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.

Talkin' With Tewks: Usted Rompio Mi Corazon

The boys are back in town!!

(And ready to write; you may want to print this out. We’re going to be here for awhile)

Gretzpo and I have returned from Communist paradise. The best news of all is that I didn’t break a bone; all that milk definitely paid off.

The trip was a resounding success; much better than the Dominican Republic. If my life was The Karate Kid and the two trips were the women in my life, Cuba would be Ali Mills, my new rich Californian Goddess (played by the immortal Elisabeth Shue) and the Dominican Republic would be my old, probably frumpy girlfriend Judy.

Mrs. Larusso: Is she cute?
Daniel: Oh she’s more than cute. She’s beautiful.
Mrs. Larusso: Better than Judy?
Daniel: Oh she buries Judy.
Mrs. Larusso: Buries Judy!?

The flight over was pretty uneventful; the in-flight movie was The Quantum of Solace. It was a decent flick but Daniel Craig provided inspiration for a, well there’s really no other way of saying this, homoerotic moment that will be discussed later on in the review.

Seeing how Cubans are absolutely crazy about beisbol, we were smart and packed our gloves. The first day we shirtlessly strutted (Yeah I made up an adverb) out to the beach to do a little long toss.

Sure enough, within five minutes the bartender at the beach bar was asking if he could join. Gretzpo, realizing his throwing range maxed out at 75 feet, obliged the enthusiastic comrade.

My new friend Jolandro and I proceeded to awe onlookers with throws exceeding 250 feet. It was an impressive performance and Jolandro was so enthused that he offered to take us to a cock fight.

We respectfully declined but he tried to sweeten the pot with this little nugget.

“The eyes, they come out and fall on the floor.”

Yeah, that’s what we want to see on vacation, mutilated roosters. We thanked him for the offer and he promised to take care of us the rest of the week. And he did. In spades.

Both Gretzpo and I were smitten with our waitress at the buffet. She had a beautiful smile and was one of the friendliest people we met on the trip. Her name was Yeitl.

On our third night, we decided to go to this bar regularly frequented by Cuban workers and tourists. It was built in an old abandoned cave. Yes, it was as terrifying and cool as it sounds. Also, there were lots of dark, recessed corners and long winding alleys. It was Roman Polanski’s dream bar.

I, flush with liquid courage, asked Yeitl to join. She demurred. Here is a word by word transcript of our conversation.

Tewks: Do you want to come to the cave with us tonight?
Yeitl: No I cannot.
Tewks: Come on. Please (Yes it was this pathetic).
Yeitl: No really I can’t. I would get into trouble.
Tewks: Oh, are workers not allowed to go?
Yeitl: No they can, but only if a guest invites them.
Tewks: You mean this exact situation?
Yeitl: Yes.

Well then.

I asked her how to say “You broke my heart” in Spanish (which is the impetus for the column title). Using all of my acting talent, Yeitl and I did a quick scene where we recreated the previous dialogue and I ended with “Usted Rompio Mi Corazon”. Then she laughed. A lot.

Luckily I didn’t cry until we got back to the room.

Our resort had a massive sports complex that was basically an athlete’s wet dream. I am sorry to say that Gretzpo beat me in the following sports: tennis, ping pong and pueto (a tennis/squash mix). In my defense, Gretzpo has always been much better than me in activities that involve shafts and balls.

About midweek, we had a resort softball game. For some insane reason, not only was Gretzpo picked ahead of me but I WAS PICKED LAST!!

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??

Obviously, these guys did not watch me play long toss.

I channeled my rage into an MVP performance. I hit a ground rule double in my first bat and finished 6 for 6 with a number of sparkling defensive plays at shortstop and third base.

So I sure stuck it to those guys who I’m never going to see again.

In the pool bar after our team’s victory, I received my first celebrity lookalike comment. In the DR I only received one and that was for a young Tom Cruise (I’m sure she just felt sorry for my foot).

This time, the first comparison was undoubtedly the best as my tanned, shirtless body and slicked back hair led one young lady to say that I looked like Matthew McConaughey. That may have been the highlight of my life. Nevermind that the girl was so drunk she looked like Bambi taking her first steps trying to get out of the pool. In Vino Veritas.

The second lookalike comparison was Dane Cook and this was by two different groups of girls. I mean I guess he’s a good looking guy but I hate being compared to someone who sucks so bad at what they do; although they may be onto something if they took a look at my work productivity.

The third took place at our Italian a la carte dinner. This was also the first of many times Gretzpo and I were accused of being a gay couple. Now just because we traveled together, played sports together, ate romantic dinners together, had our own inside jokes, lotioned each other’s backs, napped together and kept our double beds together does not mean we are gay.

The questioning of our heterosexuality was not limited to this side of the pond either. I’m fairly certain an old British couple called us a couple of poofters.

Anyway, so we’re both hammered at dinner (two bottles of wine each, plus three hours in the pool bar) and somehow we started singing the Backstreet Boys classic “I Want it That Way.”

(Ok I’m about 60% sure I’m straight)

A big group beside us liked what they heard and started a conversation. Two of the girls said I reminded them of Stifler from American Pie; I think that was less of a looks comparison and more that they thought I was a jerk.

One of them told us it was her birthday the next day and requested that we serenade her with a ditty. Our infatuation with the majesty of song led us to respond with a resounding yes.

At the disco that night, we unveiled our signature dance. Mainly because we have no rhythm do we commit to one move on the dance floor, but it’s a guaranteed ladykiller.

Those of you who are fans of The Silence of the Lambs will know what I’m talking about. The infamous Buffalo Bill tuck dance. Here is a link to the Clerks 2 Version.

Let me clarify: it’s not an actual ladykiller; since, you know, Buffalo Bill was a serial murderer.

