Observations like a Greasy Red Card

I don’t want to say I’m never watching the NBA again, because I know I will. But, after the officiating in The Finals this year, let’s just say I’m not watching professional basketball for the games anymore. I’m officially gonna start watching basketball like a guy who intensely watches a magician close up. I’m looking for the wires, the smoke and the mirrors. I mean, that was bullshit. I know Stern won’t fine me (at least I think he won’t), so I’ll echo what Mark Cuban denied saying, “Stern, your league is rigged.” Oh, and um, congratulations, Miami. Good work and all that.

Speaking of basketball, the worst GM in the history of the game, Isaiah Thomas, is now coach of The Knicks, a team he screwed over with bad personnel moves on an annual basis. If you’re wondering where the joke is in this paragraph, it’s Isaiah. Watching him coach this team is gonna be like watching my Grandpa play video games. It’ll be cute and funny for a little while, but ultimately it will be disturbing.

No one I know thinks I’m marriage material except my mom. Do with that tidbit what you will.

Speaking of women, last night I met a great girl and got her number from her while she was out with another guy. By the end of the night, we were in mad-flirt mode and the guy she came with was talking with some recently divorced asshole who wouldn’t shut up about real estate. My buddy, Big Mike, said I owe that girl’s date a beer. You gotta have rules.

Cops never seem to like me.

The US is officially removed from the World Cup. Allow me to speak for that vast majority of fans that don’t give a damn: “There not still gonna play that crap on TV are they? Really? Why? I mean, we’re out. Fuck. Go Netherlands!" (Everyone has a back-up country for this thing.)

The best part about being single again: random sex with strange women. The worst part about being single again: a messy house with dirty laundry.

The other day, a street-corner preacher told me to repent my sins. I shouted at him, “Hey, you presumptuous bastard. How do you know I didn’t repent already? I’ll have you know I repent every Monday.” He gave me a look like a confused puppy who had recently been hit in the head with a golf club by his usually demure owner. I mean, I even felt kind of bad afterwards.

And finally, because logic and fluidity checked in early and are taking the rest of the weekend to relax (read: get drunk), I leave you with the following, which I overheard in the bar last night:

“I don’t think I’m in love with her. And I don’t think I love her. But I do want to sleep with her, so like, I’m sure I can fake it, right? I mean, how hard can it be?”