Suit: NBA Player Was Cranking One Off During Car Crash

Way back in March, Eddie Griffin of the Minnesota Timberwolves [and not Undercover Brother] crashed into a parked Suburban outside Santana Foods in Minneapolis.

The two officers that responded to the scene didn’t test Griffin for alcohol and eventually did him a solid by driving him home even though video reveals that Griffin admitted his drunken state to witnesses and even offered to buy the victim a new car. However, when Griffin spoke to reporters, he said that he’d dropped his cell phone while driving and that’s why he plowed into the vehicle.

Thanks to an internal affairs investigation and a recently filed civil lawsuit, the web of lies has unraveled to reveal a rather sticky situation.

The suburban owner’s lawsuit against Griffin maintains that not only was the Timberwolves center drunk, he was also masturbating and watching porn when the collision occurred. To make matters worse, he admitted as much to Abed Hassuneh, the victim’s brother:

“… he was masturbating himself going down that street… he was not paying attention. He’s paying attention to that video and all of a sudden he’s shoveled somebody’s car on the top of the sidewalk.”

Apparently, this hard-on has a DVD player mounted in the dashboard of his Cadillac Escalade and couldn’t wait until he got home (or to an empty parking lot) to have a go at himself.

What must one’s life be like to be so desperate for orgasm that you have to watch porn and stroke it while tooling through a grocery store parking lot? At first I thought, “Well, it’s no worse than road head.” But then I smartened up because no matter how dangerous road head becomes when the guy reaches his limits, at least you have another person there doing the job. At least you can keep both hands on the wheel if need be. But that’s not the case here! What if you get dizzy? What if your body starts with the involuntary movements? I have an ex-boyfriend who got the jimmy legs so bad, oral sex became a seriously dangerous proposition and I took a knee to the fuckin ribs. I can’t imagine what would happen if his foot was on the gas and he was the only person around!

But forget the involuntary movements for a second, what about your mental function? When you get off, you go blank. You simply go retarded. As far as I’m concerned, a man is far more impaired post-nut than he could ever dream of being while simply drunk. And if you can get arrested for DUI, shouldn’t it be illegal to jerk and drive? Even though the guy reaches his state through different means, in the end, he’s still fucked up and needn’t be behind the wheel.

A legislator needs to get on this issue.

[HT: Just the Sports]

Hey Roddick, It’s Not a Purse! It’s European!

This has been a rough season for Andy Roddick, the tennis star whose mojo may very well have offed itself during the US Open last year. And though the victories that once came naturally to America’s best are now more elusive, Roddick hasn’t let that get him down. He relaxes and keeps more trivial matters on the brain…
Like the man purse.
Now, I know anyone who took a picture like this has little right to take a stand on anything relating to masculinity but according to his personal website, Andy Roddick is an enemy of two things –one is Kevin Federline, who he nominates as “butthead of the week” because it was supposedly inevitable. The second is the above-mentioned European carryall (or manbag, as I prefer), an item made famous by a man-fur wearing Jerry Seinfeld in the episode, “The Reverse Peephole.”
Apparently, Roddick has noticed the troubling, growing trend amongst men on the streets of London and is justifiably lashing out. Chelsea’s Jose Mourinho and England’s faux skipper/hood ornament/metrosexual David Beckham are infamous carriers of the item, preferring a purse made by Louis Vuitton. Boxer Lennox Lewis also carries a manbag but I am content in believing that he’s carrying around boxing gloves and shoes in there on the offchance that he gets into a rumble on the streets.
“Anything bigger than a money clip or a wallet is to be left to your girlfriend/wife…and just so we are clear you should not be able to throw your ‘wallet’ over a shoulder…if you have a man purse, the wall is waiting,” said Roddick.
I don’t know what “the wall” is but I’m sure it’s an appropriate punishment for carriers of the manpurse. I’m not a fan of this bag and I don’t see how any self-respecting woman can be… how do you stay with a man that is willing to trade his masculinity to carry one around? I’m terribly vexed by that. Now, I’m sure there are people out there thinking, “well, he’s secure in his masculinity!” That’s bollocks. “Secure in his masculinity” is a phrase coined by some naive woman who was trying to explain away her metrosexual boyfriend’s behavior to her girlfriends at lunch and I’m not buying it.
My man only needs a pocket and that pocket must only be big enough to hold one thing: money. Combs, sunglasses, and fashion accessories are not apart of the game here. If I can get by with carrying a debit card, a tube of chapstick, and my cell phone, I expect men to do with less. Is there something for me to carry? You’d better put that stuff in the car or bring your backpack!
So bravo to you, Andy Roddick, for standing up for what is right. Having said that, thumbs down yet again for posing for a picture like this. I don’t care how old you were, the flame it’s generating is strong enough to cancel out the minor feelings of attraction that I had after reading your obnoxious, anti-manbag stance… like you care.

