"Kobe Bryant" of Travel Insurance Industry Absolutely Unbearable, Fired

Glendale, CA--After more than a decade of openly feuding with management, publicly shaming coworkers, and declining overall productivity, Nick Kelly, the so-called "Kobe Bryant" of travel insurance salesmen, has finally been fired.

"This was a tough decision for us as an organization," Larry Stephenson, chief operations officer at Travelsafe Insurance, said in a statement released earlier today. "In many ways, Nick Kelly was synonymous with TravelSafe. But at a certain point, we had to do what's best for the company. And constantly screaming at coworkers and customers to 'get the fuck out of the way, it's winning time for mamba' during peak travel season was simply not best for the company."

News of Kelly's dismissal was greeted with a wave of overwhelming enthusiasm and relief by the remainder of the TravelSafe sales force, many of whom feared Kelly was lobbying management to lay off the entire department after a year of disappointing sales.

"That guy was a nightmare," said Jeremy Garrett, who had worked alongside Kelly for five years. "I don't know what was worse--when he would call to tell you 'you have no fucking balls' for taking a sick day, or when he would just stare at you from his cubicle with that look of vacant disdain. There's even rumors he tried to sleep with Paul from accounting's wife, for Christ's sake."

Vacant disdain

Kelly had served as the leading salesman for TravelSafe since joining the company straight out of a high school. While undeniably a talented and prolific salesman, Kelly was constantly embroiled in conflicts with coworkers, many of whom alleged Kelly's sales stats were inflated because he was stealing their own shots with clients.

"At first, I was totally behind his whole no-nonsense, all that matters is closing, Glengarry Glen Ross without the irony approach to things," said Stephen Fishman, who joined TravelSafe earlier this year in the hope of partnering with Kelly on new clients. "Then I saw him threaten to kill our IT guy's family when his Outlook account froze for like fifteen minutes."

"It just keeps getting worse as he gets older. Maybe it's the divorce."

Kelly leaves TravelSafe with several of the company's all-time sales records, including total career sales, total sales in a 24 hour period, and total acquittals from sexual assault charges.

"Percentage wise, he really isn't that much better than the rest of us," said Garrett. "He just works on volume and knows how to promote himself. Best closer in the industry, my ass."

2 Swaggy P's in a Podcast, Episode 2: Attack of the Dick Bavetta Clones

In this edition of 2SP, Sky and Matt debate which venereal diseases Matt Barnes currently has and which he will have by the end of the season, whether you would rather have a timeshare in Syria or Memphis, and the quality and quantity of Dion Waiters' swag. Also, an EXCLUSIVE interview with Clippers head coach and professional Scott Bayo stand-in Vinny Del Negro.

Unfortunately, the Madelyn Burke-signed phonograph Matt and Sky use to record 2SP broke down in our later segments, so you will not be hearing which NBA players we would most like to invite to our bar mitzvahs, or which Clipper player bodies we would most like to rock for one day. More material for next time.

2 Swaggy P's In a Podcast

The hotly-anticipated debut of 2 Swaggy P's in a Podcast, the ONLY podcast for TRUE Clipper fans, i.e. those who remember the days of Dairus-Q headbumps, Yaroslav Korolev post-game interviews and Cuttino Mobley's beastly low-post game.

THE GREATEST PODCAST LINK OF ALL TIME

We have everything Clipper Nation has ever wished for on this podcast, including: 1) a vicious freestyle rap throwdown between Caron Butler and Dan Dickau (at about the hour mark); 2) a "F$@K Memphis" segment in which we detail our enduring love for Rudy Gay, 3) and a heated debate over whether self-respecting Clipper fans can actually root for the meth addict formerly known as Matt Barnes.

We answer ALL your Clipper-related questions and insecurities, such as "Was Jesus a Clippers fan?", "Do Blake and DeAndre have the best friendship in the NBA?", and "Who would each of us murder to keep Chris Paul?".

Please don't hate us. This podcast suffers heavily from first pancake syndrome, with the audio rough in certain places (my mic is much louder than Sky's), me laughing far too much, and Sky forgetting the name of the Sports Arena. We will get better at drunkenly operating Audacity as the season progresses.

Sponsored by Chosun Galbee.

A Day in the Dodgers Front Office: Part 1

Through a combination of intrepid reporting, patient source cultivation, and an errant Ned Colletti butt-dial (our office number is one digit away from the combination Pizza Hut/Men's Warehouse Colletti is known to frequent in Century City), Bochy's Oversized Pillow has obtained exclusive audio recordings of the internal deliberations of the Dodgers front office over the past three months. 

