BRONX, NY – Hey, everyone! It’s the sh!ttiest day of the week, as we count down the final days of the sh!ttiest month of the year. As the Partridge Family used to sing, “c’mon get happy!” Before you know it, I’ll be down at Spring Training in God’s Waiting Room trying out some new heckles for the 2020 baseball season. I’m looking at you MAGA boy Kurt Suzuki. The Astros are also training right near where I’ll be staying, but they are far too easy a target… as their coconuts will prove to be this year as well. Anywho, plenty of other sports stuff to discuss. Let’s do it.
Nine Inch Hands. No, this isn’t some new Trent Reznor vanity side project, I’m here to talk about the stupid NFL scouting combine, which I wouldn’t watch if the only other thing on TV was Bill de Blasio reading Family Circus comics. Apparently the big, or not so big, news out of the NFL’s dog and pony show this week was that LSU QB Joe Burrow’s hands are only nine inches.
This apparently ties him for smallest 1st round QB mitts with Ryan Tannehill and Jared Goff. What a stat! I don’t think hand fetishism really became a combine thing until 2008, so Daunte Culpepper’s tiny crab claws and Gary “Big Hands” Johnson’s mammoth meathooks are probably not on the NFL handjob spreadsheet. And, yes, I just wanted to write the words handjob spreadsheet.
The Bronx Dramas. Between the Houston Astros cheating scandal and the Gerrit Cole signing, it’s been a pretty active back page offseason for the New York Yankees. Historically this team has seemed to thrive when they’re making any sort of news… even the bad kind. So Yankee fans should be thrilled at the two latest developments. 1) Luis Severino needs Tommy John surgery. I want to be clear that I never root for any player to get injured or need surgery, but the Yankees are continuing their Freaky Friday chronic injuries switcheroo with the
Mets brilliantly. 2) Brett Gardner just got an order of protection against an allegedly obsessed female fan. There’s probably tons to unpack here but REALLY? Brett Gardner? If he’s got a stalker there’s hope for me yet.
I really don’t want to talk about the Wilder/Fury fight because I didn’t see it and I don’t really care about it, but I will because I’m a professional and I have word count requirements to meet, and, most importantly, I don’t want to have to spend time thinking about some other topic. And so…
The Pound and the Fury. From all accounts and the few highlights that I saw, Deontay Wilder pretty much got his ass kicked by Tyson Fury. My first thought is, both of their names sound completely made up, like when Homer Simpson started calling himself Max Power. Secondly, both of these lugs look like they would get eaten alive by the heavyweights of yore. I mean, Wilder is blaming his loss on the overly-heavy costume he wore into the ring. How tough can a guy be if a Bob Mackie gown can take him down? Also, a British heavyweight champ? I’m not buying. I’ve seen too many Frank Brunos and Joe Bugners. And don’t give me Lennox Lewis. He repped Canada in the Olympics so he’s Canadian.
OK, I’m done. CDC is telling me I need to prepare for the Coronavirus. Come back tomorrow for Buddy Diaz, who once had Dos Equis Dropsy.