“Oh wait, was she a great big fat person?”

Trust me, the tuck dance is now legendary in Cuba; next stop, Dancing with the Stars.

Gretzpo and I rehearsed our song for hours and found the lucky lady after the dance show the next night. What did we do? We recreated the “You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling” scene from Top Gun complete with the “Excuse me miss” intro.

By the end of the performance we had a group of 50 people watching, completely entranced with our terrible singing voices.

Basically we are forever known as the two sports playin’, man pina colada drinkin’ (no straw or fruit), tuck dancin’, afternoon nappin’, lady serenadin’, weight liftin’ quasi gay Canadians.

I'm comfortable with that.

Some of you may be wondering why I haven’t mentioned any successes with the ladies. The reason is that a true gentleman never kisses and tells.

However, there was a rumour started by Jolandro that two of the animacion team dancers had a thing for your boy Tewks. Nothing came of it, but I wasn’t disappointed; I can barely satisfy one Canadian woman, what chance do I have with two Cuban senoritas?

And now for what you’ve all been waiting for:

Everyone’s seen Casino Royale, correct? The film where Daniel Craig breathed new life into the James Bond franchise.

Remember that scene when he comes out of the water all jacked up and struts on the beach looking back and forth?


Well we were so inspired by that sequence that we walked like that everywhere on the resort. Never looking straight ahead, in a perma-flexed position, we made hearts swoon with every step (both men and women; the Daniel Craig strut does not discriminate).

For your viewing pleasure I present the following:

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

Just Two Guys Gettin' Their Cuba On (Rocky IV Edition)

Tewks and I embark for Cuba early Tuesday morning: meaning that the numbers of spiked beach volleyballs, sexually satisfied ladies and fruity alcohol drinks will number in the dozens by Wednesday afternoon.

Seriously though: we plan on playing a lot of beach volleyball.

In honour of travelling to a Communist country, this column is devoted to the most famous Communist traveller: Rocky Balboa. Who went behind the Iron Curtain in Rocky IV, defeated Ivan Drago and ended Communism in Soviet Russia.

R4: "Some weather we've been having huh? ... Good for ya. Toughin' ya up."
Cuba: "Some broken bone in your foot huh? ... Good for ya. Toughin' ya up."

I've got a confession to make: I broke Tewks' foot last year in the Dominican. I saw him come down for that spike and I tripped him. I only did it to see how tough he was ... and he passed. He should've been drinking more milk though.

R4: "I can't get over the SIZE of this Russian."

Cuba: "I can't get over the SIZE of these Canadians."

One thing's for sure: we're showing up for this vacation in shape.

R4: "I don't want to change: I like who I am!"

Here's the problem: I'm getting older. I am going to do things to my body this week that I'm probably not fit to do anymore ... mainly the alcohol consumption and the potential of lying next to a woman - the physical stuff I can handle, you know, because of the Crossfit. Nevertheless, this vacation will be a serious test to my body and my youth.

R4: "Are you planning to grow reindeer or something? How the heck are you supposed to train here?"

I don't want to know what the exercise facilities are going to be like in our resort, but I have a feeling I'll be using the same equipment used to whip Cuban Revolutionaries into shape in the 1950s.

So we'll workout, play some volleyball, and maybe even get a Rocky III beach run on - the hardest part will be convincing the person taking the pictures that we're not gay.

Recap to follow.

Talkin' With Tewks: Man-cation

FYI: My heart is not in today’s column. I have a lot of things on my mind, none of which concern eventually moving out of my parent’s house, buying a car or becoming, you know, a real man.

The real reason why the column is taking a backseat this week is because Gretzpo and I are embarking on another heterosexual man-cation down south. This time we are heading to Communist paradise: Cuba.

Instead of researching possible writing topics (i.e. picking a subject at random that I know little about), I have been focused on preparing my mind and body (specifically my body) for the rigours of an all-inclusive vacation. There’s no way I will break a bone this time; I’ve been drinking over a litre of 2% milk a day for over three months.

My physical fitness has peaked beautifully for this trip; the benefits of which will be experienced by the multitude of ladies on the beach gazing at my rippling physique. I have worked out every day for the past two weeks, mixing strength training, running and metabolic conditioning. Plus, I have played weekly volleyball for the past six months in order to return to beach volleyball dominance.

My runs and Natural Movement training have taken place outside with your man Tewks shirtless. I have to do this in forested areas as the sight of me bare-chested would cause innumerable vehicular accidents with women (and some men) craning their necks to get a look.

The lack of a shirt also helps create a base tan, so I can maximize my attractiveness at the resort (which is vital because my lack of personality and intelligence is all the more glaring whilst drunk).

For the past two weeks, I have really tightened up my diet and abstained from alcohol in the hopes of adding the two remaining cans of beer to my six pack.

You know what? That’s enough for me. I still have five workouts planned before I leave, I need to pick up a couple gallons of cranberry juice and study for my made up career that I will espouse on the beach. I’ve decided to go with hedge fund manager; once I figure out what a hedge fund is. Something to do with landscaping?

Gretzpo, fresh off his sexual misconduct from last weekend, should be able to articulate additional thoughts on our upcoming voyage (to the best of his limited ability).

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

"I Had Myself a Weekend"

So what goes on during a typical weekend with Gretzpo? If you're a faithful reader of this column you know that my brain consists of three parts:

1) The part that lusts after women
2) The part that focuses on lifting weights
3) The part that follows sports

For the first time in 6 months all three parts of my brain were satisfied in a 72 hour period: and lately I've been lifting a lot of weights and watching a lot of sports.

Atypically, I found myself going out on a Thursday night, as Tewks invited me to a party with his fellow actors from his talent agency. As I waded through the crowd of overdressed failures and artsy losers I realized how pointless it was to follow your dreams: and how happy I was going to be going to my menial job with my respectable paycheque the following day.

