Sunday Funday: The Belated Week in Review Edition

Get out of my baseball stadium.

Like a week in review, except really late.

While my absentee ways are no longer unprecedented here on this site, I am now becoming the resident spokesman for tardiness as well. I’m just now getting around to providing my legions (read: dozens) of readers with immediate nostalgia while I am also watching Friday’s episode of “Friday Night Lights.” It seems like my life is running about two days behind.

I could list excuses but that doesn’t usually make for very appealing material. Let’s do this.

As I write this, I have just read that the Tampa Bay Rays will be making “an important announcement regarding the future of the Rays’ franchise” at noon on Monday. Plenty of people will speculate up until the announcement is made, but I believe the possibilities boil down to a few options:

• The team is demanding that a new stadium be built sometime kind of soon.
• The team is considering a move to another city.
• Vanilla Ice will not be able to put on a concert after the July 9 game.
• Disclaimer: By the time you read this, the presser will have likely already happened, and I may or may not look like an idiot.

In case you are wondering, here are a few comments that have been posted on the St. Pete Times’ Web site in response to the upcoming news:

• Stu, it’s cool if you take your team to Westchester County. We in Tampa Bay give you our blessing.
• Move the Rays to Anchorage, Alaska for all I care…
• If the rays build any kind of stadium that I’m going to sweat in I won’t be going to any games.

Art museums: More St. Pete's style.

Like I’ve said… St. Petersburg: A nice spring training town.

Speaking of my Rays, times are tough. Really tough.

As you know, the boys from St. Pete have taken interleague play as an opportunity to get completely defecated on by the National League. Included in this embarrassment was their humiliating series loss to the Atlanta Braves which of course destroyed any of the remaining bragging rights that I held over the SC populace.

After losing a weekend series to the rival Marlins in front of raucous, vuvuzela-littered crowds of possibly hundreds, the Rays have officially fallen out of first place, bringing down my overall quality of life with them. Thanks guys.

But let’s focus on the important part of that last little graf. That’s right, vuvuzelas.

On Saturday night, the Marlins gave out the bumble bee-impersonating horns that have been made famous at this year’s World Cup to the first 15,000 fans. [Insert your joke about the 13,000 left-over vuvuzelas here]. Earlier in the week, a fan was kicked out of Yankee Stadium for bringing a vuvuzela to the park.

Uh, yeah.

I’m all about all things World Cup, except vuvuzelas. Keep them out of my baseball parks and force anyone who brings one in to be locked in a small room with three drunken South Africans vuvuzeling it up for a good five to six hours. Just a thought.

In a world where vuvuzelas are welcome, the World Cup is going strong and pissing off Robbie Hilson in the process.

Today, New Zealand shocked the world by playing Italy and not losing. In America, we are still recovering from the greatest act of sucky officiating that we have ever seen [this week].

Get 'em, boys!

World Cup referee and overall terrible individual, Koman Coulibaly, cost the United States an epic come-from-behind victory when he overturned Maurice Edu’s go-ahead goal late in the game. Coulibaly refused the goal because Edu would not go on a man-date with him after the game. I don’t know if that’s true, but Coulibaly would not say why he overturned the goal, so I therefore have the right to say whatever the hell I want about him.

Speaking of man-dates, Diego Maradona would like to take this opportunity to remind you that he is not gay.

Don't even think about it, girly men.

Lady Gaga was banned from the New York Yankees clubhouse this week after being excessively drunk and indecent during a visit to the stadium. I’m not sure why I chose to write that, but I truly have found one bit of news that I have no further comments about.

The Lakers won the NBA Finals on Thursday. Basketball season is over.

Graeme McDowell became the first ever Irishman to win the U.S. Open on Sunday. One can only assume that a large celebration that followed every Irish stereotype imaginable followed the victory.

David Lee of New York Knicks “fame,” and Snooki of guido “fame” were spotted together at a New York City steakhouse. No one can be quite sure if they’re dating, or if Lee is planning out an elaborate new prop dunk for the 2011 NBA Dunk Contest.

The Tampa Bay Buccaneers will be inducting John McKay into their “Ring of Honor at Raymond James Stadium” this December. So what does this mean for you, the uninterested non-Bucs fan? It means that you get to see the return of the creamsicle uniforms that you ridicule but secretly think are awesome.

Just admit it.

I’m beginning to realize that this post will be published very close to midnight. I refuse to go back and change the title. Deal with it.

Happy Father’s Day. Or maybe not.

-Bryan

The U.S. Open: A Father's Day Diary

Come spend the afternoon with Mr. Sunshine.

It’s Father’s Day, which means I’m in front of my TV chewing my fingernails off. My dad is 3,000 miles away doing the same thing. Tiger time. Let’s do this.

5:03: Spent several minutes on the phone cracking Phil jokes to ease the tension. I take issue with the pinstripes – “he’ll suit up for the Yanks tonight.” Pops points out the “bra fat.” Phil, unphased, chips in on 1 for birdie to move to even.

5:05: My money’s on Tiger. I predict 67, though both my dad and I like Dustin Johnson a lot. He reminds me of Josh Beckett, and not just with the intimidating facial hair. He’s got the “Yeah, it’s the World Series. It’s the Yankees. Whatever” mentality. He’s also a solid dresser, unlike, say, Phil Mickelson – who looks like a European gangster from the 1930s… With bra fat.

Phil sans gangsta attire.

5:12: “I guess all that conditioning and working out is paying off for Phil,” says world’s foremost expert on everything, Johnny Miller… Ernie Els and Phil both hit approach shots stiff on 2. Tiger leaves himself a tester on 1. I’ll bet even money you hear the word “ticklish” sometime in the next 90 seconds.

5:16: Tiger misses his 6-foot slider after “one of the worst putts he’s ever hit.” Dan Hicks opts for “delicate” over “ticklish.” Foreboding start on both fronts, or as Miller would say, “The most foreboding start I’ve ever seen.”

Update: Phil at E thru 2; Tiger at E thru 1; Leader Johnson at -6

5:22: Martin Kaymer, who’s just birdied his third in a row to move to +1, is apparently the 12th-ranked player in the world. Kaymer conjures images of beige paint drying and is proof enough that golf needs Tiger Woods… And a little Phil, who just turned an ugly bunker lie into a 10-foot birdie op on 3.

5:34: Sunday’s first ray of light – DJ dumps his approach shot on 2 into a mess of overgrowth short of the green. My joy is quickly zapped by a Tiger snap-hook on 3 and Phil driving the green on 4.

5:38: Second ray of light. Johnson hits two straight shots that I would’ve hit as a 9-year-old: the first a left-handed hozzleknocker out of the fescue and the second a duffed flop shot. Starting to think maybe he’s the 2009 Josh Beckett.

5:41: Check that. Johnson plays four straight Hilson shots. Seven. “Phil the Thrill” three jacks from 15 feet on 4… Tiger drains a 15-footer for par on 3. I’ve awoken the neighbors from their Sunday afternoon nap. Game on.

Update: Tiger at E thru 3; Phil at E thru 4; leader Johnson at -3 thru 2

5:45: If DJ sh*ts himself, it’s going to show through those white pants.

