Ray Lewis Beats the Statute of Limitations


When the Pope released one of his “peace doves” from his Papal window to the crowd below, everyone was horrified to find an attacking seagull try to take down the bird of peace.

When Ray Lewis tried to convince everyone of his piety, the media raised hackles by suggesting that Lewis had been used banned substances to play this season.

Yes, the man who led a team of injured players out onto the field to beat the New England Patriots may be a friend of Alex Rodriguez.

Holy Roller Ray Lewis has appeared on sports magazine covers with his hands in a praying pose, apparently to show he is not beating his many non-wives.

Wes Welker’s wife made a public tweet, sniping at Lewis for having four common law wives and six children.  Holy Ray of Sunshine forgave her.

Lewis seems to have most of the media on his side, mostly because he will likely have a job on one of those pregame desks next season. There he can let his mouth run off like a modern day preacher of the gospel of hypocrisy.

Murder will out, unless your question undermines the fine character of a man convicted of obstructing justice. Defenders of Ray Lewis insist this is old news, though the idea of unsolved murder means that the statute of limitations does not apply.

Rumors circulate that there is a tape of Lewis in flagrante delicto, calling out: “Klaatu, barada nicto.”

That means murder, unlike deer antler spray, can be investigated until solved, not quite like using a banned substance among our sports heroes who are allowed to get away with murder.

Food Network Excited by Tyler Seguin Incident at Bruins-Devils Game


As the puck went flying into the net with the amazing penalty shot by Tyler Seguin, something else went flying past the net.

Johan Hedberg was in the net for the Devils, and it might have looked like a head of iceberg lettuce to him. It went skipping over the crease and toward the boards like a peewee shot.

To resident slob Bruin Tyler Seguin, this flying object may not be quite so unidentified. Sources insist that Seguin thought it was a waterbottle, but in his apartment in Europe over the past few months, the object in question may resemble something he saw on his own floor many times.


This would explain how nonplussed he was when the missile shot past. Tyler did not lose focus and hit the net, though his effort was disallowed. He had to do it again.


Game officials have seen many weird items come out of the stands, and they knew their only recourse was to disallow the first shot and make the Bruins’ star do it again (which he promptly did).


As for the crumpled foodstuff, some referee had to get mustard on his fingers as he reached down to retrieve the ball of bread and meat. It looked for all-the-world like a hot dog or sausage dog in a bun or croissant.


Gourmets at the game felt it was chichi enough to be a bagel burger or a pretzel dog.


Gourmands, of which most in the area numbered, felt it was a bit of undigested beef, coughed up like projectile vomit. This apparently is not unknown at hockey games.


The Food Network may build an entire mini-series around the errant junk food. The Travel Channel feels it falls under their purview as hero sandwich. Rights to the tale are up for grabs.




Celtics Succumb to the Rondo Virus


A plague on the Celtics’ house has commenced. Even with Rajon Rondo out of the picture for the foreseeable future with a torn ACL, his reach extends from beyond the hospital morgue.

Rondo has the True Blood, and he has left the team bloodless.

Like a contagion, Rondo’s lack of presence means big changes for the Celtics. They are going nowhere fast when playoffs arrive. So, there may be wholesale slaughter of the flock of lambs.

The Rondo virus could result in the decimation of the lineup. Speculation centers on the mad monk Danny Ainge, the Rasputin of the NBA, sending Jared Sullinger and Avery Bradley to another team for a loaf of bread and a jug of wine.

Trade rumors, the bread and butter of the sports media, have Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce being cast into the abyss in human sacrifice. What need of superstars when the apocalypse is on the horizon?

The Rondo Virus may be more deadly to aging NBA stars than the Swine Flu. And, there is no inoculation after playing a dozen years in the league. In fact, it could be said that long careers in the NBA are like living in a leper colony. You will catch it inevitably.

Rasputin Ainge has been chanting and performing rituals to make the bloodless Celtics return to life. He knows the fatal consequences of the Rondo Virus. It’s like a neutron bomb. It kills players, and leaves the Boston TD Garden in tact with empty seats.

Rondo Virus is a silent killer of teams. You cannot see it, taste it, smell it, or detect it. You only know it is present when your team starts to tank.


Jared Sullinger Emerges as the Anti-Rondo



Jared Sullinger may be like those little mammals that waited till the dinosaurs disappeared and left a wide corridor for his emergence.

Jared now has a clear field to become the next Larry Bird, or at least the new Gronk.

Always seen around coach Doc Rivers, Sullinger gives high fives to his coach when he comes off the court. No Celtics rookie ever spoke to Doc before Sullinger suited up.

