a dinosaur; I wouldn’t be surprised if you were discovered to be the Missing Link. After making a big block or dunk, you prance and preen around the court with your jaw jutted out defiantly, trying to look like a badass. In reality, it looks like you’re constipated.

Your personality is not like a professional athlete’s; in fact, it more closely resembles a pimply faced teenager who spends hours playing World of Warcraft. In interviews, you never talk about basketball or your love for the game. It’s all about Facebook, Twitter, I-Phones, social networks and other entertainment mediums.

God forbid you focus on becoming a better basketball player. Do you think LeBron and Kobe spend their offseason making gay comedy videos and jerking off to Bill Gates’ Twitter posts? No, they spend hours in the gym and on the court making themselves better players. What a novel idea. Improving your talents at a sport in which you get paid millions of dollars to play.

There are rumours that you’re trying to bulk up this season by hitting the weight room. You’ve tried this before, but gave up because working out is “really difficult.” There are so many things wrong with that statement that I don’t want to address them for fear of giving myself a brain aneurysm.

Newsflash dickwad. Attaining a body like LeBron, Dwight Howard or Tewks takes a tremendous amount of blood, sweat and determination. Something a mincing dandy like you sorely lacks.

Now I know that you are quite adept at surfing the net, so there’s a small chance you may read this article. Fine. Go for it. Send me a nasty email (listed in my profile). I’m not scared of someone who outweighs me by 20 pounds but is almost a foot taller than me.

Meet me at the gym; I’ll be the guy lifting a ton of iron in a cloud of chalk dust. I’ll come find you at the pool doing water aerobics with the geriatrics.

GFY Chris Bosh.

Love,

Tewks

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: It's Deja Vu All Over Again

Pop quiz, hotshot. The title of this article is attributed to a beloved, but eccentric former athlete. The answer can be found at the bottom of the column. What do you do? What do you do?

I saw Speed on cable the other day and would to take this opportunity to make a few observations.

Sandra Bullock is terrific in this movie. She’s funny, smart and what I call “wholesome” hot. This is by no means a knock against her looks; she looks great throughout the film. Too often in movies these days, the lead actress is made up to such a degree that, while she looks amazing, she doesn’t look realistic. No woman in real life can look that good (see Megan Fox in Transformers or Angelina Jolie in Mr. and Mrs. Smith). They are fantastic to look at, but would be completely unattainable in real life.

However, Miss Bullock looks like the girl next door in Speed. She is still beautiful, but there’s realism in her appearance that gives regular guys the absurd notion that we could date her if given the chance. I could totally see myself sexually harassing Sandra Bullock at the grocery store.

After watching Dumb and Dumber religiously over the past 15 years, I can’t take Jeff Daniels seriously. I kept waiting for him to get his tongue stuck to a pole or have violent diarrhea. When he died, a part of me died (An excuse for a Rocky IV Montage? I think so).

I feel terrible for Dennis Hopper in this movie. Having to spend so much time on screen with Keanu Reeves would be excruciating and just zap my will to live. I’d like to say Keanu’s performance was wooden, but that would be a disservice to wood.

Watch the Hopper/Keanu scenes closely during your next viewing. You can see a look in Hopper’s eyes that conveys the following thoughts whenever Keanu butchers another line: “This guy is just fucking terrible. How is he an actor? He should be working craft services. Why did I agree to this? I’m a two time Oscar nominee; I was in Hoosiers for chrissakes!!”

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming . . .

The Stanley Cup Finals, also known as the denouement of the greatest sports playoffs in the world, kick off tomorrow night. It’s a replay from last year as the Pittsburgh Penguins, fresh off their sweep of the Carolina Hurricanes, face off against the defending champion Detroit Red Wings.

This is the first time since 1984 that Lord Stanley’s Mug will be decided by the same teams two years in a row. In ’84, the combatants were the upstart Edmonton Oilers versus the New York Islanders dynasty.

There are eerie parallels between that series and the Pens-Wings showdown 25 years later. The Oilers were led by two superstars up front in the Great One and the Moose; the Penguins are led by Sid The Kid and Geno Malkin, who is proving that Russians actually have a little grit and sandpaper in their games and don’t always disappear in the playoffs (Sorry, I went a little Don Cherry there for a second).

The Islanders of yore has grizzled veterans like Dennis Potvin, Mike Bossy and Billy Smith; the Wings depend on stalwarts like Niklas Lidstrom, Marian Hossa, Dan Cleary and even have the geriatric Chris Chelios suiting up for a couple minutes a game.

The Red Wings have been a staple of May/June hockey for the better part of the decade. Their players know what to expect in the playoffs and comport themselves in a highly efficient, deadly effective manner. The Wings don’t let their emotions affect them; that’s what veteran teams do.
On the other hand, the Penguins were visibly nervous and apprehensive during last year’s Cup final. They were shutout in the first two games and before they could blink, were down two games to none.

The shellacking the Oilers received at the hands of the Islanders in 1983 was a tremendous learning experience for their club. They learned from their first Finals appearance and used the lessons to defeat the veteran Islanders the next season.