Dickin’ Our Way to the Quarters

*Disclaimer: I will continue my trend of waiting a day or so to decompress before commenting on England’s World Cup happenings until we either play better or lose*

So the Three Lions are in the quarters. Someone asked me if the reason I can’t fully enjoy this result is due to my being a natural cynic or just English. I suppose it’s a little bit of both, as you can’t be English and not be a cynic. Well, it’s possible, but at some point, almost every English youngster has a horrifying sporting experience that sparks a lifelong, largely unjustified outlook of doom & gloom.

Mine occurred on June 22, 1986. I was 4 years old and England was facing Argentina in the World Cup quarterfinals. My father and uncles were in Mexico City for the Cup, leaving us wee ones in Gloucestershire with our mothers. That was the first time I remember being keyed up for English football, and after my nap, I got to put on my Gary Lineker jersey. I wore it with pride even though I really didn’t know who Lineker was.

The match began and all was well until five minutes into the scoreless second half. Diego Maradona attempted to play the ball into the penalty area but Steve Hodge beat him to it. And when he tried to hook the ball clear, it screwed off his foot and into the danger zone. Maradona swooped in and knocked the ball away from the grasp of keeper Peter Shilton and into the net. He did all this with the back of his left hand.

The handball replayed on the telly again and again. *Back and to the left… back and to the left… back and to the left* The referee called it a goal under the belief that Maradona headed the ball. The Argentinian would later claim that the goal was scored “un poco con la cabeza de Maradona y otro poco con la mano de Dios” (a little with the head of Maradona and a little with the hand of God). Hand of the Devil is more like it.

This was my first feeling of anger and frustration where the English are concerned. It was also the first time I saw my mother cry. Five minutes later, Maradona put on the greatest goal-scoring display of all time… our last line of defense on that play was Linekar – my jersey hero. I suppose I never recovered. And with that, let the bitching begin:

A couple days have passed since our win over Ecuador and while I’m thrilled to be in the quarters, I remain unhappy at another semi-comatose performance. This is our third unconvincing win in four results and we played well for about 15 minutes… during that brief span, David Beckham was useful for about 15 seconds.

Hearing Beckham’s name makes me angry and watching him preen and skip about the pitch without a thought for productive contribution makes me ill. It is almost impressive how excruciatingly superfluous he manages to be in open play… he ought to pay the FA a gratuity for the amazing seat he has for every match.

For 89:45 against Sweden he had no tackles, no shots, no dribbles and couldn’t pick up a man at corners if he offered some head after the game. But the thing that pains me is all these negatives notwithstanding, it is the whip and menace of his right foot that has permitted us (and our 70 minutes of quality football) to remain in this tournament… if you deny that, you’re blind.

As much as I want the captain’s band ripped off the arm of our faux skipper and see him relagated to bench duty, he has set up or scored three of our five goals. And the score against Ecuador reminds me that even though he is little more than a decrepit hood-ornament until the ball goes dead, we wouldn’t have gotten this far without him. The drop and curl on his free kick Sunday were nothing short of uncanny.. it was vintage Beckham – pre-2002 World Cup cock-up Beckham – and short of, maybe, Roberto Carlos, no one in the world can do it better.

As for the rest of the squad, there’s nothing wrong with them that a swift kick to the collective arse by Vinnie Jones can’t cure. I imagine he’s in some trailer on a Hollywood set somewhere scaring co-stars and production assistants but if someone can track him down, fly him to Gelsenkirchen, and have him waiting for the Three Lions when they enter the lockeroom for halftime on Saturday, I’ll give you anything you want.

Hot Sand and Hard Bodies

It’s Beach Volleyball time! I wish I was tall enough to play beach volleyball (or good enough)! Maybe if I was 5’9 or 5’10, I could’ve been a contender! I could’ve worn skimpy outfits and shown the world that my ass is like Kapow!
But alas. It was not to be.