Not even Avery Bradley received the minutes played in his first year that Jared Sullinger now has nightly.

He took a giant step forward with the Celtics double overtime win over Miami. For the first time all season, he was not in foul trouble. In fact, he had only one foul for the entire game. He has been effectively courting the referees, and now it is paying off.

In that sense, Sullinger is the anti-Rondo. He will not throw a ball at the ref. He will not step on the ref’s heel. He will not bump into the man with the whistle.

Rondo manages to give the Rondo Death Stare to anyone who missteps on his own team. As far as Sullinger is concerned, the sleepy-eyed player seems non-threatening.

That act is a camouflage for his cobra defense.

Teamed with Avery Bradley, Sullinger may be the future defensive tandem of the Celtics. Those aging big guys still have a few more games in them, but the excitement will likely come from the players who are under 22 years of age.



One Good Return and the Spoils of Ray Allen


It’s not exactly the return of the Invisible Man. We see him coming.

Ray Allen comes back to his haunt of success, the Boston TD Garden and his once-beloved Celtics. Now they are merely a nemesis in green pantaloons.

Of course, returns are not always happy like when you take an empty bottle to the redemption center—and it doesn’t count. There is no redemption when Ray Allen turns up at the Garden. You won’t even get your five cents’ worth.

In Miami at the start of the season, Allen received de rigueur hugs from his former boss, Doc Rivers, but was ignored like a bad smell in polite company by Kevin Garnett.

We expect this time Garnett may suggest that he misses Ray Allen about as much as he missed Honey Nut Cheerios when he played Carmelo recently.

Rajon Rondo probably won’t see Allen clearly. Though this is not a playoff game, it is possible that Ray may receive at least one more pass from Rondo in this game than he had while playing for the Celtics last May.

Allen may have an opportune moment in his return to Boston. He can kick his former team while it is down on its luck.

When (and if) Ray returns to Boston during the playoffs this season, it will not carry the impact of this trifling game. This may not be the return of the native; or even the return to the thrilling days of yesteryear, but it is a return of destiny.


Ray’s return may smack of the return from the great beyond of Lennay Kekua to Manti Te’o when she called to say she wasn’t dead after all. You don’t need the Ouija Board to know the outcome.

Suffice it to say Ray Allen is not dead as a doornail like Jacob Marley, but his return will haunt the Celtics with all the power of knocking Scrooge off his porridge. The only excuse left is that the discomfort is caused by a bit of undercooked beef with Rondo.

Tackled, Crushed, and Congratulated by LeBron James



LeBron James, a millionaire businessman and sometime basketball player, showed exuberance beyond the call of duty when a fan hooked a shot at halftime to win a contest in Miami.

The lucky fan stood at half-court at half-time and rang at perfect throw into the net. He won $75,000 for his efforts, not a paltry sum, but not exactly the lottery winner.

Alas, out of the blue rushing toward the happy contestant was LeBron James, a man about double the size of the winning tosser.

A high-wave or fist kiss might be in order, but LeBron tackled the man who was about to be crushed by the massive weight of a nearly naked basketball player.

Fortunately, James rolled onto his back, sparing severe damage to the fan. Even so, like a MMA contestant, the fan tapped LeBron on the shoulder in the embrace, as if to say, “Okay, now get the hell off me.”

A few said LeBron embraced the fan. Others said he hugged him. Some more accurately said he overwhelmed the fan with a bear hug. It looked like a tackle on the lines of Bernard Pollard.


If this had happened in a prison shower, we suspect LeBron would take no prisoners like the poor little fan.

It appeared that he rolled the contestant trying to take away the winnings.

James was fortunate the fan did not imitate Tom Brady and lift a leg into LeBron’s soft underbelly as he went down.


In fact, it was nearly an assault and battery. Why was LeBron so excited? Was he getting a cut of the action? Was this orchestrated for the highlight reel? Had LeBron never seen a half-court throw succeed?

Luckily for everyone, the fan did not call his lawyer after picking himself up off the floor.

Fake Noise Drowns Out Marv Albert’s Monotone


It takes a Potemkin village apparently for TNT’s announcer.

Marv Albert noted several times during his broadcast of the Celtics and Knicks game at the Boston TD Garden that the noise from the crowd seemed artificial.


It is reminiscent of the issue in Old Russia when Prime Minister Potemkin used to put up fake villages with well-dressed peasants to wave at the Empress Catherine the Great as she drove by in her royal sleigh. She was never the wiser.