The night was a disaster: $7 drinks, a poor selection of women and hardly any socializing. The lone bright spot was when the free appetizers came out and Tewks and I attempted to eat our body weight in kobe beef burgers. We even heard the bartenders snicker at each other, and one mouth "I bet they eat the whole tray." Did they think we had no class because we tipped them so poorly?

... absolutely.

Friday night was also disappointing: I worked my aforementioned menial job and went to bed at 10pm. So, yeah, so far this was exactly like any other weekend.

I had a great workout Saturday afternoon, so Saturday night I came out refreshed: myself, Tewks and another buddy were hitting the town to allow women to hit on us ... it's a little public service thing we do ... to sort of give back to the community.

Unfortunately, we arrived a bit too late and were forced to wait in line: we can't fight and we're cheap, so cutting in line and greasing bouncers was out: instead we went to plan C: waiting patiently.

And then it happened: as another group of fat girls waddled their way into the bar via the guest list Tewks laid down one of the best one liners I've heard in a long time:

"This bar is going to be just like an economic stimulus package: full of pork."

Inside the bar we were approached by two attractive young(ish) ladies who thought they knew me before. I replied that a lot of people think I look like Tom Cruise: I was thinking that these girls may be drunk enough to agree with me ... I was wrong.

As the evening wore on I found myself isolated with one of the young(ish) ladies. I will close my synopsis of Saturday night with this observation:

- Measures of drunkenness are subjective: and I'm a man of objectivity

My weekend ended by witnessing the continued resurrection of the Toronto Blue Jays as Ricky Romero pitched a gem as the Jays beat the Athletics 1-0.

Life is good.

Talkin' With Tewks: Playoffs? We're talking about PLAYOFFS?

Let me be perfectly honest: I am no longer a fan of the game of hockey. My interest in the game waned drastically once I ended my playing days way back in 2003. The lockout of 2004 further reduced my once tremendous passion for the sport.

As I mentioned in a previous column I played some puck in my day to critical acclaim. But I was always a terrible playoff performer. It’s not that I didn’t have heart (which I don’t), but I was usually got bored of hockey by the time playoffs rolled around.

Who cares about hockey in the spring? The weather’s turning nice, baseball season has just started and ladies decide to take the twins for a walk in spaghetti strap T-shirts. I mean, why would I want to spend my March and April showering up after games with a bunch of dudes in a drafty arena (that might be a conversation for my therapist)?

My hockey career actually ended in a suit and tie. I was playing my usual brand of ‘let’s see if I can go the whole game without breaking a sweat’ hockey when I absolutely crushed some kid from behind into the boards. I mean really established my presence with authority. I think he might have died.

Anyways, I got suspended and spent my last game in the stands with a hotdog in one hand and mustard running down the front of my dress shirt.

Ergo, I really have no business espousing my views on the NHL playoffs. Which is exactly what I plan on doing.

Quick tangent: I actually have made a return to the game in the past week. I have a callback audition for a hockey commercial on Monday; basically I will be playing shinny with Olympian Hayley Wickenheiser. This will be a great opportunity for me to see if women are actually able to play the game (I am not convinced). Plus, Wickenheiser better keep her head up. If I catch her in the trolley tracks, I will make Scott Stevens’ hit on Eric Lindros look like a cat scratch.

I have not watched more than five minutes of hockey all year, but there’s something about playoff hockey that I find irresistible (as long as I’m not playing). And since I haven’t followed all year, I am not burnt out on the game and I am completely enthralled by the dramatic theatre hockey playoffs provide.

Of the four major sports, the postseason in hockey is by far the most physically and mentally demanding. In the NFL, you play once a week. Big Fucking Deal. In the MLB playoffs, most players just try not to freeze their balls off and figure out which groupie in the stands won’t give them herpies.

The NBA is a little more taxing but there’s reason why basketball players can be on the court for 10-12 minutes at a time while the average NHL shift is 45 seconds long.

Here are my top 7 reasons why I love the NHL playoffs:

1. The hitting. Most regular season games are glorified shinny. Playoffs are where you separate the men from the girls.

2. Players with skill and creativity take a backseat to players made of grit, sandpaper and who eat rebar for breakfast.

3. Playoff beards. There’s nothing like a playoff beard to let people know you have cojones the size of grapefruits and a 12 inch hammer swinging past your knees.

4. Players would rather cut off a limb than be scratched for a game with minor injuries like broken bones, torn ligaments or concussions.

5. The opportunity to hear a Don Cherry xenophobic rant more than once a week.

6. Grown men crying for finally realizing their lifelong dream of winning a Stanley Cup.

7. Handshakes between two teams of warriors who spent the last two weeks beating the shit out of each other but still have the respect to look each other in the eye and say ‘Good Game’ at the end of a series.

Let’s go Habs!!

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

Local Sports Team to Give Life Meaning Again

The only team I cheer for in Toronto is the Blue Jays. The rallying cry for the Toronto Maple Leafs is "The Passion That Unites us All". Fortunately I have not succumb to that burning passion, as the pain I would be subjected to in cheering for the Leafs would be tantamount to a burning Sexually Transmitted Disease. How anyone can support the Leafs in the face of such egregious management over the last 4 decades is something I'll never come to terms with as a logical sports fan. But I digress...

Much to my delight, the Jays are in first place in the AL East. I don't care that we're 6 games into the season: I am ready to put my blogging reputation (2 years of poor to mediocre writing) on the line and say that this team will be a playoff contender in the fall.