While most of the 200 plus hours of raw tape was rendered unintelligible by the sound of Juan Uribe eating his ritual pre- and post-game turducken, our researchers were able to piece together transcripts from several key meetings of Dodgers brass. Although by no means a full account of Dodger front office dynamics, these transcripts may help answer several nagging questions troubling the Dodgers' confused and yet cautiously optimistic fan base, such as "I'm glad Tony Gwynn Jr. isn't batting leadoff for a professional baseball team, but do I really have to root for Shane Victorino now?" and, "Holy shit, Crawford AND Beckett?" and "But seriously how much fucking money do these guys have?" 

Today we present the transcript from the morning of July 31, just hours before Major League Baseball's non-waiver trading deadline. The scene (from what we could piece together from the audio): Dodgers General Manager Ned Colletti sits in a Club Level boardroom in front of a speakerphone, an annotated copy of USA Today's sports section, and an iPhone. Seated across the table is Dodgers President and CEO Stan Kasten; seated next to Kasten is Professional Media Teflon Magic Johnson; and on the speakerphone is Guggenheim Partners CEO and Dodgers Chairman Mark Walter. Newly hired assistant to the general manager Mickey Hatcher (yeup, we actually hired him for a front office job, google that shit) is seated directly next to Colletti. We pick up a few minutes into the conversation, after Colletti, despite the assistance of Hatcher, has accidentally locked himself out of his iPhone. 

Kasten: Don't worry about it Ned, we'll just get you a fourth one. Let's get this thing started, shall we? Mark, we have Ned, Magic, Mickey and myself on the line today. It's 10 AM here in L.A., which means we have about three hours until the deadline.

Colletti: Siri, what time is it on the East Coast? Goddamn this thing. Kim used to know how to work this...

Kasten: It's 1 PM on the East Coast, Ned. And it's not going to work while you're locked out, just be patient. Anyway, Mark, we just wanted to consult with you on our strategy going into the deadline. We know you were somewhat surprised by the Hanley deal, and we wanted to make sure you were apprised of the negotiations we have currently underway.

Walter: I appreciate that, Stan. And let me just reiterate, I'm fully behind the Hanley deal, I'm just always a little concerned when we take on longer-term contracts and give up young pitching. But what we've been saying to the press is honest--I'm willing to spend whatever it takes to make us a perennial World Series contender. Or at least give the national media the impression that the franchise is slightly less dysfunctional than it was under Fox.

Colletti: Just to be clear, Mr. Walter, you're willing to spend whatever it takes?

Walter: Yes, Ned. Whatever it takes. I mean obviously within rea--...

Walter's speakerphone cuts off abruptly. While Karsten and Magic attempt to repair the connection, Hatcher is overheard giggling. 

Kasten: Mark? Hello, Mark? That's weird. Alright, it looks like we've lost him. Ned, because we're pressed for time, why don't you just tell me what you were planning on telling Mark.

A new voice enters the audio--Karsten's assistant, Ted.

Kasten's Assistant: Gentlemen, we have Bill Plaschke on the line. He says he's heard rumors there's been trouble communicating with Guggenheim.

Magic: No problem guys, I got this. Connect him to my cell. "Hey Bill, how you doin'? Hey, remember that time in '87 we did blow off Meg Ryan's ass in the back of Don Johnson's camaro?"

Magic leaves the room.

Colletti: Ted, could you bring us some caviar and a box of the finest Cubans you can find? [Pause] For me AND Stan, obviously.

Kasten's Assistant: Yeah sure, I can try.

Colletti: There's a $20K bonus for you if you can do it in the next hour.

Sounds of rapidly moving footsteps. 

Colletti: Viva Guggenheim!!!! Last year Oscar Meyer catered our holiday party, for Christ's sakes. And after Uribe left, we were down to triscuits and turkey bologna.

Kasten: Hehehe, yeup, things have changed. Ok, Ned, back to your deadline strategy. What do you got for me?

Colletti: As you know, Mickey and I have been working on some evidence-based criteria to evaluate whether we should pursue a particular player. This was the kind of stuff that Kim was great at, she used to make these Powerpoints with YouTube clips of players and the words would make this typewriter sound, it was so badass...

Kasten: Ned, the criteria..

Colletti: Yes. So Mickey and I have identified three primary criteria in evaluating possible deadline acquisitions. Mickey, go get the cue cards.

Sounds of shuffling. 

Colletti: Criteria 1--The player must be significantly underperforming when compared to career statistical norms. We would prefer players who are so severely underperforming that our own scouts and sabernerds have begun to question whether they're in permanent decline.