You cannot, however, fool a fool. Marv Albert insisted that he found the cheers for Paul Pierce and boos for Carmelo Anthony to be orchestrated by someone’s finger on a sound machine.


Celtics fans have been known for their rowdy rocking of the building over the years. Sometimes the players, like Kevin Garnett, raise their arms to bring up the decibels from fans, like a deranged conductor of the Boston Pops.


This charge of Tomfoolery by the Celtics brought a cold response on Twitter from the Boston officials who said they “have never used artificial crowd noise.”


For years Red Auerbach never allowed rabid music during the game, a staple of quiet arenas around the NBA. No one ever thought Boston’s fans needed augmentation.


If anything, crowd participation was dimmed at the Knicks game when security confiscated the noisy wrappers from hundreds of boxes of Cheerio’s Honey Nut cereal.


It put a damper on the fan participation at the game. Only one box was seen being waved by an arrogant fan who taunted Carmelo Anthony.


Cruel observers noted how Marv Albert’s hearing ability may have been dulled by the padding of his hair weave. He backed off his outrageous charges after the game and silently skulked away from Boston.







Rondo Leads the Celtics Down the Primrose Path


Rajon Rondo is now the fearless leader of the Boston Celtics.

He has not exactly grown into the role, but may be a typical draftee by the Department of Selective Service, as run by Danny Ainge.

If he were living in Patrick McGoohan’s old spy village, he’d be the “New Number Two,” the weekly foil who lost in a battle of wits with Number Six.

If we were looking for a general to lead his troops, Rondo bears a startling resemblance to General George Custer. Don’t let those feathers intimidate you, Rondo. It’s only a boa.


If the Celtics were made up of a dozen players like Manti Te’o, Rondo would be the glorious leader to inspire the imagination.

If the Celtics were a floating version of the Titanic, Rondo would be the sailor up in the crow’s nest, not seeing the iceberg until it hit.

If Rondo were Cleopatra, he’d keep his pet asp handy.

If the Celtics trade Rondo to the Los Angeles Lakers, we can expect that Dwight Howard would send him white roses every day, hoping to receive the game-winning pass.

If Rondo were a soldier in Napoleon’s army marching into Russia for a mid-winter siege, he might be the only one to bring his long underwear.

If Rondo were Odysseus inside the Trojan Horse, he might be the only one to fall asleep inside the horse’s rear end and miss the battle.

No one told Rondo that being leader of the Boston Celtics was a double-edged sword.

Pelican or Pelicant: New Orleans Christens Its NBA Team



You may be forgiven if you have no idea what to call a professional basketball team in New Orleans.


They might be called the Mardi Gras because their name seems to mask a long winter’s fast, or an overdone parade.


Yes, those crazy fools down in the land of levies and Jimmy Dean’s song about a battle have done it again.


New Orleans has dumped on another name, just when you found it easier to remember after years of misspeaking.


If you are shocked that the Jazz are no longer the name of the team in New Orleans, you are living in another century.


The NOLA team has dropped its sting, having found only death at the box office under the sobriquet of The Hornets.


Yes, the feisty little insect that smirked on their uniform has been swatted away, or swallowed up. Someone sprayed bug killer on the name.


If you are wondering what to call the Louisiana basketball losers this time around, look to the air.


Yes, apparently someone saw a pelican fly over the delta and decided the gullet that could hold every victory the team has had in two years would be appropriate as mascot.


Don’t confuse the Pelican with the Albatross, which is how the team has performed annually in the NBA leagues.


A friend who speaks Creole often mistakes a flamingo for a swan when he translates to English. You may mistake a pelican for a buzzard when the team plays.


Thus, you are now meeting the New Orleans Pelicans. We suspect this bird will not know the word any more than that insect spread the buzz, or that tune could be called jazz in years previous.


The presumptuous Pelicans may soon be living as the Pelicants. Whatever you call them, one of the least successful franchises in the NBA may be an extinct fowl in a decade.


Manti Te’o: Some Like It Hot



Manti Te’o, your girlfriend is a boy.


This may be worse than a boy named Sue for Manti.

As a big hunky Samoan, Manti may be appealing to a wide spectrum of humanity—and a few dogs too.


The lawyer for the alleged scam creator and friend of Manti has revealed the truth. The mysterious Tuiasosopo is a young Samoan who is actually a drama queen.


Yes, Tuiasosopo was head of his high school drama club and apparently donned a skirt for over 100 hour-long cell phone calls to his dupe, pretending to be a girlfriend.