Check out the scene at WCSN Beach Volleyball Channel for an update on the summer’s exciting mens and womens events. Also be sure to take a gander at the photo gallery – Word is, it’s “asstastic.”

Don’t Stop the Referee Now

The morning entertainment can be found in my update at SportsbyBrooks where I run off at the mouth about:

Wankers Run Nike’s Marketing & Design Departments

I was mortified yesterday when a friend sent me a disturbing image of Wayne Rooney, drenched in blood-red paint in the image of St. George’s cross/Christ/Crusader and screaming a war cry. It’s more than fair to say that if our team is going to make a run in the World Cup, it will be due to his presence but Savior of English football or not, this is this is offensive on so many levels. As one would expect, it has provoked fierce condemnation:

After the Rooney ad, I was pretty sure Nike couldn’t top itself. Then I saw the unveiling for the new Oregon Ducks uniforms. Thanks for making my eyes bleed, Nike. These things are fucking wretched. But where should the mockery begin? Perhaps we should start with the diamond plate trim that’s better served on a truck with a gun rack and a Dale, Jr. sticker in the back. [Side note - get a load of the tattoo on #86. Rather than stick to the cliched barbed wire, this twat went for the entire barnyard fence. You talk about intimidation!]

Maybe Oregon can suit up some of its players in this get up and form a team for the next remake of Rollerball, or better yet, have them pose as extras in the next installment of Mad Max.

Maybe the Sky Isn’t Falling, Afterall

Sven-Goran Eriksson is a wanking fuck and I want him to die a slow, horrible, grisly death. Death by Bongo seems an oddly appropriate option here. I just had to get that feeling out of the way. Now, moving on…

The first half against Sweden went extremely well. Our lads were creative, they were lively, they were smart. And it started with the largely unappreciated Joe Cole, who was positively exquisite. His looping strike after the 35 minute is easily one of the top goals of the tournament. Ashley Cole held solid, as did Owen Hargreaves, who proved many critics, myself included, quite wrong. For once, he played like Hargreaves the Bayern Munich player, not Hargreaves the England imposter. And Wayne Rooney ran with an energetic directness and impressive power that raised the level of the whole squad. When compared with our performances against Paraguay and the Rooney-less hour against the Caribbean islanders, the difference was so extreme that it was maddening.

Though it wasn’t our best half of football, our men put forth the level of performance I expect to see in group play. The only thing most world powers want in the early going is to survive the dregs of the group stage without serious injury or disaster (more on Michael Owen later). If they advance while playing like shite, fine – it’s a 7 game tournament right? Sure. But that attitude is rubbish and I’m tired of seeing it from the Three Lions.

I want to see signs that my side is bursting at the seams to get after it in the knockout stage. I want to watch our lads and know that when it comes time to own a team, they’ll be ready to bust some heads. So I was pleased to finally bear witness of such in the first 45. Had our side performed with this level of energy against Paraguay and T&T, I’d have saved my Chicken Little suit for next week. But alas.

When halftime sounded, Sven, the master demotivator, cast the usual sleeping postion and our boys returned to the match like they’d just hibernated through a Swedish winter.

Almost immediately, our much-vaunted defense became a sieve and our most damaging habit reasserted itself… we proved unable to hang on to a hard-won lead. Paul Robinson couldn’t direct the troops, John Terry couldn’t attack the cross, Sol Campbell – who replaced Rio after a miserable season as a Gunner this year – couldn’t grasp the concept that you don’t let the ball bounce when it’s in the 6. Frank Lampard looked great and was extremely active but couldn’t find the back of the net if it blew him. And David Beckham is still allowed on the pitch during matchtime. We’re a team that relies heavily on crosses and free kicks but that worthless cunt is slow on offense, non-existant on defense, and manages to get lousier by the day. Now we’ve lost Michael Owen for the duration of the Cup. But is the sky falling? Ehh… no more than it was 3 days ago.

It’s apparent to all that had we a suitable coterie of strikers, we wouldn’t be having this discussion, but with Owen out, only Rooney, Peter Crouch, and Theo Walcott (who has yet to see time) are in good health. It can be argued that the loss isn’t so tragic.