[Pause]

Kasten: Ok. So you can get them at a cheaper price, I suppose? Is this what we did with Hanley?

[ Pause]

Colletti: Um, yeah. That's exactly what we did with Hanley.  But money is no obstacle, you heard Mr. Walter say that. Anyway, Mickey, criteria 2.

Sounds of shuffling. 

Colletti: Criteria 2 states that the player must either be considered a "cancer" by teammates and the media, or have public work ethic issues, or be involved in a clubhouse altercation of some sort.

[Pause]

Kasten: So you're actively pursuing assholes?

Colletti: Exactly! This is what Sabean taught me in San Francisco, and it worked wonders. Those were the days, when we would fax our official trade requests and people "listened" instead of just texting all the time. Granted, everyone we acquired was roided up to hell. That was going to be criteria 3, until the whole Melky thing broke. Times have changed, I supposed. Hmm, I wonder if Melky's available...

Kasten: So what's criteria 3 now, if it's not BALCO?

Colletti: Oh right. Criteria 3--We want to make sure we're locked into these underperforming, chemistry-killing players for several years, not just half a season. And we want to make sure these contracts are enormous, like Vernon Wells/Barry Zito enormous.

[Pause]

Colletti: Believe me, Stan, this is what all the big-market teams do. If you want to win like the Yankees or Red Sox or Phillies, you have to act like the Yankees and Red Sox and Phillies.

Kasten: I'm pretty sure the Yankees don't  use cue cards.

Hatcher: Not cool, Stan.

Magic reenters the room. 

Magic: That was simple enough. Jesus, all those L.A. Times guys want to talk about is how great it was watching Steve Garvey have sex. Weird. Anyway, what did I miss?

Karsten's Assistant: Sorry, gentlemen. Mr. Johnson, it's T.J. Simmers. He says he got word that the Dodgers' front office strategy is predicated on roiding up its players...

Magic: God, where do they get this horseshit? Patch him through to my cell. "T.J., old buddy. Remember that time we tried to get Nancy Reagan to strip for us at Arsenio Hall's place?"

Magic is heard leaving the room.

Karsten's Assistant: And I'm still working on that caviar and Cubans for you, Mr. Colletti.

Colletti: Great. Also, I'd really like to eat with platinum silverwear, I saw Brian Cashman do it once...

Kasten: Ned....

Colletti: I can see you're not pleased, Stan. We also have what I've dubbed "Auxiliary Option B", which I think is pretty innovative. Mickey, go check on Auxiliary Option B.

Hatcher is heard leaving the room. 

Karsten: Look, Ned. We gave you the benefit of the doubt and kept you because the team made a couple nice playoff runs while you were here. Granted, most of the young talent on those teams pre-dated your arrival, and the list of atrocious moves you've made with  the limited resources you had reads like a Schindler's list of baseball signings--Andrew Jones, Jason Schmidt, Juan Uribe. I'll give you credit for Ethier though...

Colletti: Oh, that's Criteria 4. We've can't include Uribe in any deal, we've got to give him time to pan out...

Hatcher reenters the room. 

Hatcher: Auxiliary Option B is a no go, boss. The Commissioner's office asked if this was some sort of joke and then said some bullshit about preserving the integrity of the league.

[A prolonged pause]

Colletti: I wanted to buy the Oakland A's

Kasten: You mean you wanted Reddick or Cespedes?

Colletti: No. I wanted to buy the entire team and use it as our farm system. 

[Another prolonged pause ].

Hatcher: You still want me to check about the Royals?

Colletti: No Mickey, that's ok. 

Kasten's Assistant: Mr. Colletti, we have Theo Epstein from Chicago and Ruben Amaro Jr. from Philadelphia on the phone for you....

End of Part 1. 

An Application for Clipper Fanhood

Hey, kid.

Yeah, you. The one with the "Lob Angeles" t-shirt and camouflage Clipper baseball hat. The one who doesn't calculate the odds of a stray meteor crashing directly into Chris Paul's surgically repaired knee before every  tip-off. The one who posted this on Facebook five minutes after Tyga recorded it on his Mac. The one who still has "the disembowelment" as their wallpaper.

First, let me apologize. It's not right that you keep getting stared down at Staples by 50 year old white men in Ron Harper throwbacks checking their pre-McFlurry insulin levels. I could see how frustrating it must be to post something on Clip Nation, only to watch in confusion as replies like "Cherokee Park's PER shits all over Chris Bosh,"  and "Fuck Ray Allen. Why aren't we working out Pike?" hijack the thread. You probably had to look up Quintin Ross on microfiche, for Christ's sake.