One of the reasons this team will contend is that I'm convinced Cito Gaston is some sort of demi-God. The guy doesn't look like he's aged a day over the past eleven years. And baseball-wise, his relaxed demeanour and confidence in his players have so far translated into an offence that is tearing the cover off the ball. He'd be the perfect wingman: could you imagine going to the bar with someone who instilled that much confidence in your abilities?

Cito: How about you go over and talk to that girl?

Me: I don't know Cito. She looks a little out of my league...

Cito: Are you kidding me? How much weight can you deadlift?

Me: 405 lbs.

Cito: You're golden. I just want you to know that even if you struggle out there you're an every day guy on my squad.

Me: Thanks Cito.

(10 minutes later)

Me: Cito, I'm taking her home. Any advice?

Cito: Just relax and have fun out there. Don't rush things ... distribute your weight evenly through the swing and remember to drive through with your hips.

Me: (Nods)

I also think the team will do well because this is the first time they haven't entered the season with high expectations. A recent post on the mecca of Jays Blogs - drunkjaysfans - characterized this team perfectly: full of rag-taggedness, veterans coming off bad years, and young guys eager to prove themselves. For the first time in a while, the Jays don't look good on paper, and that's why they're going to succeed.

To illustrate my point, I'm going to draw on a real life example: Tewks is 24 years old, lives with his parents in Oshawa, doesn't own a car and draws a salary comparable to that of an unskilled migrant worker. His life looks terrible on paper: but his "life on paper" baseball equivalent isn't even the Blue Jays, it's the Oakland A's. He uses what he's got, plays hard, spends no money and in the end enjoys a reasonable amount of success with the ladies -because he doesn't have the pressure on him and no one expects him to do well. (Yeah, we're good friends).

I'm more like the LA Dodgers or Chicago Cubs: full of overpriced talent that hasn't enjoyed success in decades ... but that's another column...

To summarize: Cito Gaston is a God, and he'll keep this team loose - not only in the beginning of the season, but months down the road when people may start to see this team as a contender. The Jays will be in the thick of the race until the very end.

Talkin' With Tewks: Masters Preview

This week’s entry into the sports blogosphere will be somewhat disappointing in length (much like Gretzpo’s manhood). The reason is two-fold:

1. Today is my birthday. And while I love dispensing my sage wisdom to you, my faithful readers, there are about a million things I would rather do on my birthday than sit in front of my computer and cuddle with Microsoft Word.
2. This is a preview of the greatest golf tournament in the world, The Masters. Based on Tiger’s virtuoso performance two Sundays ago at Bay Hill (did anyone doubt he would make that putt on 18?), he is the overwhelming favourite to capture his 5th green jacket. Why spend 1000 words on a column when four will do? Tiger Woods will win. Boom. Column thesis.

I’d rather discuss the pomp and pageantry surrounding the week at Augusta National Golf Club. Once again, we’ll have to listen to lesbian feminists bitch about the fact there are no female members at Augusta.

Listen up Billie Jean King, Augusta is a PRIVATE golf club. They have the right to forbid entry to anyone they so desire. Is it fair? Not necessarily, but it is their right as a PRIVATE organization to do so. Stop crying about gender discrimination. They won’t let me be a member because I’m poor. You don’t hear me crying about wealth discrimination.

There is a Ladies Golf Club of Toronto that is privately owned and operated by women and does not grant men full memberships. Men can only play as guests; just as women can only play as guests at Augusta. Is it their right to exclude men if they so choose.

If you think about it, the real reason women are not granted membership at Augusta has nothing to do with sexism. Think of the demographics of the club’s membership: a bunch of old, crusty captains of industry who’ve probably been married since World War II. They obviously have nothing against women but, as I’m sure any grandfather can attest, once you hit your 50th anniversary you slowly lose your will to live.

They’ve had to put up the same woman’s constant nagging for the better part of their lives. Augusta is the only place these men get a reprieve from the suffocating presence of women and can do whatever the hell old guys to enjoy themselves.

A young guy like me would want some chicks around; maybe Hooters waitresses serving drinks in the club bar and some of Atlanta’s finest hookers looping bags. But these old fogies know better; women just ruin everything. Augusta National is basically just one giant bromance.

Now before you ladies get your panties in a twist, Augusta National is great for their wives as well. By spending all of their time at the club, the husbands have less of an opportunity to do the stupid shit that drives women crazy. Plus, with their husbands gone, the ladies can ogle their Panamian pool boys without making hubby jealous.

Also, with no women at Augusta, there is less of a chance that members will develop a wandering eye; their focus will just be on golf and counting money. It’s a win-win for everyone involved.

In sum, Tiger Woods will win with a score of 278 (-10).

With that, I’m going to the casino to play some African American Jack.

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

Talkin' With Tewks: The Next Sidd Finch?

The North American media hype machine is revving up to Chuck Yeager type levels with its coverage of the newest pitching phenom, San Diego State’s Stephen Strasburg. Both Sports Illustrated and ESPN have devoted feature stories on the flame-throwing—actually flame doesn’t do this kid justice . . . . they’ve featured stories on the napalm-throwing (I love the smell of fastballs in the morning) righthander over the past few weeks.

And since Talkin' with Tewks is the third member of sports writing’s Holy Trinity, I’ve decided to join the party and weigh in on the real life version of Sidd Finch.

For those of you who come to this blog for celebrity musings and pop culture non sequiturs, I’ll briefly run down The Curious Case of Sidd Finch. On April Fools Day 1985 (9 days before your man Tewks emerged from the womb), legendary SI writer George Plimpton created the tale of an enigmatic New York Mets prospect who could allegedly throw 168 miles per hour having never played baseball before.

Not only that, but Mr. Finch was able to achieve such velocity while only wearing one shoe—a hiking boot. This extraordinary speed was achieved by Sidd’s mastery of yoga. The saddest part of this tale is that thousands of people believed the article to be true. That is a sad commentary on the mental acuity of people from the 1980s.

