I saw this and originally I was like eh… but th more I read the funnier it was. Sports players are indead sometimes very nuts. In some cases it’s obvious, in others it’s nuts because they got airtime doing what they where doing… not satisfied with just their 15 minutes of fame, they are attempting to lengthen it by doing/saying the outlandish. Oh and as a side… I thought The Juice was a non-news item…. as in who cares unless someone kills him.
Sports are nuts. Let us count the ways.
By Dave Kindred
Sports are nuts. Let us count the ways.
Here’s Charles Barkley wearing goggles. He’s on national television dunking his big, bald head into a tank of water in an attempt to set the world record for holding your breath.
Naturally, he’s not serious. Charles is mostly nuts most of the time, just a kid having fun. (You know any other grown-up who would admit/brag about gambling away $10 million?) But he saw the magician
David Blaine submerged and holding his breath for just over 7 minutes before divers rescued him. So Charles thought it’d be a great gag to do it after an NBA game.
The record is 8:58. Charles lasted, what, 25 seconds? No record but still the longest period of time Charles has ever gone without talking.
Here’s motorcycle stuntman “Super Joe” Reed in Idaho. He went to Twin Falls to ask government officials for approval to kill himself. Or extremely maim most of his body. Or blow it into small bits. Take your pick.
Reed wanted to replicate the Evel Knievel rocket ship launch of 1974, when that lunatic motorcycle daredevil tried to clear the Snake River Canyon. Knievel’s last thought at liftoff, he told reporters later, was, “God, here I come.”
Knievel’s attempt failed when the rocket’s parachute, designed to bring the machine down safely a quarter-mile away, opened simultaneously with the launch at 125 mph. The madman and his rocket clattered down the canyon wall and onto rocks near the river, but Knievel suffered only scratches and bruises.
As now reported by the Twin Falls Times-News, “Reed says he will build a ramp near Evel Knievel’s old jump site on the canyon rim. He wants to attempt the stunt with a two-seated rocket cycle in October. He also even claims that Knievel himself is signed up for $2 million to join him on the stunt.”
Sixty-seven years old, in poor health and crippled by a lifetime of self-administered orthopedic calamities, Knievel told the Times-News he has no involvement with Reed. He ain’t jumpin’ nowhere except out of bed.
“This guy is nuts,” said Knievel, who would know.
Here’s O.J. Simpson on the backside at Churchill Downs the week of the Kentucky Derby. He has a drink in his hand, perhaps a Cosmopolitan, a red liquid in a martini glass across the rim of which rests a spear of raspberries. Amazing how often the grieving widower’s Search for the Real Killers of My Ex-wife takes him to the playgrounds of the rich and famous. He did pause long enough to let sportswriters know how he would bet on the Derby.
“Man, I love lawyers,” the Juice said, “so I’m going to bet Lawyer Ron.”
Ho, ho. Funny, funny. The man’s a regular comedian.
He then said, “If his name was Lawyer John, I would have bet my house.”
Ha, hah. Stop it,O.J., you’re killing me. (Later, on his teevee show, Juiced, he “sells” a white Bronco that helped him “get away.” Nuts, to the max.)
Before Mother’s Day, reporter Jemele Hill of the Orlando Sentinel spoke of wives and mothers with Willis McGahee, an NFL running back, 24 years old, the father of two.
“What’s more troublesome,” Hill asked, “an ex-wife or a baby momma?”
“A baby momma.”
“Why?”
“Because,” the millionaire athlete said, “they feel like they should be a part of your life for 18 years. An ex-wife, you can get away from her. A baby momma, you can’t get away from her until the child is 18 or older. They’re going to constantly ask you for money. They just want to nag you for no reason, just because they can.”
Hey, Hallmark. Put that on your Baby Momma’s Day cards.
Here’s me in a Washington Nationals baseball cap. I’m paying homage to the major league baseball team nearest my home. It’s a flashy cap, brilliant red. It bears a graceful, white script “W.” It looks so handsome that I wore it to the dentist’s office, and there I learned the political ramifications of a baseball cap in the nation’s capital.
“Go to RFK wearing that,” a friend said, naming the Nats’ stadium, “and they recognize you as a ‘W’ guy.”
It is a “W.”
“Dubya,” my friend said.
Oh.
“Red cap, red state, Republican — get it? At RFK, the red caps always outnumber the blues.”
Is there a Republican in the audience who made the error of buying a blue cap? I’ll trade you my red for your blue and a T-shirt to be named later.
Tags: Humor, Interesting, Sports