It's ok, kid. You're bandwagon, but it's ok. Other longtime Clipper fans may not be as empathetic, but I'm here to extend a helping hand.

The truth is, while Clipper fans act as if we used to drink Hennessy with World B. Free at halftime, most of us started off in your shoes. I'm from the Darius-Quentin-Khloe's wife bandwagon wave, aka the Kobe defectors. We were the native Angelenos who couldn't put up with the vanilla mamba's antics anymore and wanted a team that was young and dynamic and selfless. For the first five years of our fanhood, this was literally our fondest memory, aside from the times when Khloe's wife actually passed his drug test:

The Lamar-Darius-Quentin bandwagon wave now makes up a sizable contingent of "authentic" Clippers fans, as do those who came over with the Cassell--Kaman--Judas playoff team. When we're really honest with ourselves, we readily admit that we need to grow our fan base if only to rid Staples of the lingering stench of our co-tenants (typically they smell like a combination of Axe Body Spray and Skinnygirl Margaritas, which coincidentally is also the smell of sex with Luke Walton). A Clipper victory will be sweeter for us simply because of the suffering we've endured, but nevertheless, we want you there with us. 

In order to ease the transition to full-fledged Clipper fanhood, I've created the following application for bandwagoners that might be somewhat unfamiliar the the franchise's storied traditions of shredded ACL's, players named Wang and N'Dong, and general human misery. If you score higher than Tim Thomas' career adjusted field goal percentage, congratulations--throw on your CP3 All-Star jersey and hop on the bandwagon. If you score lower, you are likely functionally illiterate. 

Application for Clipper Fanhood (begin here) 

1. Are you currently a Lakers fan? 

a) Yes

b) No 

If you answered "yes" to question 1, please do not complete the rest of the application. Self-immolate as soon as possible. Yes, you may google "self-immolate". Yes, you may wait until after Luke Walton finishes. 

2. What is the most likely outcome for this current Clippers season? 

a) First round playoff exit

b) Western Conference quarterfinals

c) Western Conference finals

d) The Clippers are up 3-0 on the Lakers in the Western Conference finals, with Blake and CP each averaging triple doubles and Reggie Evans holding Kobe to 7% shooting from the field, just above his season average. Suddenly, just before tip-off of Game 4, a rogue unmanned Zamboni left over from a Kings game careens towards the Clippers sideline. Chris Paul's good knee is immediately trapped under the Zamboni, which shreds it to Shaun Livingston-esque pieces. The Zamboni then veers towards Blake, who successfully jumps over the entire machine, but only to land on Matt Barnes' strategically placed foot. The force of the landing shatters Blake's ankle. Stern declares no wrongdoing by Barnes, the Lakers win the next four games, and Kobe is named Finals MVP after shooting 4% against the Heat. 

Correct Answer: D. Fucking inevitable. 

3. Which of these celebrity basketball fans is the hottest? 

a) Ashley Judd

b) Cameron Diaz

c) Eva Longoria 

d) Penny Marshall 

Correct Answer: D. We would also accept James Brooks. If you're not fully aroused by the site of Penny Marshall courtside, you are not a red-blooded American male. 

5. Who is the best dunker in Clippers history? 

a) World B. Free

b) Blake 

c) Darius Miles 

d) DeAndre 

e) THIS GUY 

Correct Answer: KOROLEV!!! Why else would Dunleavy draft him 12th in the 2005 draft? When I think of Yaroslov, my mind immediately flocks to his collection of monster pre-game throwdowns, and not to the fact that he went ahead of David Lee and Monte Ellis. 

6. What is fashion? 

a) This: 

Correct Answer: Elgin is fashion. 

7. The Clips are up by 2 with 14 seconds left. Which opposing player would you least like to see with the ball in their hands? 

a) The Vanilla Mamba

b) Lebron James

c) Kevin Durant

d) Dirk Nowitzki 

e) Anthony Morrow, CJ Miles, Reggie Williams, or that guy the opposing team just called up from the D-league 

Correct Answer: E. Clipper fans have hold the in-game record for yelling "Oh shit, don't let Morrow touch the ball." 

8. The hardest place for the Clippers to win (before this year) was....

a) The Delta Center (Utah)

b) The AT&T Center (San Antonio)

c) The American Airlines Center (Dallas) 

d) Anywhere before page 4 of the L.A. Times sports section. 

Correct Answer: A. I still can't believe we won in Utah. Maybe the Mayans were right about this whole 2012 thing...