I would vomit in terror if I was one of the college kids forced to hit against him on a weekly basis. What about his catcher? How does he prepare himself for catching that hot, stinky cheddar? That guy must be as tough as nails. Imagine catching some walk-on plug who can’t hit 79 on a good day and then having to handle the Strasburg express. The anticipation of catching a Strasburg start would keep me up at night.

Stevie’s 2009 stats are otherworldly for D1 college baseball (remember they use aluminum bats):

ERA W-L IP     H  R ER BB SO 2B 3B HR

1.70 5-0  42.1 24 9  8     8    88  5     0   2

Where do I begin? He’s averaging over two strikeouts an inning as a STARTING pitcher. His WHIP is under 0.75 (when 1 is considered fantastic). His strikeout to walk ratio, the hallmark of a dominating pitcher with pinpoint control, is an astronomical 11 to 1.

How the hell did he give up two home runs? Obviously, those two guys closed their eyes, guessed fastball, started their swing on Strasburg’s first move, and ping-ed (aluminum bats are the Crocs of baseball) the ball over the fence. I’m sure horseshoes dropped out their asses as they trotted around the bases.

It will be interesting to see how things shake out once the draft rolls around. By that time, my fledgling mancrush on Mr. Strasburg may approach consideration for a position on my Top 10 list.Strasburg has basically exploded into the national consciousness with documented reports of a 103 mile per hour fastball. To compare, my fastball can hit 82 depending on which way the wind is blowing. 103? Are you kidding me? That would be like trying to hit a bullet. This from a 20 year old college pitcher who couldn’t run 400m without throwing up less than two years ago.

Before this year, the largest contract ever signed by a player chosen in the June entry draft was approximately $10 million. There are rumours of Strasburg signing a contract for (Dr. Evil voice) Fifty . . . .million . . . .dollars. What agent is basically saying this kid is 500 times better than any player in the history of the draft? The one, the only: Scott Boras. He makes Donald Trump look like Regis Philbin.

Boras has such an infamous reputation in baseball circles for creating unnecessarily long, drawn out negotiations and generally being a huge jerk, that the Washington Nationals (the owners of the #1 pick) have reportedly considered bypassing Strasburg for some no name guy; which would be like passing on the filet mignon at a five star restaurant to eat street meat grilled by some guy who doesn’t wash his hands and smells like holy hell.

To completely understand the Strasburg phenomenon, I broke traditional protocol and did some actual research for this column to see the kid for myself.

Wow.

If I could somehow have sex with someone’s pitching performance, I would make sweet, sweet love to Stephen Strasburg(‘s highlight videos).

The guy is literally a boy among men. Not only does Strasburg have a +100 MPH fastball but, unlike other power pitchers, he has MOVEMENT on his heater!! Most guys who throw gas throw straight as a string and have no idea where it’s going. Strasburg can shoot the knees and nibble corners with fastballs that both cut and tail.

Plus he has tremendous off speed stuff. Strasburg is more than just a thrower; he’s a complete pitcher and that is the biggest difference between him and other country farm boys who can light up a radar gun, but couldn’t hit water if they fell out of a fucking boat (assist to Bull Durham for that one).

Talkin' With Tewks: Random Musings

This week, in lieu of writing a fully developed, high concept column I’ve decided to spread my journalistic seed around to a variety of ovulating topics in the hopes of creating an embryonic blog entry miracle.

(I apologize; my parents gave me “The Talk” last night, so I’m afraid I have intercourse on the brain. I learned a lot. For instance, what in the hell is a clitoris? It sounds like the name of one of Jupiter’s moons. However, my unfamiliarity with the term could be the reason why my bedroom performance is so unsatisfactory. I always thought it was because I have—uh, moving on.)

The Canadian film and television industry is a beguiling mistress. I absolutely rocked my last two auditions and yet was unsuccessful. It may be time to make an appearance on the casting couch. For example, at my last audition the director described my character to me thusly: “You think you’re the smartest person in the room. You think you’re God’s gift to women and are irresistible to the opposite sex.” I’m not entirely sure where the “acting” part was supposed to come into play there.

The conspiracy theorist in me believes Lance Armstrong is embellishing the severity of his collarbone injury. Methinks he’s either not prepared to race in the Tour de France and does not want to risk embarrassment or he messed up his PED cycles and is afraid of tarnishing his legacy with a positive test. I hope I’m wrong; any friend of Matthew McConaughey is a friend of mine.

Tampa Bay is my pick to win the World Series. Any team that puts a talent like ALCS hero David Price in the minors to start the season because they have a plethora of arms is a good bet to play October baseball.

The anticipation of the rumoured Arrested Development movie has given me an erection lasting longer than four hours. I will consult a physician.

Speaking of movies, my early pick for Best Picture 2011 is The Expendables. What’s it about you ask? A group of mercenaries go to South America to overthrow a dictator. Who’s in it? Stallone, Jet Li, Jason Statham, Arnold, Mickey Rourke, Randy Couture, Dolph Lundgren. Boom. Oscar.

American Idol is fast becoming a two horse race. Adam (my new favourite gay guy, eclipsing Tom Brady) and Allison will battle in the finals for the season eight crown.

It’s getting harder and harder (that’s what she said) to admit I’m friends with Gretzpo. His latest column is almost beyond belief. First, he posts a sleeveless picture of himself (he might as well be wearing a sign saying “I don’t want to get laid again ever”).

This sentence confuses me “Let's just say that Gretzpo met a lovely young co-ed down there ... and a part of him still swims in that pool.” So, he got turned down by yet another woman and then self-gratified himself in the hotel pool?

He denigrates Hooters girls which I equate with blasphemy. Plus he’s a hypocrite. I know for a fact he’s paid $10 for a handie in a No Frills parking lot.