5:47: “That wasn’t just a triple bogey. That was a bad triple bogey,” my father says as Dustin Johnson deploys a search and rescue party to his find his ball on 3. He’s looking square in the eyes of back-to-back triples, as Els stays at -2 with a clutch par putt on 5.

82.

6:03: Text from a friend: “Golf is absurd.” I tell her I’ve been hollering for 20 minutes… Follow-up: “Are you sure it wasn’t from laughing at the commentary?” Brilliant. Even people who don’t watch golf can tell these guys are morons. Great call, Meaghan. Please come back to Gainesville. 

6:09: Ernie Els takes a share of the lead at -3 with Graeme McDowell as Dustin Johnson goes off a cliff at 4… his ball, yeah, but his game, too. He’s looking at triple, double, double, which kinda sounds like a LeBron James stat. That’s never good.

6:19: You know Tiger’s kicking himself right now. The guy hasn’t hit a ball straight all day. Just pulled a “Kramer” on 5 – i.e. popped a whale in the blowhole. I should also point out that Gregory Havret – no. 391 in the world – is a shot off the lead through 5. He’s not gonna win (read: is European), but if he does, it’ll be the biggest French success on American soil since Lafayette’s Revolutionary campaigns.

Update: Phil at E thru 7; Tiger at +2 thru 5; Leaders Els and McDowell at -3

6:29: Text from Pops: “Tiger will birdie 7.”

6:30: Tiger birdies 7. Twenty-five-foot curling bomb.

6:44: Tiger, Ernie and Johnson make a mess out of their respective holes, while aspiring Civil War general Graeme McDowell moves to -4 and is currently looking at an easy two-putt par on 7. Havret, or “Frenchie” as he’s known to my father, drops a shot as well. Davis Love, meanwhile, is setting the three Davis Love fans up for inevitable disappointment. I checked out on Davis when he stepped out of the clubhouse wearing a checkerboard over his shirt.

Graeme McDowell/Colonel Mustard

6:54: Dottie Pepper on Els, who almost fell into the Pacific Ocean trying to find his ball on 10: “I think the key now is not to multiply a mistake.” On cue, Els multiplies his mistake, finding hay with his third shot. All of a sudden, the unassuming Irishman McDowell looks to have a death grip on the Open trophy. Somewhere, Tony Jacklin is wondering why he’s only heard his names 57 times today.

Your '70 champion.

7:08: This Sunday’s turning out to be less of an event than a 10 percent off Memorial Day sale at Kohl’s. I intended to write a post on Tiger Woods, but a bunch of Plain Janes – McDowell, Havret – hijacked my afternoon. Tiger’s “got a chance at a 4” at 10, which would have me mildly enthused if we weren’t talking about a par 4. The Man in Red makes bogey. Again. And if I was in my Gainesville apartment with Hi-Def DVR, I’d probably be watching reruns of “Mad Men” right now. This is an absolute disaster.

7:14: Havret yesterday: “Golf can be hell or paradise.” My thoughts exactly.

7:18: The only thing holding my interest after Tiger’s 38 on the front side is NBC’s promo for “The Event,” which could very well fill the gaping hole that “Lost” left in my network drama life.

7:21: Note to self: Make sure Tiger’s in contention before you commit to a full four hours of Sunday afternoon blogging. WTF?, Hilson.

Update: Leader McDowell at -3 thru 9; Havret at E thru 10; Els at E thru 12

7:26: A shot from NBC’s crack camera crew suggest that Phil is in the market for a corset, which perhaps would help straighten him out off the tee. Mick finds more crab grass on 13, but recovers nicely with a stiff approach to about 15 feet. At this point, I’m actively rooting for Els, who just dropped the f-bomb on 13. I hope Jim Nantz was wearing his earmuffs.

7:34: Dan Hicks: “Tom Watson could be playing this hole in the U.S. Open for the final time.” I’m gonna go out on a limb and guarantee that this is the case, unless Tom’s still shooting his age at 70.

Pure class.

7:45: McDowell still has a two-shot lead on Havret and Els (I know, contain your excitement), after hitting a bunker shot on the par-3 12 to three feet. Tiger briefly quickens my pulse with his birdie attempt at 13. Misses right edge. McDowell finds another fairway, as I settle back into my coma.

7:54: “There you go. Like a champion.” A teary Watson knocks his sand shot to 18 inches on the 72nd hole. I’d muster something to eulogize his brilliant career, but I’m just too damn depressed. Plus, Watson missed the putt.

7:58: Graeme “Ice Cold” McDowell hits the best shot of his round so far – approach on 13 to eight feet. I’m high-fiving people and screaming like a maniac… Just kidding. I’m in my house alone. Checked out 90 minutes ago. I know Pops did the same, because he hasn’t called since 6:30. McDowell whiffs on the putt, as I ponder whether Lance Armstrong really drinks Michelob Ultra.

Update: Els at +1 thru 14; Havret at E thru 13; Mickelson at +1 thru 13; Leader McDowell at -2 thru 12

8:05: Never been in a sleeper hold before.

8:06: Miami Hurricanes Devin Hester and Reggie Wayne cameo on a Sunday Night Football promo. Easily the best part of my afternoon. Easily.

8:08: “Phil has drawn a very good lie here,” says a befuddled Dottie Pepper as Mickelson hits off a pair of electrical wires.

8:10: ’94 and ’97 Open champ Easy E chokes up a lung after knocking stiff his second on the par-4 15. Runs the birdie putt four feet by, while McDowell struggles to find the green on the impossible 550-yard par-5 14. Dan Hicks begins his recap with “If you’re just joining us…” Let me finish: “… you lucked out.” I’m thinking about curse words that don’t even exist right now. And the only possible way this round could get any worse is if Phil Mickelson backdoors his way into a fifth major.

That kind of day.

8:22: “I took a chance, Bones, and it didn’t pay off.” Mick finds more deep stuff on 16, as a glimmer of sunshine touches the darkest part of my soul.

Update: Leader McDowell at -1 thru 15; Havret at E thru 15; Els at +1 thru 16

8:26: Miller observes for the upteenth time that “nobody” is playing well, which makes Tiger’s Sunday suckitude even more difficult to swallow. He’s made strides – as evidenced by Saturday’s back-nine 31 – but days like today would’ve been blood in the water for the Woods of 20 months ago. A disheartening performance anyway you slice (or duck hook) it, though it’s worth noting that he’s still good enough for back-to-back top-5 major finishes to constitute a minor disaster.

Remember this guy?

8:31: Chinese water torture/2010 Open: toss-up.

8:33: “A high hook right at the flagstick,” says a cataracts-stricken Dottie Pepper as Els’ tee shot on the par-3 17 finds sand 20 yards to the left of the hole.

8:43: McDowell, holding on for dear life, calmly two-putts from 50 feet on 16 to stay a shot clear of a sand-going Havret a hole ahead. Meanwhile, Johnny Miller insists that Dustin Johnson will have a hard time sleeping tonight after his 80-ish final round. I disagree. I think he’s passed out with a bottle of Jack by 9.

8:48: Havret pussies up an 8-foot par putt on 17 to fall two back. That was the round in a microcosm. For everybody. Absolutely pitiful. Half-assed, bereft of fireworks, just flat painful. People who hate golf hate golf because of days like today.