9. Complete the following statement: the next Clippers head coach should be....

D'Antoni

b) Nate McMillan 

c) Jerry Sloan

d) Larry Brown 

e) Jeff Van Gundy

Answer: Any answer is acceptable. 

10. The next Clippers head coach will be: 

a) Vinny Del Negro, for the next 50 years

b) Bill Fitch

d) Donald Sterling, as player-coach

e) Diego Maradona 

f) Anyone who worked for FEMA in 2005

Answer: Any answer is acceptable 

10. True or false: The same franchise that once had Dan Dickau starting at point guard now has Chris Paul. 

Answer: True. Praise be to Stern. 

Feel free to add your own questions, I'm sure I've neglected something related to Benoit Benjamin or Keith Closs. 

Fans Treated to "Real, Smashmouth" Football, Strongly Prefer Scoring Instead

Barn-burning 3 yard gain 

New Orleans, LA--After watching a BCS title game that lived up to its billing as authentic, hard-hitting, defensive-minded football, devoted fans across the country were shocked to learn that they in fact prefer a less "footbally" version of the sport.

The highly anticipated matchup between the University of Alabama and Louisiana State University, which was alternately hyped by various media outlets as "your granddaddy's kind of pigskin" and "UFC without the touchdowns", prompted fans young and old to express confusion and dismay after being horribly, horribly bored for the 3 hour duration of the game.

"I guess I'm not really that much of a football fan," said Tim Kirkpatrick, a longtime Michigan State fan who tuned into the game expecting to be thrilled by both teams' impressive rush defenses and athletic secondaries. "I mean, I'm supposed to love this, right? Call me soft, but I guess I never realized how much I like the aesthetic of a ball vaguely moving in a forward direction."

"An SEC fan sitting next to me at the bar got a hard-on every time LSU punted, for Christ's sake," Kirkpatrick added. "That's a real fan."

Reactions to the game were even more virulent among fans accustomed to completed receptions and positive plays from scrimmage, as these seemingly commonplace hallmarks of "good football" were exposed to be flashy trivialities when the sport is played correctly.

Several members of Oklahoma State's coaching staff, including its offensive coordinator and special teams assistants, were reportedly rushed to the hospital after seizures midway through the 47th "three and out" of the second quarter.

Marianne Kelly, wife of a prominent Pac-12 head coach who declined to be identified because of the sensitive nature of the subject, said she had never seen her husband as visibly distraught while watching the game he loves.

"He would do the same thing over and over again," recounted Kelly. "He would walk into the living room, turn on the game, and sit watching for about three minutes. Then he would scream "THIS IS FUCKING HORSESHIT!" at the top of his lungs, throw everything he could grab at the television and then call himself Jordan Jefferson when he missed."

An Ode to Saturday/Thoroughly Depressing Pac-12 Preview Spectacular!!!

Dear Saturdays, 

First, an apology. My behavior the past eight months has been simply unacceptable. "Walks", "hikes", and other overhyped forms of upright outdoor mobility. High-fiving my girlfriend after spotting an organic casaba sale at the local farmer's market.  Degrading shopping trips to Target, Kohl's, and other places without "Wings", "Hut", or "$1.99 Chinese Food Don't Ask How That's Possible" in the title.

I know these trespasses are all but indefensible. But, Saturday, if we're truly being honest with each other, you're not completely blameless yourself. Cubs-Astros as the Fox Saturday Game of the Week? I much rather spend three hours comparing thread counts at Bed Bath and Beyond than spend three hours watching Carlos Pena attempt to hit a baseball. Even if Carlos Pena also came in my mailbox with a strangely effective, oversized 30% off coupon (someone should check if this is why the Cubs signed him). 

Saturday, let us forgive and forget, for September is finally upon us, and with it we can resume our relationship as it was originally intended. I wake up at 10, stumble drowsily to the living room, and flip on whatever utterly inconsequential Big-10 games ESPN and ESPN2 are playing. After double checking that the flatscreen is working properly and that Big 10 secondaries are indeed just that slow, I settle into the position on the sofa I will occupy for the next 12 hours (save for the half minute exchanging awkward pleasantries with the Vietnamese delivery guy and the ensuing forty minute dump/email check). At mid-afternoon, just after an SEC team has cemented the conference's status as the greatest in the history of intermural sport with a 17 point victory over UTEP, I'll check the weather on my laptop simply to affirm that the best way to spend a 73 degree day in West Los Angeles is inside a two-bedroom apartment with no direct sunlight. Midway through the USC nightcap, I'll be overcome with a severe bout of Kiffinitis--a unique form of nausea caused partly by a full day of human inertia and partly by the natural physiological reaction to Lane Kiffin.