Given the chance, he would shiv (or is it shank?) me in the back for the chance to press up against a human female. Let’s be honest, the guy needs every advantage he can get against me.

I am really good at volleyball. Gretzpo and I are making a return to the Caribbean to defend our beach volleyball championship and I’ve been playing weekly for the last six months to prepare myself accordingly. My blocking and setting, coupled with my grit and hustle, are unparalleled. The only time I’m not at my best is when this sexpot prances around on the adjoining court in these barely there booty shorts. I lose control of my fine motor skills whenever she passes my field of vision. Now I know what Muhammad Ali feels like.

News that Paris Hilton is planning on procreating with her latest jerk boyfriend has me concerned for mankind as a whole. The fact Ms. Hilton has been stuffed more than a Thanksgiving turkey will mean this devil spawn won’t travel a down birth canal so much as it will travel down a birth bay.

A-Rod’s photo spread in Details magazine has finally killed what little admiration I had left for the man’s talent. He was kissing himself in a mirror for Chrissakes!! What the FUCK is wrong with this guy? I mean I kiss myself in reflective surfaces all the time, but I sure as hell don’t let someone take my picture while I do it.

Any self-respecting sports and pop culture fan should make Bill Simmons’ Sports Guy website mandatory reading (I only mention this because I’m hoping the link will boost the blog’s readership. Yes, I’m trying to sell out as soon as humanly possible).

I had a dream that I had a threesome with Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus. I wish Terrence Mann and Ray Kinsella could take me to a place where dreams come true.

On a related note, four years ago I made a $20 bet with Gretzpo that I would sleep with a celebrity by December 31st 2010. D-day is rapidly approaching and the only thing I have to show for myself is a sloppy makeout session with an “actress” (probably on Skinemax) at the club Privilege in Hollywood. The criterion for me to win the bet is that she must have appeared on a show like ET, Access Hollywood etc. or in a magazine like US Weekly, People, Hello!. My best shot will be some reality show reject.

Gretzpo and I will be staying in residence at Wilfrid Laurier University this weekend to recapture our youth. Based on my actions last time I was there, I may have a problem with Campus Police. There’s a 90% chance I will have to wear one of those Hannibal Lecter masks while on the premises. We plan on being clean shaven so that we can skew younger, in the hopes that it will lead us to screw younger (Hey-O!!!!!!)

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

Extrava-manza

Seeking a refuge from the monotony of my daily life, I have just returned from an 11 day road trip travelling from London, Ontario to Tampa, Florida, with a brief stopover in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Here are my observations:

1) Twenty Two hours (each way) is a long time to spend in a car - stopping only for gas, chex mix and energy drinks

I'm positive that during a stretch of highway in West Virginia at 3am my buddy Ron (driving) and I (navigating) both fell asleep at our posts: but we managed to avoid catastrophe because we'd fall asleep in alternating 5 second intervals:

Ron (as he's falling asleep): ... am I asleep?

(I wake up)

"No. You're fine. You're fine, right?"

(Ron wakes up)

Ron: Yeah. I'm good.

This happened for at least 10 minutes. But the resulting nap enabled us to drive for another three hours accident free. So only a fool would say we were endangering our lives and the lives of other motorists.

2) Golf is fun to watch live

Sure: I was drunk while I was watching it, which makes everything more enjoyable - except for sex, as many of my unsatisfied partners will tell you - but golf is a great sport to watch live.

3) There is no such thing as free beer

For an extra $25 at the PGA Tournament we were at you could sit in what is called the "Hooters Owls Nest": which includes about a half dozen wings, a Hooters visor and all you can drink beer. Yes... it's just as amazing as it sounds. But these Hooters girls walk around raking in tips hand over fist - a lot of guys would tip anywhere from $2 to $5 for each of their FREE beers. I probably drank 35 beers over two days while in the Hooters Nest: and I tipped $5 for both of the days. It's amazing how bright and bubbly they are the first couple times you come around: then when they realize you're cheap and Canadian the service isn't exactly so friendly. Oh yeah sweetheart? You're going to be begging me for that $5 when your looks have faded and you're giving out handies in a Wal-Mart parking lot.

4) Americans get a bad rep

We went through an obscene number of states during our travels - I'd estimate at least 15. Even though there were certainly some "American" moments - such as the cashier at Arby's thinking that Canada and the US had a unified currency - everyone was extremely polite and friendly: much more friendly than those you'd find on the streets of Toronto. Granted, the majority of the time we were in Florida where the weather was 85 degrees without a cloud in the sky - so really, what could anyone be grouchy about? But I still wanted to make the point that Americans are courteous, friendly people.

Oh ... there was also the nice chap in Savannah, Georgia with the dew rag and low jeans giving the gas station cashier intricate details about how he was going to "pop a cap in the ass" of one of his fellow colleagues. I'm sure he meant to say how he was going to pop a cap on his head featuring the logo of one of Atlanta's popular sports teams. Either way, since I wasn't looking too intimidating in my "Meatloaf: Bat Out of Hell" commemorative concert t-shirt, I didn't stick around to witness the outcome.

5) The quotient of (attractive American girls/attractive American guys) is very numerator heavy

Countless times during my travels I would notice an extremely attractive woman with an ordinary looking guy. But this is not a slight of my American brethren: treat this observation as praise. Clearly you have all banded together and decided that you will not be in competition for women: instead, you're just letting them work around your habits and routines. It's ironic that the great American Capitalism attitude does not apply to wooing the fairer sex: whereas in Canada I would knife Tewks in the back for even the remotest chance of cupping a woman's breast.