Update: Leader McDowell at -1 thru 16; Havret at +1 thru 17

8:56: More crap golf. Els forfeits a shot at victory with a lame attempt from 10 feet for bird. McDowell drops a stroke at 17… Secret icing on cake that nobody’s mentioned: if Tiger chips in for eagle, he jumps into second a shot back. Just sayin’.

SAP looking vigorously for new spokesman.

9:02: No luck for Tiger. Finishes with 75. Havret’s staring down a birdie putt in a bid to become the first Frenchman in 103 years to win the Open… Never seen a guy pull-hook a putt before. McDowell needs five to become the first European since Jacklin in ’70 to take my father’s favorite major. 

9:15: McDowell pulls the strings on his third shot into the par-5 finishing hole. Guy’s cool as a cucumber. Still talking to the camera on his walk up 18… Cozies the put to 10 inches and finishes this day like it began: with a whimper. Here’s salt for your wound – 72 gets Tiger into a Monday playoff.

A star is born... Yeah, probably not.

To all you dads out there: Happy Father’s Day. It’d be nice if you didn’t polish off every single last Corona on your vacation trips home, because just one would really come in handy right about now… I’m sure your sons love you anyway.

- Robbie

"Celebration Day" and Other Google Trends: The Week in Review, Redux

OLE! OLE, OLE, OLE!

No blues. Just abstract truth. Let’s do this.

As you can tell by my random Friday outbursts, I’m usually a crank come end of the week. What with term papers, blogging duties, oil spills and hot ladies resisting my advances, Week In Reviews more often than not come off as mere forums to air my laundry list of grievances. And with good reason. For those of you who’ve never been to Gainesville, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: it’s really, really hot. Like oppressively hot. Picture yourself sitting on a black tarmac in the pit of Hell.

Now add homework… Gainesville.

But this week, I’m feeling light, bright and airy. So instead of bitching about little things bereft of any real tangible significance, I’m going to pull a 180 and tell you why the last eight or so days have been pretty damn awesome.

But first, a little Zeppelin.

1) Tiger Woods, sans bandwagon jumper Hank Haney, has decided that maybe playing from the short stuff at Pebble is the way to go. I wouldn’t believe it had I not witnessed it with my own eyes, but I swear he just hit a stinger 3-iron off three. Haven’t seen that since last decade. Advantage: guy who once won the Open at Pebble by 15.

2) Japanese sensation Ryo Ishikawa took it upon himself to play as an Easter egg on Thursday.

Ryo Ishikawa as played by Peter Cottontail.

3) Sticking with Open Golf, Kenny Perry decided this week that he’d start dressing like a man. Seriously, this is more startling than The Fab Four’s transformation from “A Hard Day’s Night” to “Beatles for Sale.” Perry looks – dare I say it – sinister. Too bad he still sucks.

Before

After

4) Sticking with Open Golf some more, Pebble Beach is currently being graced by the presence of one Robb Hilson, who’s pre-gaming for Father’s Day by heckling Phil Mickelson in person. Just kidding. He’d never do that… Or would he?

5) Sticking with Robb Hilson and Father’s Day, this is indeed the weekend that I repay my pops for a year’s worth of awesomeness by filling one of the gaps in his jazz vinyl collection. I have faith in you, Priority Mail. Please don’t bend the corners. This one is epic.

6) Bryan Holt Tuesday via Twitter: “On behalf of everyone watching Rays/Braves: How in the hell does Kawakami have a major league contract?” What Bryan doesn’t know is that interleague rules dictate that opposing teams must spot Atlanta a game any time Kenshin Kawakami (now 0-9) makes an appearance on full rest. So really, the Braves have already won the series on the strength of Axl Rose lookalike Tommy Hanson’s 7 inning, 3 hit performance Wednesday. I’d also like to point out that if you erased KK from the space-time continuum (something I’m sure Frank Wren has tried), the Braves would have the best record in baseball.

(UPDATE: Braves took the series anyway. Suck it, Holt.)

7) My sister just graduated from high school, enrolled at a local college in San Francisco, and is currently pursuing her career as Undisputed Champion of the World. I can’t show a picture of her on account of our young male readers, but I can share some of her incendiary art work.

She doesn’t get it from my mom… or dad.

Feel free to wave to her if you’re ever in Orinda, CA. She’s the one in the black BMW driving unsuspecting bicyclists off the road.

8) I am 100 percent sure that Kobe will top the Celtics tonight, thereby singlehandedly nullifying 6 months worth of bad bets in a mere three-hour span. If, however, the Lakers don’t win game 7… um… look for me at a Mexican outhouse near you!

(UPDATE: VICTORY! Ron Artest scores 20 points and the greatest post-game interview of all-time… Kobe takes my words to heart… Phil Jackson coins the phrase “one for the toe”)

9) Mandy Drury’s proving to be a better closer than Michael Jordan. Outstanding Friday.

10) Leaving for The 305 tomorrow, which means next week’s posts should be filled with firsthand accounts of awkward run-ins with the world’s preeminent Latina talent. CALIENTE! I’ll use any spare time to brush up on my Spanish.

Pero ahora, vamos a hacer esto.

__________

On the 6/10 “B.S. Report,” Adam Carolla channeled my innermost thoughts when he told Bill Simmons, “I just want to say this to all the soccer idiots out there: leave us alone! We don’t like your sport. We have superior sports.”

Channeling Bryan Holt’s innermost thoughts, Carolla added, “The phenomenon of it is the drunk hooligans.”

Last Friday, photos leaked of Washington Capitals star Alex Ovechkin partying wildly with beautiful women on a private yacht. Caps management did say they wanted Ovechkin to spend his offseason “on ice.” Simple, but unfortunate mix up.

Ovechkin heard “Smirnoff on ice.”

Consolation for first-round exit.

As Americans jumped on the soccer bandwagon for this year’s World Cup, several first-time viewing audiences were confused as to why ABC chose Carrot Top as lead analyst.

Lalas/Top: Separated at birth?

On Friday during his post (alleged) assault media blitz, Steelers QB Ben Roethlisberger promised fans they’d see “a new Ben.” I think I speak for all sober people when I say, I don’t care if “Ben” got a makeover or not. Keep him in your pants, Roethlisberger.

Over the weekend, Washington Nationals phenom Stephen Strasburg backed up his 14-strikeout debut with 5 1/3 innings of 2-hit ball – or as Strasburg would call it, “an unmitigated disaster.”

On Sunday, Fox re-aired “The Simpsons” curling episode, painfully reminding 50 million Americans of the only sport they’d rather watch less than soccer.

DOH!

Also on Sunday, at the St. Jude Classic, journeyman Robert Garrigus blew a three-stroke lead on the tournament’s 72nd hole, or as French fans would say, “Pulled a John F****** Van De Velde.”

Note to self: start drinking merlot AFTER finishing hole.

News broke this week that FedEx is offering $10 million to the BCS conference that accepts the University of Memphis. I really hope there’s a taker. Can you imagine the marketing synergies?

Tiger Football: Where “Mailing It In” Isn’t Just a Pretense.

On Monday, Japan shocked Cameroon 1-0 in World Cup play. This marked both Japan’s first WC victory outside of its homeland and the only time Asians have topped Blacks in a sport not involving swords.

In non sequitur news, can somebody please explain to me why former Merrill Lynch CEO John Thain did a Lovaza commercial?