Before I get to the team-by-team predictions, a note about what is currently being referred to as the Pac-12 but what very well may be the Pac-28 by the time you read this (assuming the University of British Columbia can break from its revenue sharing deal with the London School of Economics). I'm a sports traditionalist at heart, having come from a long line of sports reactionaries. My father still won't recognize either of the two Marlins World Series championships because, as he puts it, "The Weimar Republic was around longer than those fuckers." When the designated hitter was introduced in the late 1970's, my grandfather self-immolated. Even my great great great great grandfather objected to the integration of Jews into 18th century Russian hockey leagues, partly because it threatened the integrity of past scoring records and partly because Jews weren't allowed to wear skates.

But despite the Edmund Burke sports pedigree, I must confess my excitement for the Pac-12. Although I'll mourn the smug sense of moral superiority round-robin play conferred on Pac-10 teams, there are two highly compelling reasons I'm elated with the new format: 1) the spectacle of Utah Mormons venturing to Berkeley on a semi-regular basis, which may very well represent the largest culture clash of any two schools in the same conference with the exception of annual Howard-Brandeis squash game; and 2) Cal is guaranteed to play Wazzu each year, every year, until the end of time.

I originally planned to post these predictions last week, well ahead of opening weekend. You'll simply have to trust that my prognostications were in no way affected by Week 1's outcomes, and that I always had Sacramento State over Stanford in the Pac-12 title game. Without further ado...

Pac-12 North: Final Standings 


1. Stanford (10-3, 8-2): The Furd charges into the Big Game ranked second in the country (trailing only a 3-loss SEC team), buoyed by Luck's Heisman candidacy and a daunting non-conference schedule featuring wins over BCS-powerhouses Duke and San Jose State. Cal fans are treated to an endless stream of ESPN segments on Luck's architecture degree, including a halftime report in which he tells Kirk Herbstreit, "Everybody knows I'm the idea guy. I let the Asians do the computer stuff. They call themselves the AutoCADDIES, but I don't know what that means." The Farm hosts a record turnout of just over 60% capacity, with half of those in attendance from Berkeley. On the first play from scrimmage, Cal safety Sean Cattouse soars over three Stanford offensive lineman and pile drives Luck, the force of the hit blinding him permanently. Stanford goes on to lose the game 35-3, and then follow it up with losses to both Notre Dame and Utah in the Pac-12 title game. After his etch-a sketches fail to attract any interest from architecture firms, Luck applies for an admin job with Facebook.

2. Oregon (8-4, 6-3): After Les Miles' strategy of letting Oregon catch the ball on punt returns pays surprising dividends, Oregon bounces back with seven consecutive victories. Chip Kelley's interactions with the media become even more dickishly terse, with Chip responding to several on-field Erin Andrews questions exclusively with "Ducks go fast" and "I coach football". Unfortunately, the Ducks' slip down the stretch with consecutive losses to UDUB, the Furd and USC. Adding insult to injury, the NCAA releases the results of its investigation into Oregon's recruiting violations, declaring LeMichael James, Darron Thomas, Cliff Harris, Joey Harrington, Akili Smith, and Steve PreFontaine ineligible and revoking the Ducks' 2010 Pac-10 title. Phil Knight assumes coaching duties for the bowl game.

3. Washington (7-5, 5-4): The Sarkesians post another respectable season, featuring a victory over Oregon and a second consecutive bowl game appearance. However, a malaise settles over Seattle late in the year when defensive coordinator Nick Holt is suspended for HGH and, in a panic, the Huskies tap Tyrone Willimgham to replace him. Seattle sports fans pretend the Sounders matter for another three years.

4. Cal (7-5, 4-5): Maynard throws for 3,000 and runs for 1,000, Isi keeps our streak of 1,000 yard rushers alive for another year, and our highly touted defensive freshmen actually live up to the hype. Sweater Vest West cools some of the criticism, and Marv Jones and Keenan Allen get guest spots on a Ginuwine record that goes triple platinum. But we still lose to SC.

5. Oregon State (4-8, 4-5): A disappointing year for the Beavers that could only be redeemed with yet another victory over USC. Unfortunately they don't play the Trojans until 2012.

6. Wazzu (4-8, 2-7): A four win season is hailed as significant progress by players, coaches, and the single remaining member of the Cougars fan base. Unfortunately, the euphoria in Pullman is cut short when Pac-12 Commissioner Larry Scott announces that the conference will cut ties with Washington State and replace the team with Mater Dei's Junior Varsity squad.