That’s a lot of phone sex without a text in sight.  No self-effacing girl will Skype without makeup.


It was love at first non-sight when Tuiasosopo’s girl didn’t want a sou, or a cent.


Granted, Manti has come across in his interviews with Katie Couric as intellectually challenged, though he calls it embarrassed. However, in his culture, as his father indicates, a liar is just a fibber.


We can presume that Tuiasosopo didn’t lie about being a girl, just played a fibber. Manti has to know that Tuiasosopo is not only the girl who can’t say no, but he can’t wash that man out of his hair.


We are reminded of the ending of Billy Wilder’s crossdressing comedy Some Like It Hot when Jack Lemmon ripped off his wig and announced, “I’m a man,” after wooing his millionaire boyfriend.


The immortal Joe E. Brown smiled and said, “Honey, nobody’s perfect.”



Tom Brady Takes It One Foot at a Time

Insult kissed injury to spirit when the NFL fined Tom Brady for imitating a Rockette in his last gasp of the season.

Not only did the Patriots lose the championship game, Tom found the NFL pilfering $10,000 from his wallet.


Fortunately Tom Brady has an Aluma wallet that is airtight and watertight.  And, his wife also is one of the highest paid models in the world. She drops $10000 on tips to waiters, concierges, and hairdressers on a weekly basis.


The more distressing fact is that the NFL watches Detroit’s Rockette Suh kick players in their vulnerable G-spot and never fines him. Tom Brady took care to protect himself from thug muggings by the Ravens with preventative drop kick—and now must pay the price.


The Ravens were manhandling Patriot players from start to finish, and Brady simply protected his family jewels by taking out the jewels of Ed Reed with a well-placed game of footsie.


For a cottage industry of media shills who make their living complaining about the favoritism shown to Tom Brady, this penalty is a harsh blow to the groin. How can they now claim Tom is the beneficiary of blind referees?


Tom’s sliding scale of hoof into sack may be what the doctor ordered in New England, but it was not enough of a kick to the head.


We think a man of Tom’s age should be commended for showing that he is spry and able to split the uprights of an opposing team.


Not since Ty Cobb slid into second base with cleats ready to slice and dice have we seen such athletic aggression.


Since Tom Brady was unable to do much with his arm during the game, we found some solace that his feet still can work when needed.

Tom Brady’s kick was nothing short of a Rudolph Nureyev performance in Spectre de la Rose.

Now available as an ebook, be sure to read NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS UNDRESSED! which details the Patriots season of 2012 to its loss in the AFC championship game.

Boston Celtics Massacre Around the Corner from TD Garden


After another deplorable game in which half the team chose to send in a sleep-walking proxy, coach Doc Rivers has had enough. The firing squad is warming up.


Threats now have turned on a wholesale slaughter of the guilty and the innocent. If Doc gives up your ghost, then the Grim Reaper of the Celtics, Mr. Danny Ainge, cannot be far behind.


The coach singled out a rough figure of half the team playing under the level considered acceptable. In pure numbers, that could top seven players on the slow boat to oblivion.


After the Celtics, the end is near. Just ask Luke Harangody, or Nate Robinson.


The new guessing game is to come up with the roster that plays up the standards that the Doc orders. Take two players and ship them out;  then call him in the morning.


Tops on the safety net list is Kevin Garnett, followed by Jared Sullinger. After that it is a free-for-all, or a free-fall, parachute optional.


Yes, the man wielding the axe may give more than forty whacks. Ainge can outdo Lizzie Borden before the trade deadline.


In the present environment new names have been tossed into the hopper for a flushing—including Paul Pierce and Rajon Rondo.


We hardly knew you—Jeff Green, Brandon Bass, and Courtney Lee. We wonder what coast you shall land on after the tide takes you out with the flotsam.


What returns on the deposit bottle may not be as talented as what goes out on the tide, but we can count on one big motivation: belief in Celtics pride.

Pacino Picks Up the Pace


Al Pacino is on board to play Joe Paterno, the man who never met a pedophile even if the criminal was his best friend for thirty years.


The bigger question about the ridiculous homage movie to Joe Paterno will be the identity of the actor who will steal the movie as Jerry Sandusky.


Pacino should also be aware that his thunder may be overtaken by any actress who accepts the role as Paterno’s long-suffering and dim-witted wife. She never sees anything but good.


Joe Paterno was a lucky man to find a woman who was deaf, dumb, blind, and in love with him. As if the give us a sense of the comedy, the film is tentatively called Happy Valley.