I am willing to bet all the money in checking account ($342 as of Monday; what’s up) that Sid and the boys remember the bitter pill of defeat the Wing force fed them last year and will not let the same thing happen again.

Let’s break this series down:

Forwards

I’ll give depth to the Wings. There’s no way the Penguins can keep up with Detroit if the Wings have all four lines firing. However, this will all depend on how Crosby and Malkin play. Currently, they are running away with the scoring lead; if they continue that pace, the Penguins lack of depth at forward will be a non issue.

Slight EDGE: Pens

Defense

A wash. Unless Lidstrom and the guy who had the appendectomy are able to play at full strength.

EDGE: Wings

Goaltending

For consistency you have to give the advantage to Chris Osgood. He has the pedigree, the wins and the experience. That being said, Marc Andre Fluery has more natural talent; if he plays to his capabilities then Pittsburgh can start planning a parade route.

EDGE: Pens

The Pick: Pens in 6

Trivia Answer: Yogi Berra

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: It's Not Time to Panic, but I'm Panicking

I usually leave dissertations on the Blue Jays to my esteemed colleague but, let’s be honest, Gretzpo can hardly be counted on to produce intelligent discourse.

The latest column idea he ran by me was, I shit you not, an essay on which Mortal Kombat character he wants to sleep with. The most disturbing part? Sonya Blade or Princess Kitana was not his top choice.

Furthermore, his work on the Blue Jays has been less than inspired; vacillating between his man love for Gregg Zaun and his wish to have Cito accompany him to bars so he can pick up.

While Cito is a terrific manager and gets the best out of his players, he needs to work with players that actually have talent. In that respect, Gretzpo comes up woefully short (much like my bedroom performance).

Truthfully, I have intentionally avoided writing about the Jays’ hot start because I didn’t want to jinx them. After the Jays dropped the soap in Beantown and were just brutalized by the Sox for three games, I deemed it necessary to weigh in.

First off, to the Jays fans ready to jump off the bandwagon, let’s all take a deep breath. Those of you who predicted your beloved Blue Jays would be in first place on May 22, please raise your hand. Those of you with your hands raised are liars and can go fuck themselves.

I am ecstatic with the first six weeks of the season. There’s a buzz around this team that the city of Toronto has not seen since the glory years of the early 90s.

The difference between this year and last year and the positive attitude surrounding the team is palpable. And this is with basically the same starting lineup (with a healthy Scott Rolen, Aaron Hill and Lyle Overbay).

Much of the credit can, and should be, attributed to Cito. How he went 12 years without a major league managerial job is beyond my level of comprehension.

The resurgence of the batting lineup has been discussed ad nauseam, so I want to focus my attention on the pitching staff; since I’m an accomplished pitcher myself I am more than qualified to discuss the merits of the Jays arms (four Cy Young awards from my university baseball days can’t be wrong).

There’s no need to discuss Big Daddy Roy Halladay. He’s the best. Around. Nothing’s ever gonna keep him down (yes that was just an excuse to link to a Karate Kid montage).

The Jays lost their entire rotation (minus Halladay) at some point this season. AJ Burnett went to New York to have a threesome with Jeter and A-Rod, McGowan and Marcum blew out their shoulders and Jesse Litsch strained his forearm from, I assume, jerking off too much. This is probably true; I saw him at a bar last year. Trust me, that guy’s not getting laid.

Brian Tallet and Scott Richmond have stepped up beautifully; both deserve to keep spots in the rotation. David Purcey was a bust, with tremendous control problems; he made Rick Ankiel look like Greg Maddux. Romero was a stud until he got hurt. Brett Cecil has the potential to become an ace-in-waiting and I need separate paragraphs for Robert Ray.

Little Robbie Ray decided he wants to be called Bobby from now on. Here’s a free tip from Tewks. Instead of worrying about what first name the media calls you, how about preparing yourself for a start at Fenway Park to stop your team from getting swept by the most successful franchise of the decade?

What a pretentious, piece of shit thing to do. Listen up Bobby; until you establish yourself as a bona fide major leaguer, keep your mouth shut and let people call you whatever you want.

If you don’t, and issue a press release demanding people refer to you as Bobby, you will get mean-spirited bloggers (like myself) bashing you unmercifully. Plus I haven’t even mentioned the fact you’re a shitty pitcher with an eventual career arc similar to that of Josh Towers.

From now on Mr. Ray, you will forever be referred to as Douche Ray on Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

The anger and resentment brought forth by Douche Ray has been assuaged by the news that the Jays have activated Romero and Casey Janssen from the DL and sent Cecil and The Douche back to the minors.

This is the kind of news Jays fans need to bounce back from the Beantown Beatdown.

Halladay will right the ship tonight with a complete game victory and the boys will be off and running to finally make a mark in interleague play.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Talkin' With Tewks: Bron Bron is Really Good Good

I had originally planned on writing a majestic opus dissecting the relative merits of Sidney Crosby and Alexander Ovechkin to decipher who is the best hockey player on the planet.