Owen wasn’t fit and firing to begin with, as the only thing he’d brought to the pitch thus far was the potential for magical goal scoring. Before he went out with that grisly knee buckle, he’d not shown us a thing… in fact, his play worsened since facing Paraguay. In a strange way, the best thing that happened that night was his departure. Our lads showed an instant and positive reaction, as if they’d finally found their rallying cry. As odd as it sounds, maybe this is what we needed… Maybe the absence of Owen will force Sven to make lineup and formation changes that he would have lacked the courage to do otherwise and our mouths will water upon witnessing Lampard and Gerrard backing up Rooney without restraint… Maybe this is one of those situations where an accident steers a team towards the discovery of its true form and nature… Maybe, just maybe, the sky isn’t falling afterall.

I Wish Dwyane Wade Spelled His Name Correctly

So the Heat pulled it off – congrats to them. I didn’t have a clearcut favorite, so when the game was coming to a close, I spent most of the time focusing on my various petty dislikes (and baseless likes) of various players and using that as reasons to cheer for one side or the other.

First, I wanted to see Shaq get another ring because I hate Kobe Bryant.. but oh look, Gary Payton’s on that team! That wanker can go fuck himself! Go Mavs! Oooh, Alonzo Mourning, I’ve loved him since his rookie year. What a great person he is. Go Heat! Mark Cuban really deserves this. Plus, it’d be hilarious watching David Stern hand over the trophy. The old man would probably say “fuck it” and leave the arena with it before the ceremony. Go Mavs! Aww but Dwyane Wade! He’s such a great guy – like Mourning.

Even if his commercial about falling 7 times and getting up 8 makes no sense whatsoever and he does spell his name wrong [that spelling doesn't even make sense!! How do you mess up Dwayne? It's like me spelling my last name Wraner and having the nerve to pronounce it Warner as if nothing was out of place. That's not allowed! At first I thought his spelling was some typo but nope - he's actually Dwyane, Jr., which means he's the 2nd generation of not doing it right. Even Shaquille's name is spelled in a way that you'd expect and his name is ridiculous!!], can we hold that against him?

Needless to say, I’m an idiot and after the game, I’m pretty sure I flipped over to the Golden Girls and sat around with Matt trying to figure out what re-re headlines would show up on ESPN and CNNSI – I went with Hot Hot Heat. ESPN went with Hot Flash… should’ve known. In any case, check out my update at SportsbyBrooks where I get witty and/or catty about:

I’ll be back kids. You don’t really think I’d let the England-Sweden match go without whining and crying in an agony of hopeless grief like the hypercritical limey I am, do you?

Mickelson Channels Jean Van de Velde

Before we get moving, I’d like to offer a job well done to the United States. If their ball skills matched the heart displayed, they would have won by 4, but that was a spectacular effort from end to end and precisely the type of fighting spirit that was expected against the Czechs. It’s anyone’s guess how Jorge Larrionda’s blatant cheating affected the game’s actual outcome. The US hasn’t scored a goal of its own in 180 minutes… would they have found a way against Italy were Larrionda not such a barrier? Who’s to say? The speculation will continue until 2010, especially if the US fails to advance, but who knows – it could be a good thing.
Nothing rallies Americans together for a cause than better than their national teams getting screwed over by foreigners.
As an aside, I was talking to Chad on Saturday and he said that Larionda is lucky he screwed over a country that doesn’t give a damn, otherwise, he’d probably be dead by now. I couldn’t agree more. He wouldn’t have survived the night.
—————-
They’re calling it one of the greatest collapses in the history of the U.S. Open. I call it the return of Sunday Mickelson. If you didn’t see this exercise in choke, you missed out on quite a show. After I saw Mickelson in share of the lead with Ferrie, I stopped watching the coverage. See (for the newbies around here), I have this petty, immature hatred for Phil Mickelson that is based solely in my dislike for his his FIGJAM attitude and the “I just took it up the pooper and no one knows” look on his face… oh, and the fact that he doesn’t like Tiger Woods [For some unknown reason, I take this as a personal afront, much in the same way that I did when Gary Payton said Michael Jordan "isn't that good."] I hate him and I root for his demise at every turn.
So I got word on Sunday that Colin Montgomerie was preparing to take the lead and likely, the championship, at Winged Foot, but by the time I tuned in, the Scotsman had already choked away his chance for greatness by picking out the wrong club in the middle of the fairway, hitting a second shot into deep grass short of the green, and then finishing with a double bogey. So had Jim Furyk – he missed a five-foot putt for par at the 18th. And Padraig Harrington, only a shot behind with three to play, bogeyed his last three holes. All that was left was Phil Mickelson and he was teeing up on 18.
I was about to change the channel when Johnny Miller (who should be a commenter at every sporting event) said, “He better be hitting a 4-wood.” When Johnny Miller is on somebody’s case, I make it a point to hang in for a listen. And with that, the fat bastard took his drive over the crowd and onto the hospitality tent, a move that, according to Miller, had Ben Hogan turning in his grave. And from there, Philthy clipped a freaking tree and the ball landed around the point his original drive should have.
The amazing thing is Hefty still had a chance to pull off the Mickelslam and knowing my luck when it comes to a hated sports persons [the term "athlete" does not apply in this case] doing well, I refused to get my hopes up. I just knew he’d lay up on the green and hole it out for certain victory and smugness. Bu it didn’t happen. Hefty landed dead in the sand trap. By that point, Johnny Miller had completely lost his mind, putting millions of viewers in hysterics:

“This is a nightmare. You couldn’t have worst decisions on this hole. I know you all like Phil, but come on, all you have to do is make par on this hole. Just hit a 2 or 3-iron and another long iron onto the green (easier said than done) and see you later. You don’t have to run down the stretch on a white stallion. You can limp in there and say ‘thanks for the trophy’.”

It was almost as if Mickelson had bet against himself. I’ve never seen an implosion this extreme. Sure, Montgomerie gave a way a chance of a lifetime and Harrington blew it but Mickelson took the art of throat constriction to a previously unseen level of accomplishment.
But why? What could have gotten to him?
Mickelson had one double bogey in the tournament and it happened on the 72nd hole. Did he not want to be apart of the conversation with Tiger in the way of being a true rival? Was he not prepared for the heap of expectations going back to back to back in majors would inspire? I haven’t the slightest clue but Mickelson, and his record for most second place finishes in the history of golf can reclaim his seat in the Pantheon of Chumps. The only thing missing from a final like this was Tiger Woods returning to glory… Oh well. Maybe next time.

We Are Shite But We Have Six. Huzzah?

Well mates, we are through to the next round and for that, I must rejoice. But if you don’t believe we could be home this time next week, you have a serious mental dysfunction.

Prepare yourselves, I’m about to get my whine on but first, some bright spots — Paul Robinson has a clean sheet. Given the slew of opportunities that we’ve allowed our opponents, the fact that he’s gone largely unchallenged is a fantastic result. It’s fair to say that he owes John Terry a week of free meals for so bloody magnificent. Aaron Lennon is a dream sub come true and Michael Owen may want to take a lesson. Lennon blew by his defenders without hesitation and the attention he drew directly affected our looks on goal. Late in the game, we started creating actual chances – though we often finished poorly, at least we had something. Sven made substitutions that, for the first time ever, worked to OUR advantage and not the opposing side’s. The spark provided by Rooney and Aaron Lennon was a key to our victory.[/positives]

Though the score was flattering, we were one-paced, pedestrian, and without a scrap of creativity well into the second half. a result, I was sure that we were dead as fried chicken this time yesterday. But after mulling it over, nothing has changed.

Right now, most of you are probably mocking me (if you even bothered to read this far) — my side has their ticket to the 2nd round; I’m complaining for the sake of doing so, etc. That’s fine – mock away but it won’t change the fact that England is in dire straits.

Some say that we always start slow, that we’ll get it together because there’s too much talent not to, that we’re just a couple games with Rooney back from getting things right. But those people don’t realize that England rarely finds a way to raise the bar and perform beyond expectations. More often than not, we are content to play to the level of our competition. We can survive with that kind of bull when playing friendlies and teams in the group stage but when it’s time to face a class side like Ecuador or an Argentina, Italy, Czech Republic, or Brazil, we are going to get our arses handed to us because we won’t be used to playing passionate, solid football.

People who have engaged in competitive athletics understand that you can’t just turn it on and off. You can’t coast one game and come out guns blazing the next. You make your attitude a habit, so when you walk out on the pitch, field, or court, you don’t have to worry about getting your mind right. Your mind is always right. It’s pretty easy to blame our listless, US-like play on Sven – he’s a crippled tactician and a master demotivator. But in the end, the players have to take it upon themselves to set it off or go home. And I fear that unless Rooney or John Terry captains that effort, it won’t be done and we’ll be out.