Pacino, it should be noted, is planning on playing several notable people in movies over the next year or so. Another of his less controversial roles shall be Henri Matisse, the extraordinary French artiste. Called Masterpiece, it will detail the old man’s inspiration with a young beautiful nurse.


Al will also play Marco Polo’s father, and one of gangster John Gotti’s aides, reverting to an earlier successful typecasting.


Not to be outdone by modern shenanigans, Pacino will tackled King Lear. If there is a common thread to all the roles the former Godfather is accepting nowadays, it must be that they are all old fools.

Hated New England Patriots Draft a Few More Outcasts


In the past week or so we have learned how much the New England Patriots are despised, hated, and even snorted upon.

The New England Patriots have discovered this week how much they are disliked and disrespected for nothing they have done. This sort of revulsion is usually reserved for bad movies like the Twilight saga.


Killers, blowhards, conspirators, and sundry lowlifes on the Ravens are more respected than the team that has gone to the Super Bowl as often as most players go to the bank.

So, in the past week we have discovered athletes so reviled and disrespected by the unwashed public that we feel the following athletes should be made honorary Patriots. A few candidates have emerged this week as the epitome of Patriot character.


These sports figures ought to be honorary captains for the Super Bowl when the Pats go to New Orleans again.


LANCE ARMSTRONG:  First, the granddaddy of banned cheaters is Lance Armstrong. With the cold-eyed look of an assassin, he gave an interview to Oprah that confessed to his crimes with the aplomb of a sociopath doing a song and dance.


MANTI TE’O:  Second, the man who is president of the Imagi-Nation turned on his alleged best friend who apologized for stringing him along Twitter, Facebook, skype, and other social media, like prodding the donkey to go after that carrot.


Manti Te’o, the ultimate fantasy football player. Though his acting ability and sex appeal is better suited to the Red Sox marketing department, he is the kind of low-key media star that Bill Belichick loves.


ROGER CLEMENS:  Disparaging the Hall of Fame and its voting journalists, the Rocket of baseball dismissed his entry to the hallowed hall. Yankee, Blue Jay, Red Sox cheat Roger Clemens responded to his lockout of the baseball Hall of Fame with typical arrogance. He scoffed there is no wing for those who are first-time elected.


GARY BETTMANN:  Hockey returned to the ice as opposed to being on ice. The man who was responsible for causing pain and suffering to players and fans then offered apologies in newspapers across the continent, Bettmann gave a sterling impression of a weasel in his habitat. His resignation might have been more satisfying. Bettman likely bet the season—and he has still lost.


BOSTON SPORTS MEDIA: Even within their own territory, Boston sports insiders (which covers much territory to the self-anointed) proved their fair weather reportage. Casting a first stone for another time, they have scoffed at the team, not feeling they will lose, but believing they ought to lose. That means you, Michael Felger.

Red Sox Marketing Department Proposals for 2013




In an effort to meet the demands of co-owner Tom Werner who wants the team to show more sex appeal and provide more soap opera life stories to the pink hat brigade, the Marketing Department is scrambling to keep their jobs.

An inside expose, on a level with those from 60 Minutes, has revealed more secrets than found at Watergate by the Plumbers. These will be leaked weekly on a new Tom Werner produced series on NESN, Washing Their Dirty Sox.

Jose Iglesias will announce during the season that his imaginary girlfriend has run off with Manny Ramirez.

John Lackey will accidentally reveal a sexting scandal coming out of the Red Sox bullpen.

A mysterious media insider will plant a hidden camera in the Sox shower room and discover no one showers on the Sox.

Mike Napoli will have a booth on Yawkey Way where he will sell kisses for a dollar before every home game. This will augment his reduced salary.

Every week David Ortiz will travel to a Boston location and conduct Pilates classes for anyone interested in strengthening their Achilles’ heel.

In another attempt to create a soap opera line of interest in the Red Sox, Dustin Pedroia will smash up the cameras of several paparazzi dressed like Munchkins that follow him to the park.

Red Sox programs will feature a centerfold of a centerfielder next to the box scorecards.

Rob Gronkowski will invite Will Middlebrooks to join him with his adult film star friends at an after hours party.

Red Sox starting pitchers will join the cast of male strippers in the sequel to Magic Mike.

Boston Mayor Tom Menino will introduce the opening day lineups at Fenway for the PA, to be broadcast live on ESPN.

The Sox will accommodate the mayor by playing every multiple syllabic name on the 25 man roster, including Saltalamacchia, Pedroia, Dempster  and Hanrahan.  Vegas oddsmakers will handicap Menino’s performance as a likely disaster.