From Doghouse to Pentouse

Congratulations to Mark Buehrle for twirling his second career no-hitter and first perfect game, and to his battery mate Ramon 'Blastro' Castro. I'm very happy for Ramon, who went from occupying Jerry Manuel's doghouse earlier in the season to playing for a contending team on the South Side. Ryan Church, another player Jerry had it in for, also got a promotion to a suddenly surging Braves squad. I hope Jerry has a great time managing his preferred team of no-talent hacks into oblivion. Keep up the Red Foxx routine!

Of Weis and Men

The recent hullabaloo over LeBron getting yammed on reminds me of prolly the greatest yamming of all time, Vinsanity's international incident yam over Frederic "Daddy, if I had nuts on my chin would those be chin nuts?" Weis.

While doing a little digging on the Frenchman the Knicks chose over Johnnie and hometown hero Ron Artest, came across this pic, good to see, all these years later, that Weis still stays steady stuffed. Remember 'bocker-backers, twasn't all Isiah's fault.

All that dig-dugging , and Ball Don't Lie's dope-dunk roundup got me into peeping other fantastic slams.

Oh, ha ha, he has a lot of kids and got fat. Disrespectful. Someday in the future, post-apocalyptic scientists picking through the detritus of our forgotten society will find this video, and marvel at man's onetime ability to transcend the limitations of his own body, to transcend time and space itself so that all mankind could exult in his beauty. They will particularly be in awe of dunk #5, where Chris Gatling, appropriately enuff, "catches the gat"; but is respectful enuff to exchange love with the man-child reign man.

Divac shook off this extreme sunning with a post-game spread of kalamata olives, smoked mackerel, feta cheese, raw onions and a pack of Marlboro reds. An innocent A.C. Green was once Magic Johnson's roommate so you would think he's seen his share of scary scenes, but here he looks more frightened than the creditors of Charles Oakley's Bronx car wash.

The beauty of the NBA is that while, yeah, doofy 7'++ stiffs get paid millions to clog the key and warm benches and wave towels their main purpose is to get posterized. To be sunns. The way every decent slammer salivated whenever Shawn Bradley came to town. The All-Star Dunk Contest could be so much doper if they let them jam over chumps like Brian Scalabrine and Andrew Bynum.

What do you think is more fun? To hit a World-Series winning bazonga for all of Canada off a closer who calls himself "Wild Thing"? To catch a pass in the corner of the end zone, while keeping only one foot in bounds, to win the Super Bowl? Or is it to smack an awkward Romanian in the face while violently slamming in a ball a good 12 feet above the earth while Starbury and White Chocolate stare slack-jawed?

Props to Jamd and Sports Illustrated's killer archives for the photos save the Webber-Mureson shot, from my personal stash of late 90's Slam Magazines.