Then

Now

After game five’s loss to the Celtics, Kobe Bryant told Yahoo! Sports that L.A.’s defense “belongs on milk cartons.” In Kobe’s defense, he would’ve toned down his remarks had he known teammate Adam Morrison’s actually been on a milk carton.

Have you seen me?

And finally, on Monday, the I-75 “Touchdown Jesus” statue in Ohio was burned to the ground during a thunderstorm. While state officials suspect lightning struck the six-story figure, a number of travelers have since claimed to have seen Charlie Weis miles down the road with matches and a can of kerosene. RIP, Notre Dame program.

Your thoughts, Ron?

- Robbie

CNBC Fab 5 Pics: Bounce Edition

Dig the double meaning in “bounce.” Just kidding. Talking purely stocks.

I don’t know about you, Casualtists, but being constantly bombarded with images of dead birds and sludge spurting out of a giant hole in the ocean doesn’t make me want to go out and stimulate this American economy of ours. Something about fudge-like waves tearing into our sandy beaches makes me a little queasy inside. When I catch Anderson Cooper chatting up some poor shlub who can’t get his oyster boat off the dock, I think to myself, “Wow. I have it pretty good right now. And damn, I’m too depressed to buy anything.” Plus, I’m always somewhat turned off when I see headlines like “Could Dow Hit 1,000 in 2016?”

Thanks, Yahoo! Finance!

And really, until you stop running BS panic blurbs on your home page, I can’t take you seriously as a legitimate news entity. Silver lining, though: if the Dow does hit 1,000, your crap company probably gets swallowed for good by Microsoft or Google. Am I right, Carol Bartz?

Joe Investor (read: Robbie Hilson) isn’t feeling so bullish at the moment – there’s this Gulf clusterf*ck, a surge in jobless benefits claims, crappy retail numbers, and on and on. Our Wall Street friends, on the other hand, are built for this kind of stuff: small hearts, strong stomachs, balls of steel. Honestly, these guys are my heroes and fully responsible for the gangbusters week I’m currently having. The DOW’s reclaimed 10,000 despite a lackluster Thursday (we’re hovering around 10,400 as of 2:30) and the S&P bounced three times in the last 7 days off that mystical 1040 number, below which everyone agrees is the point of no return (i.e. Start selling your family heirlooms at Cash4Gold).

Here’s a little piece of advice from “Fast Money’s” Guy Adami I’d like to pass on: if you’re buying a stock for its dividend, you shouldn’t be buying the stock in the first place (unless it’s Annaly Capital Management – that thing is a monster). Case in point: BP announced earlier in the week, under heavy Congressional fire, that they’re more or less shifting that $3.36 per share kickback to a $20 billion escrow account. They’re also setting up for a $10 billion debt offering early next week.

So I say to you, President Obama: Way to shake those nasty capitalists down. Guessing this isn’t gonna help your rep as bed buddy of big government. But hey, better than being the lapdog of Big Oil… Ahem, Mr. Bush.

By the way, these BP hearings are far less entertaining than the Goldman hearings a month ago. BP CEO Tony Hayward has, by all accounts, the charisma of a paint bucket. Where’s Lloyd Blankfein when you need him?

And finally, Rep. Bart Stupak, I think you’re an OK dude, but dammit – for the sake of your soul – I hope you drive a hybrid and heat your home with solar panels.

We’re the enablers, Casualtists. This is my fault, just as much as it is my government’s fault, just as much as it is BP’s fault. Speaking of enablers, here are the people that enable me to get up before 11 o’clock: Mandy Drury (the Bond Girl), Trish Regan (the smokin’ brunette), Erin Burnett (the spunky brunette), and Michelle Caruso-Cabrera (the smokin’, spunky, endowed brunette). It’s Thursday. This is your CNBC week in review. Click on the thumbnails. Enjoy.

- Robbie

El Dios de Argentina

Vaya con Dios, bro.

I think the word we’re looking for is “badass.”

Diego Maradona has one Golden Ball – from the ’86 World Cup – and two balls of pure steel. He’s a football divinity, a larger than life personality, a celebrated savior to a nation. He’s half Paris Hilton, half Pope, and though Maradona doesn’t have his own reality show, he does have his own church.

Really. Founded 43 D.D. “Despues de Diego.”

The most staggering thing about Maradona’s return to the World Cup is not his lack of managerial experience, though his few years in club play aren’t much. It’s that, at age 49, he’s still alive to make such a return in the first place.

Perhaps this alone is proof enough that Maradona is in the hands of God himself – the same God that used his fist to break a 0-0 tie to England in the ’86 Mexico City quarters. The same God that touched the referee looking on with blindness.

Despite his blessings, El Diego is not what you’d call a gracious man – the definite article preceding his name suggests as much. And yes, after qualifying for Cup South Africa play, he told his critics in the press to “suck it.”

“And keep sucking it.”

Diego Maradona can say these kinds of things because, when you have God on your side, you can say and do anything you damn well please. Maradona played World Cup Italia high on cocaine. And led his team to the finals. He has a long-standing beef with Pele – perhaps the only other soccer figure big enough to earn his scorn.

Maradona once petitioned FIFA to retire his No. 10 jersey from international competition. He was voted by this same institution the century’s best player, but spurned the ceremony when told he’d have to share the award with Pele… who also wore 10.

Before he had name and legend enough to spar with immortal predecessors, Diego was a little man in the slums of Buenos Ares born of a dirt poor mother (not a virgin). He caught the eye of a talent scout by 10, and within 24 months, was dazzling crowds with sleight-of-foot ball skills during intermissions of local minor league games.

The boy wonder made his professional debut days short of his 16th birthday. By 17, he was good enough to be left off the ’78 World Cup roster purely on ego. A year later, he dominated the World Youth Champions, throttling the Soviet Union in the finals and so developing a Napoleonic complex fit for his 5’5″ frame.

During his stint with Argentinos Juniors, his team rejected a 180,000 Euros bid from English club Sheffield United. Maradona deemed this small potatoes, signing with Barcelona some three years later for the record transfer fee of 3 million Euros. In the time between, the attacking midfielder brought his squat frame and sorcerer’s feet to a global audience,  playing every minute of Argentina’s ’82 World Cup, save the final minutes to Brazil when he was booted for “serious foul play.”

His days in Barcelona from ’82-’84 served a microcosm for life in general. Part captivating, part cataclysmic, the hot-headed phenom scored 22 goals in 36 appearances, willed himself back from a career-threatening broken leg, and came down with a a potent case of wonder-how-he-got-that hepatitis. He made team directors’ jobs a living hell, so much so that they’d ship him to Napoli years later for another record fee.

If those familiar with El Diego had long known his connection with the Divine, it was the ’86 World Cup that opened the eyes of everybody else. With the wounds from the Falklands War still fresh in mind, Argentina met England in the Mexico City quarterfinals in front of 115,000 strong at Azteca Stadium.

Enter “The Hand of God.”

Six minutes into the second half of a 0-0 game, English midfielder Steve Hodge misplays a clearing hook off the side of his foot, setting up a jump ball between keeper Peter Shilton and a hard-charging Maradona. The latter man puts it in the back of the net “un poco con la cabeza de Maradona y otro poco con la mano de Dios.”