6) I'm getting old

Life was sweet when I was a 19 year old at the bar who looked 25 - girls probably thought that I was some sort of mature student who had to delay his education by a few years in order to support his starving family. Now I'm a 25 year old who looks 31 and the situation is reversed - girls probably think that I'm a divorced father of two who funds his partying by welching on the child support he owes ... to his starving family.

Talkin' With Tewks: LG Fashion Week

Originally I had planned on writing a scathing demonization of Chipper Jones for his ignorant comments on the social activities (or lack thereof) available in the city of Toronto. Surprisingly, The Toronto Star did an excellent job of responding to this slight by ripping Jones and exposing him as the stupid, redneck, country bumpkin, jackass hick he is.

Instead I will provide a recap of my first foray into the world of high fashion care of the LG Fashion Week which I attended last night. Now you’re probably wondering what business I have attending a fashion event? The answer is none. Do I have style? No. Do people comment on the way I dress? Not positively. Do I own more than two pairs of jeans or wear T-shirts not bought at 80stees.com? No. I consider it a good fashion day if my socks are the same colour and I’m wearing underwear without holes.

So, what was I doing at Fashion Week? It was work related. My company provides sponsorship help to the Fashion Week organizers and they, in turn, give our employees VIP access. I only went because there was an open bar. Free tip: If you want me to attend an event, have an open bar. I would have joined the Manson Family if they had an open bar.

Also, I was somewhat intrigued at the spectacle I knew Fashion Week would provide; I was expecting a scene straight out of Zoolander and I was not disappointed.

The characters at the show I was at were almost indescribable: feathered hair, gallons of makeup, exorbitant jewelry, dishcloths passed off as shirts; and that was just the guys.

My favourite was this dude with his head completely shaved except for tufts of hair up top. He was wearing sunglasses (obviously) but the piece de resistance was the following: a dark blazer with . . . .NO SHIRT UNDERNEATH!!! He was just wearing a blazer; it was awe-inspiring. He looked like a business casual member of the Chippendales.

I just felt bad for the female models. First, none of the ladies were remotely hot; girls that are 5’11” and 85lbs just don’t do it for me. I would feel uncomfortable sleeping with one; I’d be scared their bones would snap in half like Samuel L. Jackson in Unbreakable.

Also, they just looked pissed off the entire time. Probably because they were hungry; I wanted to get them all a pastrami on rye. I was toying with the idea of telling a couple of them they looked fat (you know, because I’m a dick).

Cosmo TV was there interviewing people for an upcoming segment; needless to say, they obviously recognized their second hottest bachelor and procured me for a quick interview. I have no idea what I said because I was three beers deep at that point (which means I was hammered).

I think the interview created some solid buzz among the other VIPs as I soon found myself chatting up a drop dead gorgeous client. We seemed to mesh very well and I put in a solid hour of superhuman flirting. She was smiling a lot and touched my arm so I thought I was golden.

Then she dropped the married bomb. FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ladies, please do a favour for your pal Tewks. If a guy who you’ve never met is talking to you for more than five consecutive minutes, he is interested in you sexually. If you’re in a relationship, drop that into the conversation very early. Otherwise, it feels like getting kicked in the groin.

And now I have blue balls.

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

Talkin' With Tewks: Ya Wanna Go?

The topic of fighting in hockey has been discussed ad nauseum over the past couple weeks and I’ve decided to join the party fashionably late.

But Tewks, you ask, since when do you write about serious subjects? Sure, my normal journalistic fare revolves around which male celebrities I have crushes on and my feeble attempts to get laid by anything with two X chromosomes, but it’s time to tackle a topic with depth.

However, I will still base my argument on poorly developed thoughts with little regard for insignificant details like statistics, evidence, research and coherence.

Where do I stand on the issue? While fighting does have a place in the game, I am firmly entrenched in the camp that believes the number and types of fights should be decreased.

Full disclosure: I played some puck in my day to varying degrees of success. While I did get cut from the same team 8 years in a row, when I finally made that team I was a solid second line player who could be counted on to score 20 goals a year; 18 of which would be scored in the first month of the season (I always liked to establish my presence with authority and then coast until playoffs).

Also, I was never a fighter. With superior facial features like mine, it would have been a huge gamble to risk serious disfigurement to my chiseled visage. And let’s be honest, if you take away my looks, I really don’t have much going for me. Intelligence? Questionable. Personality? Meh. Wealth? Nope. Sexual Prowess? Dozens of unsatisfied women can’t be wrong.

So you can see why I was somewhat reticent to chuck knuckles.

I have no problem with fights that are catalyzed by passionate play on the ice. Hockey is a very physical game and the odd donnybrook can ratchet up the intensity in a sluggish regular season game in January and provide a jolt to the teams of both combatants.

I DO have a problem with staged fights between two 6’5 240lb Mouth breathers who possess no discernible skills other than being able to bash their knuckle-dragging fists into human skulls in exchange for 37 seconds of nightly ice time. These fights serve no purpose other than to glorify these talentless Neanderthals who, instead of playing in the NHL, should be working as bouncers at some dive bar in Bobcaygeon.

It’s this proliferation of one-dimensional “enforcers” that is the real problem with fighting. These guys are so big and strong, and spend all of their time working on their pugilistic skills rather than, you know, things like stickhandling and skating backwards.

So, not only are these guys basically training to be fighters, they are throwing heavyweight caliber punches with their bare hands. At this rate, the incidence of skull fractures and serious concussions will soon become a monthly occurrence.

Old school pundits like Don Cherry like to wax poetic about the olden days and how “no one ever gets hurt in fights.” Well Donny, 40 years ago guys like Gordie Howe and Bobby Orr would fight their own battles; punches thrown by 5’10” 170lb guys with no formal fight training are a little bit different than those thrown by today’s behemoths.