I'm too tired for the Pac-12 South. Too many teams. Expansion ruins everything.

Drinking Games for Meaningless Dodger Baseball

The truth hurts. Other than Pablo Sandoval's diabetic relapse or Zach Wheeler's imminent Cy Young candidacy, there's not much to root for as a Dodger fan these days. Fifty-four games to go, and you're secretly not sure you can handle one more viewing of that Kafka novella posing as a Carl's Jr commercial, let alone the sight of Aaron Miles batting fifth for a professional baseball team.

You pretend your rationalizations don't sound as absurd as they really are ("I know it's a Friday night and it's Houston and we're already down 7 runs, but I want to see how Ruby responds to walking 17 consecutive batters"). You insist to friends and family that yes, they may be 11.5 back, but the games are still enjoyable, especially when Kershaw is pitching and...well, when Kershaw is pitching they're enjoyable. You affirm with fellow fans that you were there for Dre and James and Kid K and the alien that now inhabits Matt Kemp's body when they were competing for division titles, and goddammit you'll be there for them now when they're competing to be an extra in a Brian Wilson Old Spice commercial.

But deep down, in the hellspawned recesses of your sports subconscious alongside memories of Jack Clark and Matt Stairs and Delino Deshields, lay the truth: these remaining Dodger games are absolutely brutal to watch. Borderline unbearable. If the Dodgers were a racehorse, they'd have been diagnosed with rickets and shot repeatedly in the head by June (no, we can't do that with Uribe, even if he's on the DL. I checked). If the Dodgers were a movie, they'd be Revolutionary Road. If the Dodgers were a book, they'd also be Revolutionary Road...or, if Ted Lilly is starting, some combination of Revolutionary Road and Night.

Luckily, I've developed a reliable method for coping with one of the most abjectly depressing second halves in Dodger history: a drinking game. As anyone's undergraduate experience readily attests, a drinking game serve as an effective antidote for just about any form of disappointing entertainment. A Friday night with you, your Mandarin-speaking roommate and a Super Nintendo that only works when you play Paperboy? Drinking game. A Felicity marathon you have no idea how you got coerced into watching? Drinking game. Batting cleanup for the Tigers and bored with how easy it is to slug .600 ever year? Drinking game.

What You'll Need:

• A fifth of your favorite shot beverage. I would recommend making something with "Swerveballs", James Loney's personal line of Courvoisier. You can get it for $9.99, behind the alley behind the parking garage behind the Inglewood Target. Ask for Snot Boogie.
• A forty of Steel Reserve.
• As much SumPoosie Energy Drink as you can purchase legally, which I believe the FDA limits to 10 ounces every four years.
• A Rihanna CD.
• A jar of pennies, a Dodger hat and an utter lack of self-respect.

How to Play: As the most agonizing part of this season has been watching anyone but Kemp attempt to hit a baseball, the game revolves around obeying certain drinking rules during Dodger player at-bats. Although on paper the rules may appear to require a dangerous amount of drinking, luckily our offense is so anemic that it's very unlikely we'll get through the order more than three times over the course of nine innings. As such, I wouldn't recommend this drinking game for fans of other teams. Except the Mariners.

Batting First, Dee Gordon: Take a shot for every ten-pound difference between your body weight and Dee's. Now take a shot for every ten-pound difference between your body weight and the combined body weights of Dee and Eugelio Velez. If you haven't taken at least six shots, you're grossly overestimating Eugelio Velez's BMI. If you haven't been emotionally capable of eBaying your Raffy jersey yet, bring it out and open up the 40 of Steely. If Gordon hits the ball on the ground--which he always, always should do--see how much of the 40 you can pour over the jersey before Gordon reaches first base. Then chug the rest.

Batting Second, Casey Blake: As Casey would bat no higher than seventh for any team with a semi-decent offense, take five shots. Take a shot if you have a beard. Take a shot if you have an adorably pointy chin. Take a shot if you were traded for Carlos Santana. If you have a beard and an adorably pointy chin and you were traded for Carlos Santana, drink as much as you want as you're probably on the disabled list anyway. Although if Loney catches you drinking something besides Swerveballs, he'll shit in your locker. Again.

Batting Third, Andre Ethier: Take a shot with your right hand holding the shot glass. Easy enough. Now place the shot glass in your left hand and repeatedly heave alcohol in the direction of your mouth but never let it make solid contact. Also, if you've somehow dragged your girlfriend into watching the game, take a shot every time she asks if he's single or applauds wildly when he singles meekly to left-center.