Just four minutes later, El Diego scored a goal so spectacular that it left the play-by-play man in tears: ten seconds, 60 meters, five humiliated English defenders, too many dropped jaws to count.

Argentina eventually captured the title on the strength of Maradona’s Golden Ball-worthy heroics. He finished the tournament with five goals, five assists, and has since left “scoring” and “assists” primarily for cocaine and communist governments respectively.

At one time or another, El Diego’s had ties to the Napoli mob, an illegitimate son and a nose full of snow. He donated the proceeds of his autobiography to Fidel Castro. He has a tat of the Cuban president on his left leg and one of El Che on his right arm. He called our last president “human garbage,” adding on Hugo Chavez’s weekly TV show that he “hated everything that comes from the United States with all my strength.”

He was sent packing from the ’94 World Cup for doping on ephedrine, then claimed it was FIFA’s idea – they needed his star power, and he needed to lose weight.

He once fired an air rifle at a reporter. He ballooned to the size of a small house. He owes the Italian government 37 million Euros, part of which he tried to pay in earrings and watches. His “managerial career” entry on Wikipedia is roughly five paragraphs long, yet he finds himself leading one of the best teams and best players in the world.

He overdosed on coke in 2004. He was reported dead three times in 2007. Fans have mobbed hospitals to throw him impromptu funerals that never transpired. He met his son for the first time on a golf course, when a then 17-year-old hopped a fence to sneak up on him.

Coach El Diego’s used 100 different players in his first 18 months on the job. He is by all accounts unfit to run a team, let alone his own life.

And if God still has any say in World Cup soccer, you have to believe that Diego Maradona will be champion once again.

- Robbie

It’s Your Time, Kobe

Say what you want, but this is the face of a champion.

Game six Tuesday. In the interest of full disclosure, you should know that if the Lakers go down, I’ll have to work out a long-term payment plan with my debt collector (aka Philip Kates).

This one’s on you, Twenty-Four. You have no excuses. Now is the time to show all your doubters that you’re as good as you think you are. And yeah, after four titles – one without the Big Man – there are still doubters.

This time they’re out for blood. They say your selfish. They say that 28 second-half points is exactly what the Celtics wanted. They say that you shoot yourself out, like a heavyweight boxer. You swing, you swing, you swing, while everybody looks on in awe and wonder.

Then you crap out in the late rounds.

They say you’re old. They say you’re the top player in the game, but couldn’t hold Mike’s jock on your best day. MJ made ballplayers out of Luc Longley and Bill Wennington. You have to put up with Andrew Bynum’s bum knee. Big deal, Kobe. Man up.

The East Coast Bias says there’s no “Kobe” in “team.” It says you hang your teammates and then hang them out to dry. The naysayers aren’t impressed by 7 of 9 in the third quarter, or 23 straight points. They say, “Two for six when it counts.” They write off Pau Gasol’s 5 for 12, and Derek Fisher’s 2 for 9, and Ron Artest’s penchant for killing a half-court set every four possessions.

Because nobody gives a damn about those guys. Nobody will remember Lamar Odom 30 years from now. You’re Kobe Freaking Bryant.

They make the 81-point game your albatross. They say, “Yeah, 81 points… Two assists.”

Phil Jackson won’t tell you as much, but he knows deep down you’re too hardheaded to master the triangle. You make shots with guys draped all over you only because you can’t get open in the first place. Mike Wilbon says 27 shots in game five is too many. He’s a Chicago guy. He  scoffs at 38 points. He says you’ll never get 50 when it counts.

Because you can’t.

They say you beat a crappy Orlando team. They say you tried to be Superman’s Batman. They say you’d have seven titles right now if you cared just an ounce about anybody besides yourself. They still whisper about Colorado. They make fun of your fist pumps. They say you’re trying to be somebody your not. Stop trying to be Jordan… You’ll never be Jordan.

The tongue waggle. Of course.

The guys that know these things say that Michael willed his teams to victory. They say you spell “will” with an “M” and an “E.” They say you wouldn’t know “will” if it came up and introduced you to Magic Johnson. How many titles does Magic have, Kobe?

How many you got?

Doc Rivers mocks you. “It’s only two points each time he scores,” he says. “Not 10.” Doc’s beaten you before. His team has your number. This is the best rivalry in sports and you’re 0-fer. Larry Legend toasts his champagne to you Tuesday night, Kobe. On your home court. While Jerry West thinks about what could’ve been if you’d only known “The Secret.” Ask Bill Simmons what I mean. He’s a Celtic.

They say this is what a team looks like.

“Those are tough shots… He’s making tough shots,” Doc says, kind of unimpressed as he turns to Tom Thibodeau on the sidelines. Hey, speaking of Thibodeau, what’s LeBron up to these days? Just a couple short weeks till July 1 – before the King gets to do what you’ve wanted since the late ’80s: be a Bull.

Enjoy your final hours of relevance, Twenty-Four.

While you were jacking up jumpers with hands in your grill, five guys in clovers were turning your defense into a colander. You scored 23 straight points from 4:23 in the second to 2:16 in the third. And you know what? That’s exactly what they wanted. The Celtics. The critics. Everybody. Boston stretched the lead from one to 13 in that span. They scored on 12 of 13 possessions at one point.

So, of course, you ripped your teammates. You said they “belonged on milk cartons.” You said, “Just man up and play. What’s the big deal? If I have to say something to them, then we don’t deserve to be champions.” Of course you said that. “Them.” Typical Kobe.

You do realize that you turn 32 in 70 days, right? You understand that this is where it ends? That the right knee won’t hold up forever. And to add insult to real injury, the guy that one-upped you Sunday is a year older. “I wasn’t in a personal duel,” Pierce said. “I didn’t notice that we were going back-and-forth scoring at the time.”

Don’t buy that. He knew… Or then again, maybe he didn’t. Paul Pierce is a Celtic. Paul Pierce is about team.

You’re done. They say you’re done. They look at you and they think, “If only.” They say you’re a great talent, Kobe. But you’re not great. You’ll never be great the way Jordan was great. Or the way Russell was great.

That’s what they say. And this is what you say: “Listen, if you told me at the beginning of the year that we’ve got two games at home to win a championship, yeah, I’ll take that shit.”

That’s one hell of a challenge, Twenty Four. But you know as well as I do that two in a row changes everything – the perception, the legacy, the legend. Jack can die a happy man. And you can finally shut everyone up.

So they can damn you again next year.

- Robbie

New Pearl Jam! (Kind of)

Far more functional than facial expressions would indicate.

Pearl Jam: Celebrating 20 years of uninterrupted awesomeness.

I can’t explain why I love this band so much. I mean, I can – I could try to convey the intensity of the live shows, or the chord progression in “Hail, Hail,” or the incendiary YouTube clips, or Stone’s duckwalk, or the 4/3/1994 bootleg, or the congregational vibe of the Ten Club. But we’d be forever. My favorite Seattlites have settled into a middle-aged comfort zone since the turn of the century, and though their 40-something exploits – release record every 3 or 4 years, surf, bang out solo projects, support obscure political cause, bring MSG to knees – aren’t typical for a band of said age, they are in fact becoming something of a routine. At this point, we’ve long known where PJ is heading: off into the sunset with a three-guitar attack, an immeasurable reservoir of goodwill, and a grungy pair of Doc Martens.