Then Sid The Kid basically pulled down Ovie’s pants and spanked his ass raw in front of millions in Game 7, putting the issue to bed for the foreseeable future.

Instead, I want to talk about the best basketball player on the planet: LeBron James.

Where to begin with King James?

How often in today’s 24 hour news cycle do we anoint the “Next Big Thing” in sports? Furthermore, how often does one of these NBT’s actually live up to the hype?

Although this is a rhetorical question, the answer is not many. LBJ is the exception.

LeBron has been living a fishbowl existence since high school. Not only did he appear on the cover of Sports Illustrated when he was a junior, but his team’s games were nationally televised on ESPN.

Think about that for a second. Imagine your high school basketball team’s games being broadcast on the self-professed worldwide leader in sports?

Not only that, but James’ team went on a rudimentary barnstorming tour throughout the United States playing in front of sold out arenas night in and night out.

I played high school baseball, hockey and volleyball and my parents wouldn’t even come watch the games. Well, we did kind of suck. I probably wouldn’t have gone either, but someone had to fill up the water bottles.

The modus operandi on LeBron in high school was paraphrased thusly: “physically advanced for his age; used his strength and size to dominate smaller, weaker opponents. Yes he’s supremely talented, but that’s against boys; how will he do in the NBA playing against men?”

From the start of his fledgling professional basketball career, LeBron has proved the naysayers wrong. He was one of the only rookies in league history to average 20 points, 5 rebounds and 5 assists per game in his inaugural season.

His stats have continually improved every year in the league culminating in his MVP 2008-09 season when he averaged a 28, 7 and 7.

James’ career has not been without hiccups: in his first couple of seasons, he had a disturbing propensity to bite his fingernails during timeouts of close games. Michael Jordan would never show that kind of anxiety in the clutch, his critics brayed. Which is true, but LeBron has outgrown that juvenile tendency and become, along with Kobe, the preeminent clutch player in the game today.

What I find amazing is that LeBron, even though he’s surrounded by childhood friends and a variety of moochers, has managed to steer clear of any major off court controversy. I guess he does have a couple kids out of wedlock but this is the NBA we’re talking about here. Unprotected sex with multiple partners is as much a part of the game as the three point shot.

Before this year, I had always been a casual Lebron fan at best. I thought his success was attributed more to his preternatural talent and prodigious God-given gifts. After reading up on King James (yes, I do read), it became readily apparent that he couples his natural ability with a tremendous work ethic and a thirst to be the best.

Playing with Kobe on the 2008 US Olympic team forced LeBron to take his craft to the next level. He saw that Kobe outworked everyone at the team’s training camp and James realized that to become the undisputed best player in the game, he would have to hit the gym and practice court harder than ever before.

Just look at what he’s done with the Cleveland Cavaliers this season. The best regular season record in the league plus an 8-0 run thus far in the playoffs with each victory coming by a margin greater than ten points.

And this has been with a pu pu platter of a supporting cast. The only other Cavalier I’ve heard of is Zydrunas Ilgauskas and, trust me on this, no one is clamouring for Big Z’s autograph.

I don’t see either the Boston Celtics or the Orlando Magic posing any real threat to the Cavaliers. The dream matchup everyone is pining for is a Cavaliers-Lakers final. Kobe vs. LeBron for all the marbles.

The scary thing is that LeBron is only 24 years old. He hasn’t even touched the prime of his career yet. There is no possible way of extrapolating how good this guy will be over the next ten years. My brain just hurts from thinking about it.

Therefore, I am going to do what I do best and not think. This is LeBron’s world; we’re all just living in it.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

Quick Shots

There's nothing I can add to Tewks' comprehensive review of our trip: so I'll just say that it was the greatest trip two guys ever embarked on in the history of mankind.

It's late, I've had a long day and I'm tired... so a short post today. You've no doubt seen the pictures of me and Tewks shirtless in the ocean (and I'm sure that several of our female readers already have them pinned up in their cubicles or lockers). I put myself in good shape for the trip: lifting a lot of heavy weight and then not eating for days gave me the physique you saw in that picture.

My next goal is to run in the Beaches 10K July 26th. I ran in a 5K last year, hopefully a 10K this year ... then a half marathon in 2010 and a full marathon in 2011.

Does anyone care about how far I plan to run in the next 3 years? Absolutely not.

I played in my first flag football game today: the first time I've ever really played the sport ... which is to say that I didn't play very well. There was this one play though where I was covering my receiver, he crossed over the middle, and their female receiver crossed over the middle as well. I couldn't slow up, and I forearm shivered her to the jaw: knocked her out cold. It was awesome.

Tomorrow marks the second season of "Team Top Gun": my beach volleyball team. The first incarnation was awful. So I promoted myself to manager, cut everyone and filled the team with hired guns (pun intended) to make a "fun" league "competitive" and no fun for anyone.

The best part is that we're in it to win - but we're also going to stay true to our "Top Gun" origins and play in jeans and no shirt.

That's right ladies: back to back posts with my shirt off: you're welcome.