El Loco’s Final Four Results

Last weekend I watched Virginia Commonwealth (ass load of words) stun Kansas by nine in the elite eight. Two days before that I watched a young and inexperienced Arizona squad dismantle the champion Dukies like a kid tarring through a set of Legos.

It is happening. The Apocalypse that is. Run, duck, grab for cover, choose insanity over sanity. Ying and Yang? Bullshit. Like the twin hip hop combo, they equal each other out. Forgettable.

Uconn over Kentucky, Butler over VCU. Butler over Uconn for the title. I said it. Heard it here first.

Now to El Loco’s long awaited Final Four. Thank you to everyone intrigued by odd sports worship. So many of us are lost in a world of mundanity: insane + mundane. I am impressed by this. I have watched hope flower from the barren womb of our steel made industrial trap: America–

you’ve been neck snapped by fansmanship.com now haven’t you? Good. You get real shit here. Nada elsewhere.

Chris Rock is glorious. He is the most well timed comedian of our era. I have never heard a guy pick through comedy like a political strategist, drop on the fly jokes like a child, demand a six figure paycheck, and do it all with a face like an Afro-American Yoda.

His role as Lil’ Penny was original. I was sick of the freckle-faced Chucky, who if you have ever noticed, look like a pissed off Ronald Weasley. Lil’ Penny conjured humor from a sport that was just plain. Plain like non-fat milk, flat and watery. Penny Hardaway was a smooth-as-silk jaguar on the court. He was dynamic, but sort of a too good-looking and quiet-natured kid to excel in the entertainment world. To evoke humor from Penny Hardaway was like asking George Bush to dress in a drag outfit and give a sermon on the antithesis to the trickle down theory.

Only Chris Rock could do it. The guy could make Laura Bush have a laugh induced orgasm. He’s that brilliant. Brilliance equals unforgettable. Star power. Starbury, but worthy of that name. So its hard for me to say this. He loses in the 4th to MJ’s “If I could be like Mike.”

Yes its true. MJ proceeds Chris Rock. If Chris Rock is Paul McCartney, MJ is John Lennon.  Everyone grew up singing that song like a hymnal in church, backyard barbecues, luncheons, naked dance parades, and whiskey sour taverns. For a kid like me, a kid without a father, MJ took on that role. I idolized the man. In fact, I practiced wagging my tongue in front of my mirrors for hours everyday. So much, that even to this moment, when I bend my tongue in various directions it jolts and throbs with a lumbering pain.

Get your damn heads out of the gutter. We are talking basketball here–MJ advances. Butt tap and all. Watch 2nd clip in the commercial and tell me how MJ was never prosecuted for inappropriate play with a child under five.

If we go a long way back..back to the sixties, historians revel in one thing: rock n’ roll. Rock n’ Roll transformed society. High on life psychedelics, pot brownies, and sex on the beach (duplicitous, I know) were the miracle workers to political and social reform. Our nation was moon-walking in a backward momentum, believing in silly contradictions of “one nation under God,” platformed within a social climate of White elitism.

Music is the God to the soul. It directs, projects, and protects the individual. Creativity is the great thunderstorm of self-expression and viral notions of things like equality and diversity. God it was good. But it isn’t so good now. Everyday I hear pop princesses: Britney, Katie Perry, and Rihanna, piss away our rich history of musicianship.  Like lemon juice on a lip cracked and chapped, we’ve fallen in love with the idiocies of predictable hooks and soured.

As bad as “What’s up Doc (Can we rock?)” was, and as much as it gave me and my friends laughs over the years, Shaq wasn’t all that interesting. His jumbled rap bumbles through a voice made with the off-key base boom of Barry White. That really is not a compliment, when I say he was a dismal version of Barry White; RIP.

Where as the white afro Jesus is just the opposite. Millerlite is a staple Americana brewsky. It taste like piss, is light like melted and watered down copper, and lacks any semblance of a foamy top. Cheap and down right disgusting..but it gets the working man drunk, and thank God for that. Bob Uecker is the working man’s actor. He is below average looking. Has a voice like he sucked a helium balloon and then hash at the same time, which in the end equalizes the high/low affects of the two–and gives him that iconic, somewhat raspy tone. Uecker makes Marv Albert sound like a sick and stuffy grade school kid. Uecker in a rout.

Ties are for cereal flavors. Tell me, Honey Bunches of Oates or Frosted Mini Wheats? Brain teaser, isn’t it? You could cram for the SAT and have less of a headache than you would have answering a question like that.

No ties here–

ties are for children.

Bob Uecker was supplanted to the world of oblivion at the end of the 20th century. He is memorable because he is forgettable. Forgive me Uecker for I have sinned. Take this prayer as a supplement for my resignation.

MJ will never be forgettable. He is the athlete of our nations history. The most marketable and with the accolades to back it. No Vince Carter bullshit here.

Or T-Mac, Grant Hill, Penny Hardaway.

That song, as cheesy Michael Mcdonald as it is, will inspire you for the rest of your life. As will his game winners, iconic layup moves, and title glory. MJ is Loco’s ultimate champion. Congrats to, “If I could be like Mike,” and his famous butt tap.

Peace–or something like that. Bu bye.