So you can imagine my SECOND CHRISTMAS!!!-like excitement when an “unreleased track” leaked on the band’s Monkeywrench Records website a few days back. The dotcom’s since become an impenetrable fortress of password protection. Speculative Rolling Stone reports emerged unvetted. Feverous internet fodder pegged the song a lost “Riot Act” relic. Fan club geeks lost their respective heads. Now “Better Days” is on radio backed by a steady stream of hyperbolic truths, the collective likes of which suggest Pearl Jam might actually save the world with rock ‘n roll. Via Antiquiet:

“Best thing you’ll hear today, tomorrow, and for a long while.”

“Day went from bad to good as soon as the chorus kicked in.”

“Happy as a clam.”

“Well. This changes my whole week. What a song.”

“Holy frickin heck. Love Pearl Jam as much as I can possibly love a band.”

More proof that I’m not making this up.

Yeah, what they said. And you know what? In this case, all the fanboy hype is 100 percent justified. “Better Days” is pretty f*ckin’ awesome. It’s just not a Pearl Jam song. Incendiary analysis forthcoming, but first the facts: some dude in PJ management accidentally posted the track to the band’s record label site, the site wasn’t secure, a hacker took advantage (making a bunch of people’s lives incalculably more awesome in the process), and a handful of prominent publications jumped on a fansite hunch that the song was in fact an outtake from 2002′s “Riot Act” (even though it sounds almost nothing like the rest of those sessions). Deep breath. Shorter sentences to follow.

Well it turns out that a bunch of mainstream news outlets got it wrong. Shocker. As Nelson would say, “Haha! You’re medium’s dying.”

Friend of Nelson/Ten Club Member

Then somebody from Entertainment Weekly got around to actually calling the band, subsequently breaking the not-so-shocking news that “Better Days” is Ed Vedder’s contribution to this summer’s Julia Roberts chick-epic “Eat Pray Love.” I say not so shocking because 1) Vedder is buds with “EPL’s” Javier Bardem 2) The vocals bear a strong resemblance to EV’s “Into the Wild” soundtrack and 3) I’ve been in love with Julia Roberts since age 10, so it’s not surprising that two of my favorite entities are combing to form a super-duper entity.

So what does it sound like? You mean other than “brilliance”? Well first off, it has this tribal, Eastern-tinged, where’s-Nusrat-Fateh-Ali-Khan-when-you-need-him thing working for it that makes me think “No Code” or “Merkinball.” Ed showcases his accordion chops (been practicing since “Bugs”), his inimitable way with a high note and that intrinsic feel for song structure. “Better Days” builds. And builds. And builds. And before you know it, Vedder’s turned a framework of delicate mandolin, maracas and Spanish guitar heroism into a soaring transcendental workout that sounds not unlike the spiritually-charged offspring of “Long Road” and “Parting Ways.” There’s a little “Unthought Known,” “Strangest Tribe” and “Hard Sun” in here as well, and if the spine-chilling flamenco solo at 1:30 doesn’t reduce you to a puddle of goo, the belted crescendo of chanted falsetto should finish the job.

At this point, Ed’s like a late-career Michael Jordan – doesn’t have the raw athleticism anymore, but makes up for it with guile and an unstoppable array of low-post moves. So while the pipes aren’t what they once were, he’s actually a far superior singer to the guy who made stage scaffolds his own personal jungle gyms.

Or camera cranes, as the case may be.

Meditative refrains like “My love is safe for the universe/see me now I’m bursting/on one planet so many turns/different worlds” make chicken soup for the soul sound like child’s play, especially when funneled in between high-pitched croons and that signature baritone roar. If you get to the “our future’s paved with better days” climax without welling up or exploding, uh, you probably have no nerve endings.

Just kidding… But seriously, you might want to check that out.

So, all this “NEW PJ!!!” hysteria got me thinking: If “Better Days” was a neglected outtake like originally reported, where would it rank among the other classic PJ castoffs? Think of the following as my forceful suggestion to pick up a copy of “Lost Dogs.” My father bought it on vinyl. That’s when I realized he was cool.

Five favorites…

5) Strangest Tribe – Stone’s achingly beautiful campfire hymn that would’ve been the best quiet track on “Binaural,” but instead got the stocking stuffer treatment for the ’99 Christmas Single. It’s dark and gentle (like Michael Clarke Duncan!), crafted of sparse guitar plucking and Ed’s throaty melodies.

4) Wash - From the “Ten” sessions, this one’s a slow-breathing blues dirge in the “Garden” mold that takes off with Ed’s blood curdling wailing in the final 30 seconds. Didn’t see a proper release till the ’95 “Alive” single, but those visceral early live versions properly tow the grunge-era line between anguish and catharsis.

3) Black, Red, Yellow – So what do you get when you mix slash-’n-burn garage guitars, Dennis Rodman and the hottest Chicago summer on record? Probably a call from the cops.

2) Sad - It’s worth noting that a good number of the band’s best leftovers actually came from the “Binaural”/”Riot Act” sessions. The former record could’ve been something of a crowning achievement had songs like this (and “Fatal” and “In the Moonlight”) replaced the likes of “Evacuation” and “God’s Dice” on side 1… A muscular hard rock offering built on a haunting pseudo-surf riff and some of Michael David McCready’s best work.

1) Footsteps – Part of a themed trilogy of songs that includes “Ten’s” “Alive” and “Once.” That sentence alone should be enough to get you off your ass. Far superior to the same era’s much beloved “Yellow Ledbetter.” If you call this a top five PJ track, you’ll get no argument from me. Vedder’s finest hour.

Oh, and here’s “Better Days.” Have an exaggerated Monday.

- Robbie

"Gut Check" and Other Google Trends: The Week in Review, Redux

This looks like a job for Mr. Bryant.

It’s the end of the week and we’re all tired. Time for me to pummel you with another 1,200-word monolith. If you like soccer, Bryan Holt’s weekly recap is probably more in your wheelhouse. If you can’t stomach overbearing nationalism, stay here.

I experimented with several other titles for this post. “Rising and Falling.” “Peaks and Valleys.” “Crests and Troughs.” You name it, I tried it. Then I stared at a blank screen for 35 minutes pondering how I’d possibly convey the emotional roller coaster that was the last seven days. Here’s what I came up with…

High: 21-year-old PGA sensation Rickie Fowler cruised to a Saturday night clubhouse lead at the Memorial with scores of 66, 65 and 69 in his first three rounds.

Low: Turned back into a pumpkin at midnight, a shaken Fowler coughs up victory with a final round 73.

High: Michigan State basketball coach Tom Izzo says early in the week he has no interest in leaving his school for a job with the Cleveland Cavaliers.

Low: Michigan State basketball coach Tom Izzo says later in the week he’ll check with LeBron before he makes any rash decisions.

High: USC’s Lane Kiffin gets exactly what was coming to him.

Low: Reggie Bush, Juice Hellmans and Pete Carroll still seein’ dolla dolla bills, y’all.

High: The Celtics’ Ray Allen hits an NBA Finals record eight three-pointers en route to a crucial game two victory over L.A.

Low: The Celtics’ Ray Allen craps the bed in game three: 0-13 FG, 0-8 3P, 2 pts.

