Are those splinters in my ass, or am I just riding the pine?

Today we gather to preach to you about a great place: A hard place, A place of battle and A place of sacrifice. Somewhere few want to be yet everyone ends up. We are of course talking simply about The Bench. In recent weeks there have been many headlines about certain players being too good for the bench. Too high and mighty to be a role player and pass on the great knowledge you have been entrusted with. Perhaps you're doing a little to much of the high and not enough of the mighty Mr. Iverson. I mean are we really talkin' bout' practice? (Sorry, we couldn't resist.) For being a place that no one wants to be the bench gets talked about nearly as much as that media-whore Jon Gosselin. Well we have had enough of this shit! As sworn protectors of the sacred rest area known as the Bench, we are here to clear its name and burn the ungrateful mothertruckers who dare defame its glory. Pop quiz hot shot, do you shut your face and get paid 3 million dollars to play a game, or do you open your mouth and constantly run it until not even the New Jersey Nets want to sign you? THEY JUST SET A RECORD FOR LOSING!!! We're here, we're angry, and come get some. Yamabethur!

Now you can't have a real discussion about the bench without learning some of its rich history. So we decided to dive right in and fix a common misconception. When one talks about a player who spends most of his time on the bench, it is usually referred to as "riding the pine." Well that ain't pine those sweaty asses are perched on, that's pure redwood from the very rainforest featured in the hit Disney movie Ferngully. We spoke to one of the lumberjacks who harvest the wood for these majestic caboose catchers, and he told us that redwood is used because of its incredible wicking ability. You see, if pine was actually used the sweat from a single game of basketball would warp the bench so much it would start to look like Al Davis' face. Lumberjack McFarland also told us that if he ever sees any of the players badmouthing his majestic creation that he would serve them a "flapjack surprise." Just after he said that he began jumping up and down, licking his lips and unbuttoning his overalls. We got a feeling that the surprise in a "flapjack surprise" is much too similar to a cockmeat sandwich for our pleasure. I think we'll pass on that breakfast.

After that awkward moment, let's just jump right into it. Let us speak of those few mighty defenders of the Royal Redwood; The unique player who realizes that winning is the most important aspect of the game. Forget leading the league in scoring, or setting a single game record, without a solid bench and supporting cast you have nothing. It's tried and true in every sport. Whether you're talking about the 46 year old place kicker, the ol' lefty out in the pen ready to pitch his 2/3 of an inning or the most famous reindeer of all... Sorry, all together wrong, we just cant help but making spirits bright. What we are trying to talk about is the most famous bench player of any sport in the last 20 years. If your team has ever had a crucial game or big playoff series, you already know the man. We are of course talking about Robert "Big Shot Rob" Horry. (Collective shiver runs down our spines) No man has ever embraced the spirit of the bench more than " I play for two minutes and make fatty stacks by winning championships" Bobert Horry. This is a man, nay, a great man, nay, an indescribable wolverine like gust of wind that collects more gold rings than Sonic the Hedgehog after he has defeated Dr. Egghead. This is a man who dunked the Spurs to a ring, shot the lights out of the Staples Center whilst simultaneously destroying the career of Chris Webber ...wait, he did that himself by marrying Tyra Banks. Anyway, this silky smooth gentleman was as close to a closer in basketball as there will ever be. Putting that man in the fourth was the basketball equivalent of pressing the easy button; give him five minutes and he'll win you playoff games. As far as his first two championships go, however, we cannot give him credit. Any rings earned while riding the coattails of the Glide are undeserved just like Tony Parker being married to Eva Longoria. THIS IS AMERICA!!!!

Americans do not quit. George " I cannot tell a lie" Washington once said, on his death bed, while surrounded by Benjamin Franklin, Abraham Lincoln, the guy who played Huggybear from Starsky and Hutch, not Huggybear, but the actor who played him (oh wait isn't that the father of Justin Fargas?) and the lovely lovely Martha Washington, that the greatest injury an American could inflict on his nation was to shirk his job duties. With all that said, we channel our full fury and answer in the form of a question; who is Allen Iverson and what the f@*k is he thinking? Who turns down 3 million dollars to do nothing, cries about doing that nothing and getting paid, and then quits only to do nothing and not get paid? When your retirement is shorter than a thousand pound fat man's Hover-Round battery life can you really call it retirement? Seriously dude that shit wasn't designed for you! For the love of god and Ray J, please just shut your cornrowed pie hole, and start doing what won you the 2003 MVP Trophy. Just suck it up, come off the bench and start jacking up shots like Chris Brown to Rihanna's face. Too soon? Too bad, we think it's not soon enough. Please Allen, do not resort to starting for the Dakota Stampede in the D-League; we cannot afford another Jersey.

With that we have done our sworn duty to defend the honor of the bench. We do not ask for your praise, we do not ask for your pity. We demand your respect. For every small Tanzanian baby reading this, enjoy the XXL Iverson jersey and live long and prosper.

Numbers, WTF?

On the count of three say the first number that comes to your mind... Wait, let's rephrase that because I know all you degenerates reading this article immediately went for the number 69. What is the first number you think about connected to sports? Is it the number 23? Be honest; it either means you're thinking about the LeBron of today, or the Jordan of yesteryear, or possibly that horrible Jim Carrey movie from a few years back. He really should stick to comedy's where the punchline is him crawling out of the ass of a fake rhino... But we digress.