And don’t get me started on the exultations of His Royal Donness either. When I was younger, it was easy to watch Cherry on Coach’s Corner with a look of bemusement; it was like listening to the harmless musings of a bigoted grandfather. It was entertaining and no one really took his xenophobic rants seriously.

I’m afraid Don is rapidly spiraling into senility as his weekly sermons are becoming increasingly unintelligible.

Here’s a sample transcript of one of his rants:

Don: “Let me tell you somethin’ right now ok? . . . All you kids out there . . . Are we gonna roll the thing? . . . This guy, great Canadian boy from Moose Jaw . . . Look at that, what a beauty!!

Ron: What do we--?

Don: Don’t interrupt me . . . Now you kids pay attention . . . I used to tell my guys the same thing . . . no hotdogging . . . It’s not the Canadian way!!!! . . . This guy here, he’s a Russian . . . What’s his name? Ho-varch-keen.

Ron: Ovechkin.

Don: That’s what I said . . . Ho-varch-keen . . . Anyways, this guy scores a goal here . . . waving his arms around . . . Did I mention he’s not Canadian? . . . Kids, DON’T DO THAT!!! . . . That’s enough about that . . .Ok let’s go

Ron: Next we have----

Don: Oh that’s right . . . watch this guy . . . .great guy . . . Bawango . . . Two Canadian boys going at it . . . No one got hurt, no one got hurt . . . Look at that . . . couple beauties right there . . . Last thing I want to say is Bobby Orr Bobby Orr Bobby Orr Bobby Orr Bobby Orr Kingston Kingston Kingston Kingston Kingston Doug Gilmour Doug Gilmour Doug Gilmour Doug Gilmour Doug Gilmour I coached the Bruins I coached the Bruins I coached the Bruins Kingston Bobby Orr.

In sum:

1. One-game suspensions for premeditated fights where the guys dance around for 30 seconds juking and jiving
2. Instigator penalty for any player who jumps an opponent for making a clean hit on his teammate

There you go. NHL general managers need months of discussion and special advisory committees to solve the fighting issue; your man Tewks did it in less than 1000 words.

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

Talkin' with Tewks: Idol WBC Chatter

(Do you see what I did with that title? Consider yourself punned. I am what the literary community refers to as a cunning linguist; not to be confused with someone who is proficient at—well, nevermind.)

The goal of this article is two-fold:

1. To handicap the eighth season of American Idol. The remaining four members of the top 13 (TWIST!!!!!) were chosen in a wildcard episode Thursday night. Here’s how a typical viewing of AI takes place in the Tewks household: Papa Tewks, likening himself as a manlier version of Simon Cowell (complete with plunging neckline), makes scathing criticisms of each contestant; I enjoy calling inanimate objects in the living room “Dog” and practicing my Ebonics; Mama Tewks, glassy-eyed from her nightly martini, drops in periodically to provide fashion commentary and make fun of the blind kid (I’m just kidding; she drinks wine).

B. To handicap (a double dose of retardation!!) the second annual World Baseball Classic. Because this website is allegedly a sports blog, I figured I should provide my fortuitous insight into the most famous sporting event to ever take place during the month of March.
In order to separate myself from other sports blogs, I wanted to preview each country in iambic pentameter. Then I realized that I don’t know what iambic pentameter is, so 50 words or less on each pool should suffice.

Pool A – Tokyo

How can both China and Chinese Taipei have a team? Why does China get two teams, but one with a funny name? That’s like having a Team Canada and Team Canada Beaver Tail (provided Taipei is Chinese for delicious pastry topped with cinnamon).

Pool B – Mexico City

South Africa? I don’t know how good these guys will be with Ernie Els and Retief Goosen as their 3-4 hitters. Obviously, Cuba will run away with this pool, but it’s more fun to picture how many Cuban players will defect once they reach the second round in San Diego.

Pool C - Toronto

We kicked your soft, lily-white, multimillionaire pansy asses three years in Arizona and we will do it again. Italy? Please. This isn’t the World Cup. Venezuela? They might have a chance if they stopped kidnapping player’s families and holding them for ransom.

Pool D – San Juan

Much like Cuba, the Dominican Republic will dominate this pool, so let’s meet the pretenders. The Kingdom of Netherlands? Well la-dee-da, you’re still going 0-2. Panama: they can build a canal but can they hit with runners in scoring position? Puerto Rico: The US doesn’t care and neither do I.

“Idol” Thoughts (I did it again!!)

I write this American Idol breakdown with a heavy heart. Usually, I develop an unhealthy infatuation on a token hot female contestant (see McPhee, Katharine and Underwood, Carrie); this year I had pinned my hopes on Casey Carlson and/or Kendall Beard cracking the top 13.

Unfortunately, due to the fact that they both suck, neither hottie is moving on in the quest to become America’s next pop “star” (also, neither Casey nor Kendall accepted my Facebook friend request. Sluts).

Therefore, I cannot in good conscience give two shits about the rest of the season. The rest of this article will consist of my brief (maximum of six words) thoughts about the remaining 13 contestants.

Danny Gokey – Wife is dead. Yeah, we know.

Alexis Grace – Teenage Pregnancy. Use condom next time.

Michael Sarver – Blue collar Joe. Has ugly wife.

Adam Lambert – You are gay. Vote Prop 8.

Kris Allen – I don’t know who you are.

Allison Iraheta – Sang Heart’s Alone. Gave me boner.

Jorge Nunez – Cut my grass if you lose?

Scott MacIntyre – Blind; not distracted by Kendall’s hotness.

Lil Rounds – Has talent, but dumbest name ever.

Anoop Desai – Nerdy looking, but Slumdog can sing.

Matt Giraud – Piano man has cool half beard.

Jasmine Murray – Only 17, but my Cocoa Princess.

Megan Joy Corkrey – Great tats. That’s not a typo.

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