High: The Chicago Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup for the first time in 49 years when mullet enthusiast Patrick Kane squeezes a puck past Flyers goalie Michael Leighton four minutes into game six OT.

Low: What? It went in?

High: NBC hockey analyst and former Blackhawks star Jeremy Roenick cries on air during the Stanley Cup presentation.

Low: Toothless Blackhawks’ defender Duncan Keith: “THERE’S NO CRYING IN HOCKEY!”

High: Nationals phenom Stephen Strasburg fans 14 in his Major League debut.

Low: The Big Ten just picked up its 14th team.

High: Thursday morning text from Pops – “Ran into Mike Milbury twice at the Westin.”

Low: High probability Mike publicly humiliated my father like he did Jeremy Roenick during Wednesday’s post-game coverage.

Milbury being Milbury @ 1:12

High: NCAA bans Trojans from postseason play for two years and docks the program 30 scholarships.

Low: 1) Would’ve been more helpful five years ago, when USC had a stranglehold on recruiting and New Years bowls 2) Why the hell is Paul Dee – the Paul Dee – on my TV screen right now? 3) Any time I think of Paul Dee, I think about how the Miami Hurricanes suck… If realignment pulls The U into the SEC, we won’t see 10+ wins till the Palin Administration.

Paul Blart, Mall Cop Paul Dee, Committee on Infractions Chair

Dream Team

High: Two words: Derek. Fisher.

Low: Dead. Fish. In the Gulf of Mexico.

High: Last half of Thursday night text from friend: “At least tell me the Lakers lost.” Sure. 2-2. Game on.

Low: First half: “I’m stuck without a ride.”

High: The World Cup is here, which means 9:30 a.m. drink specials throughout Gainesville.

Low: Round-the-clock ESPN coverage dictates 9:30 a.m. wake up just to catch SportsCenter.

High: It’s Friday. Let’s do this.

__________

Last Friday, Steelers QB Ben Roethlisberger told reporters in his first interview since his dalliance with Small Town, GA that “I think this is a time for me to close a chapter of the last couple of years of my life.”

If Ben was referring to the years that covered his motorcycle crash, Super Bowl scramble and multiple sexual assault accusations, my guess is he’s talking about Chapter 5: “No  Protection.”

The Chicago Bulls hired longtime Boston Celtics assistant Tom Thibodeau as new head coach Saturday. By Sunday, “But is he a leader of men?” trended higher than any other overwrought sports media cliche.

On Sunday, the Dublin Ohio Correctional Facility released Rickie Fowler so he could complete the fourth round at Memorial.

Did I already make this joke?

Phil, you have met your match.

Also over the weekend, President Obama contradicted previous assertions that he’d like to see LeBron in a Bulls uni by telling Larry King that he hopes the King stays in Cleveland.

Makes sense to me. Ohio’s a swing state.

Tony Kornheiser on Friday compared the blown Armando Galarraga perfect game call to overturning slavery. After realizing his own on-air lunacy, Tony told listeners, “Please don’t hang me for my crazy analogy before.”

You might want to get a second opinion from Kelly Tilghman, but I don’t think that apology’s going to help.

NBA commissioner David Stern publicly undressed NHL kingpin and former protege Gary Bettman Sunday night. Actually, Lakers-Celtics went head-to-head with coverage of Blackhawks-Flyers.

Same thing.

Turning now to politics, Democrats opted Monday to forego town hall meetings in the face of public outrage from the Gulf oil spill.

Ironic right? These were the same guys prosecuting baseball’s steroid scandal and now they’re the ones avoiding public places due to connection with toxic substances.

Last week, 89-year-old White House Press Corp. mainstay Helen Thomas suggested to President Obama that Israelis should “get the hell out of Palestine and go home to Germany and Poland.”

Thomas’ naive remarks shouldn’t come as a huge surprise. She was, after all, the one who implored the Jews to “disregard the flood” and “welcome the Assyrians with open arms.”

Helen retired later in the week after realizing her own senility/anti-Semitism. Her seat was promptly filled by a real reporter.

Bill Madden of the New York Daily News reported Monday that baseball’s amphetamines ban could be the cause of the recent scoring decline and multiple perfect games. “Pardon The Interruption” then covered Madden’s story that afternoon, though Mike and Tony failed to comment on SC’s exact same report written a week earlier.

As Mr. Tony would say, “day late, dolla dolla short, y’all.”

In non sequitur news…

You’re welcome, WordPress.

Roughly a month after President Obama visited the Louisiana shore to pinpoint “whose ass to kick”, BP engineers on Monday unveiled a strategy to collect and process 15,000 gallons of leaked oil per day.

Put your calculators away. I got this one… Considering about 36.5 million gallons flooded the Gulf as of Monday and 800,000 gallons continue to spill out each day, it would take roughly 7 1/2 years to clean up the entire spill… You know, if we miraculously plugged the hole right this second.

The scary part? We’re both thinking the same thing – “Hey, not as bad as I thought.”

On Tuesday during the Saints’ volunteer trip to the Gulf Coast, linebacker Jonathan Vilma told reporters, “If you’re an oil company, how do you wipe your hands of this? Say, ‘Oh, my bad?’ You don’t see BP coming down here cleaning off the birds.”

Afterward, the Saints drove back to New Orleans on the wind-powered team bus.

And finally, record industry heavyweight David Geffen on Wednesday expressed interest in purchasing the Clippers with the intent to land LeBron James. LeBron was of mixed emotions about the possible move. On the one hand, new ownership would force Donald Sterling out of L.A. On the other, signing with Geffen didn’t turn out so hot for Kurt Cobain.

Go easy on us, Rooney… Or don’t. I don’t care.

- Robbie

The World Cup: An Unfocused Look at the Past Week in the World

The world, sans Robbie Hilson, is watching.

Yes, this is my only post of the week. I’ll try to make it extra awesome.

I apologize for my recent habit of disappearing, Casualtists. I really do.

This week I have been less visible than a 16-year-old sailing in the Indian Ocean here on Sports Casualties. You’re probably sick of hearing about it, but I have been extremely busy working for the evil mainstream media and contributing to groundbreaking stories.

Yes, groundbreaking stories like the high school graduating class with five sets of twins! Or the 12-year-old arthritis-ridden dog that survived an alligator attack!

Yup, I get all of the hard-hitting stories.

My inner Casualtist did come out during the graduation ceremony which happened to take place at historic Al Lang Field in St. Petersburg. I grew up at Al Lang, constantly going to Cardinals spring training games as a youngster.

So as I walked through the park’s bowels and out onto the field, I kind of strutted pretending I was a hung-over major leaguer about to take left field for a 1 P.M. spring training fixture. In reality, I was a humble intern strapped with the task of digging five sets of twins out of a group of 300-plus kids and bringing them out to the set for an interview.

A boy can dream. Let’s do this.

Although it unofficially began with Shakira doing awesome Shakira kinds of things on a stage Wednesday, the World Cup officially begins today.

Uh, yes please.

However, if you are a blue-blooded American like me, you are more than ready for 2:30 P.M. on Saturday when the good ole’ U.S of Kick Ass takes on the really pale people from across the ocean that some geographically challenged people refer to as a pond.

Now as you may or may not know, SC and yours truly never turn down an opportunity to piss off an opposing country during international competition. Canada hates us, so here’s your opportunity to feel the same way, England.