Perhaps the only other sports related number that could come to mind is that of the Utah Snow monster, that's right folks good ol' 00. Greg Ostertag. Never has a number represented the skill set of the player who wears it so well. Numbers are more then just whimsical off hand choices. Consider us the two geeks from that awful CBS show, because this issue is all about NUMB3RS.

This heated discussion about numbers started years ago between us, but it just recently came to a head and boiled over after sitting on the back burner for so long. The relationship between a player and his number was once a sacred bond that gave us the ability to describe a guy without having to say his name. It was like saying Peanut Butter, you know that Jelly couldn't be too far behind. Nowadays numbers are changed at the drop of a hat and for the most obscure of reasons. Who cares what you wore in Pop Warner football 20 years ago. I just spent $75 bucks on your retro alternate jersey from an era that you never played in, and now your telling me you want to switch it up because it reminds you of "when things were fun"? Fuck fun! Fun is not having to replace your obscenely expensive jersey every year just because, on a whim, you want to change it up. The attention span of an athlete today is like that of a goldfish, like that of a kid with ADD at Chucky Cheeses, like a guy with NBA League Pass; they just can't make a decision and stick with it. Oh wait, the Knicks game is getting good, we've got to change the channel... be back in a sec. Speaking of the Knicks, and Allen Iverson, does anyone realize that after they sign him that he will have played for 4 different teams in less than 2 seasons. Thats like 8 different Jerseys with who knows how many number changes. Thank god we are some of the lucky few who picked up his Alternate Blue Grizzlies Jersey. We really thought that was going to end better.

Really you can trace this all back to the bastard that is Kobe Bryant. A few years ago when he raped... we mean allegedly raped... we mean had consensual sex with someone other than his wife, he felt he needed to change his image. So what did he do, he fucked anyone who had ever bought a Lakers jersey during the first ten years of his career and changed it up from 8 to 24. I guess the only thing better than raping a white girl and getting away with it is raping every fan of his while giving that ugly fucking badger smirk of his while he does it. Of course then Lebron James has to follow suit and not only change his number but DEMAND that everyone else out there with a 23 on their jersey change theirs as well. Now don't get us wrong, we love MJ just as much as anyone else who watched his Airness toy with the rest of the NBA like a cat slapping a mouse around but retiring his jersey league wide is a little much. Lebron, be honest, you're just trying to find another way to make more jersey money now that everyone and their mom from Cleveland to Shanghai owns a Lebron James jersey. Retiring MJ's jersey would set off a cascade of other player movements to have their favorite player's number retired because of their greatness. Say goodbye to numbers 33 and 32 (Larry and Magic). Kiss 6 (Bill Russell), 13 (Wilt Chamberlain) and 44 (Jerry West) goodbye. Soon the only numbers we'll have left will be Ostertag's bastard double zeros and the range from 91-99. God, we'll have to start putting fractions on jerseys and the Angry Guys don't know enough about math to handle that.

Come to think of it, only one player and his numeric obsession affect out psyche more than fractions. We are of course talking about the man named after a number. The one the only, the incomparable Chad Ocho-Cinco. Child Please. This guy makes T.O. look like an alter-boy. He argues, he tweets, he changes his name, he gets tattoos on his face. He infuriates The Man so much, the he reminds us a little of a fiery red head thats also constantly fighting the man. We should really be celebrating the creativeness of a man who came out of the black hole of Compton, California. Instead we punish him for all of his ingenuity and cunning. Let there be Mustard! To celebrate Ocho-Cinco's great Renascence like creativity we have decided to start a grass roots petition that we're sure will take the country by storm. A change we can believe in. When a player comes into a league their number is either branded or tattooed onto their head for all to see. This will create instant brand recognition for unknown players. Instead of walking downtown unseen and uncared about, new players would instantly be recognized by their million dollar Scarlett letter! We can just see it now; little children stopping and pointing at small time athletes, "Look daddy, there's number 25! I want his jersey," or ladies in the club going, "Well you don't look like much but because you're number 6 for the Lakers. I guess you can buy me a drink." ( Oh Adam Morrison, how the mighty stash has fallen.) Of course all you readers are super smart and probably are already wondering what would happen when two players on the same team have the same number... Well you can't get anything past us so we figured a way around that. The better of the two players (determined of course by a game of rock, paper, scissors; a game of horse and a game of boxing chess) gets to keep his number but pay for the laser tattoo removal surgery for the other guy. By laser surgery, we of course are referencing the scene from the movie "The Fan", in which Robert De Niro cuts the branded flesh from Benicio Del Toro's arm in hopes of helping the great Bobby Rayburn break a slump. This would keep good players on the same team for life because they'd be too scared to lose their number in such a manner. After your first scalping, you start to wonder if the guaranteed money is really worth it. With that disturbing mental image we leave you with this. The only number worth retiring is # 10. In honor of none other, thats right, Zoran "The Scorin' Foreign" Planinic.

Shadado Readers. Til next time

Sidenote: Chris "The Birdman" Anderson is the Light Heavyweight Grandmaster of Boxing Chess in the US. No one would ever take the number 11 from Lord Birdman's face).