We’re going to beat you at your own game you pasty wankers, and it’s going to be the bees knees. Prepare for the wrath of Landon Donovan crossing the Delaware and lighting up your favorite team.

England is rainy and dreary and nasty [and I’d like to visit sometime, but we’re not going to talk about that right now] and IT SUCKS.

USA! USA! USA!

Deja vu.

J.R. Smith of the Denver Nuggets has reported that his mansion was broken into during the first round of the NBA Playoffs. The thief stole $15,000 from Smith. The money was all stored in a briefcase.

In more simple terms, Smith actually paid his child support this month.

On Wednesday night, the Chicago Blackhawks defeated the Philadelphia Flyers to win the 2010 Stanley Cup. I missed “SportsCenter” that night, but I’m assuming that ESPN used this as an opportunity to remind everyone that Barack Obama is the first sports fan president in the history of ever.

During NBC’s postgame coverage of the Cup Finals, Jeremy Roenick cried. I dare you to say something to him about it… That’s what I thought.

It’s June and yet this was a huge news week for college football. Welcome to America.

The Pac-10 threatened to expand to the Pac-16 and reportedly destroy the fabric of everything that the good Lord created when it invited the relevant half of the Big 12 to join its conference.

So far only Colorado, a school known for its live Buffalo and Eric Cartman, has made the move.

Until this effects a real-life football conference (read: the SEC), I will refrain from commenting.

Staying in the Pac-10, the University of Song Girls received a two-year ban from postseason play for being bad people, or something like that.

As they say in Knoxville, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

Slime.

At Oregon, trouble-making quarterback Jeremiah Masoli was kicked off of the Fighting Ducks football team after being caught with “one ounce or less” of marijuana on Monday night.

In Masoli’s defense, Phil Knight has been high every time he has ever designed an Oregon uniform.

In MTV news, the upcoming season of “The Real World: New Orleans” will include a student from the University of Central Florida. This is great news for anyone who has watched “The Real World” and thought, “You know what this show could use?… A little more cocaine.”

ESPN announced on Wednesday that it would be closing all but two of its gimmicky ESPN Zone restaurants. The Worldwide Leader cited a lack of profits in the restaurant industry for the closings.

Some unidentified sources say that Chris Berman’s employee discount card just became too much.

In other Bristol, Conn., news, Steve Phillips’ drunken mistake Brooke Hundley is filing a lawsuit against ESPN for wrongfully firing her after word broke of her affair with the former MLB analyst.

From L to R: Phillips, homewrecker, Reynolds

Claims of a civil suit for the damage that Harold Reynolds did to her with an ugly stick have not been confirmed.

This just in, Stephen Strasburg is really good.

Allen Iverson made news this week when he took his little sister to her high school prom. While the story was a touching one, it primarily provided relief for people when they found out that Lawrence Taylor does not have a high school-age sister.

Just a reminder: It is Friday, so I must implore you to watch “Friday Night Lights” tonight. It is indeed the best show on television, and if you aren’t watching, that means you’re not cool.

Disclaimer: Okay, I’ve never actually watched the show on a Friday night either, but it’s “On Demand” constantly so find time to watch it.

The return of Minka.

AND NOW…(drum roll)

WHY I HAVE WRITER’S BLOCK: The Never-Ending Saga

In no specific order, and with no real explanation, this is my weekly look at some of the things that kept me distracted while I was trying to write.

Phil Jackson is no fan of Chris Rock.

I was planning on pestering you with one of the news packages that I have put together , but WordPress apparently won’t play QuickTime videos. Oh well.

As I close this out, South Africa just scored the opening goal of the 2010 World Cup. The atmosphere is electric and ESPN’s coverage looks impeccable. Somewhere Robbie is cringing and grumbling about media hype while holding a Spalding basketball like a newborn baby.

Happy weekend.

-Bryan

CNBC Fab 5 Pics: Panic Selling Edition

Babes and stocks. Stocks and babes. It’s Thursday, Casualtists.

I’m not exactly sure how copy machines relate to oil spills, but Xerox CEO Ursula Burns was one in the long line of fossil fuel-damning bigwigs driving a stake into the heart of the energy sector today. I hope you use recycled paper in those printers, Ursula.

Luckily, despite resistance from manic short sellers, angry politicians, the president of the United States and Joe Terranova, the major oil stocks are up across the board Thursday. I say “luckily” not because I hate brown-beaked pelicans or have a vendetta against the New Orleans fishing industry (R.I.P), but because BP’s Lehman-style nosedive into the abyss of bankruptcy rumors and 19% single-day declines was inciting the kind of market panic that gets babies thrown out with bath water.

BP hit 29.00 yesterday, people. Twenty-nine. In this case, my use of heavy italics is fully justified – the same stock was at 39 last Friday and hovering around 60 the day that fateful rig burst into a ball of fire some 52 days ago. And seriously, I’m going to throw something next time I hear another “puts drilling calls” joke. Grow up.

Check this out.

— Identical stock charts of BP and Lehman Bros. removed for copyright purposes —

OK. Important notes:

1) The top chart is BP, the bottom Lehman.

2) The two companies are nothing alike, so stop talking about “forced liquidation,” Wednesday’s “Fast Money” Prop Desk. You’re being irresponsible. Last time I checked, BP is not an over-leveraged hedge fund. Their safety controls suck… And they’re one of the world’s most profitable companies. Every. Single. Year.

3) Current estimates suggest it will cost BP about $1 billion to clean up the entirety of the Gulf oil spill.

4) BP’s turned a $5 billion after-tax profit since the rig exploded.

5) Even if our crazy-ass Congress lifts all existing liability regulations and says, “Have at ‘em, Litigious America!” the lawsuits are still gonna take a short lifetime to get through the courts.

6) Exxon Mobil bottomed out at $10.44 on April 11, 1989 after its oil tanker carrying 54 million gallons pulled a mini-Titanic off the coast of Alaska. Exxon flirted with $100 a few years back… after 2 splits.

5)  Am I just bitter because I have a small position in Transocean, another money-coining cash cow that’s been taken to the woodshed each of the last 6 weeks? Quite possibly.

6) Would I buy BP at these levels? Come on… Hell no.

But enough about a space that’s falling apart faster than the Big 12. Let’s enjoy this up day (DJIA: ^207, S&P ^22.2 as of 2:00 p.m.) and the fact that, despite all the recent bad news, the S&P still hasn’t broken 1040 to the downside. This is swell.

Plus, China continues to destroy export estimates. Nice job, Commies. You have our capitalist global economy by the balls. Please keep us afloat.

Now let’s end on a high. My theory that anchor hotness negatively correlates with DOW performance hit a major snag today. The only person having a better morning than the market is portfolio goddess Amanda Drury (the Bond Girl). Trish Regan (the big-haired brunette), Erin Burnett (the perky brunette) and Michelle Caruso-Cabrera (the I’ll-know-her-when-I-see-her brunette) are all nearing 52-week highs as well. And you thought gold was the only thing looking top-heavy at these levels…

Melissa Francis is still off raising her kid. Kudlow got contacts. He looks like a prune. This is your CNBC Week in Review. Click on the thumbnails. Enjoy

(Gallery removed… sorry, you got here too late.)

- Robbie