Batting Fourth, Matt Kemp: Sober up! Willie Fucking Mays is hitting! Don't let thoughts of when they're finally going to realize Juan Rivera hits fifth distract you from...holy shit another gapper! Go for three, go for three! Yes!!!!!

(If you're playing correctly, your bladder should be about to explode at this point. Take out the Rihanna CD and relieve yourself appropriately. If you're an expert player, you may want to take a shot for every million in Kemp's arbitration we're not going to able to afford, but this can get incredibly depressing very quickly.)

Batting Fifth, Juan Rivera: An adaption from King's Cup. Everyone in the room has to name a Dodgers left-fielder in the post-Manny era. Whoever blanks first has to drink. This will likely carry you through several innings.

Batting Sixth, James Loney: Take a shot every time Loney checks his beeper or tosses a burner in between pitches. Take a shot every time you wonder whether they just should have left his swing alone and let him develop into a poor man's John Olerud. And yes, take a shot every time you think back to that grand slam in the Chicago divisional series and ask, what the fuck happened?

Batting Seventh, Aaron Miles/Jamie Carroll: At this point, both Miles and Carroll will likely be indistinguishable from each other, so I've adapted this rule for both. Take out the jar of pennies and pour as much as you can into your Dodger hat. Firmly wrap the pennies in your cap and clutch it like a small, makeshift club. Wait for the camera to pan to Juan Uribe eating a Milky Way in the dugout while Vinny talks about his recovery timetable. Then smash your TV set. Although this isn't part of the drinking game per se, it is nevertheless highly therapeutic.

Batting Eight, Dioner Navarro: Vomit profusely. As most Dodger fans know already, this will likely occur even if you haven't been drinking.

Batting Ninth, Clayton Kershaw: Sober up! Our second best offensive threat is hitting!

The Free Agent Summit That Should Have Been

Alas, it has finally come. July 1, 2010. A date the importance of which, despite Stuart Scott's well-honed talent for delicate understatement, defies hyperbole. The date on which the greatest assemblage of free agents in the history of the NBA (and Rudy Gay) are allowed to choose which uniforms they will don next season and thereby reshape the course of world history for centuries to come. Or, as Scott puts it, "D-Day, the moon landing, the Kennedy assassination, the invention of the combustible engine, the day I first dropped 'boo-ya', the Lincoln assassination, the advent of agriculture-based civilization, the fall of Rome, and the day I officially retired 'boo-ya' all rolled into one of the illest days ever."

Lebreezy. Wade. Bosh. Dirk. Johnson. Amar'e. Not to mention Craig fucking Smith, who is a total homie and who we should re-sign but won't.

July 1, 2010 has been the sole reason Knicks fans have gotten up in the morning for the last three years--that reason evidently to reunite the the 2004-2005 Phoenix Suns, with less depth and no Steve Nash (don't worry Knicks fans, I'm sure it was worth it). It's the reason Cleveland-area vasectomy clinics are booked for the entire summer, as no self-respecting Cavs fan could in good conscience bring a child into a world where he will be forced to choose between Mo Williams and Antawn Jamison jerseys for his first Cavs game.

It's the reason Clipper fans such as myself have replayed Lebreezy's Larry King interview over 400 times on their DVRs, trying not to weep when the words "They have a lot of nice players. Kaman, Baron Davis..." left those sweet, messianic lips. It's the reason Clipper fans have also failed to rid themselves of the self-delusion that even if Lebreezy does sign with us, which there is absolutely no chance of happening, that within fifteen minutes of his on-court debut he would be forced to amputate both legs and lose sight in his right eye after a freak on-court accident involving Penny Marshall and a rogue Zamboni left over from a Kings game. (We still do have the best goddamn supporting cast out there, if you're reading this Lebron. Also, Chris Kaman smokes the dankest, if you're interested...)

But despite what will certainly be an off-season just as enthralling, engrossing and dramatic as an actual professional basketball game (punctuated by massive 360 windmill Chad Ford breaking news reports), I have to confess I'm already a little disappointed. The much ballyhooed Dwyane Wade-sponsored free agent summit never really took shape the way I imagined it would. Dinners with Gabrielle Union and Chris Bosh in LA Live sound nice enough, but I wanted what Wade originally intended: a true summit, in which every major free agent was invited and where each would have an opportunity to lure others to their preferred destinations.

I imagine it would go something like this...

Scene: A gorgeous summer day at Dwyane Wade's lavish South Beach estate. More of a fiefdom than a mansion, the sprawling complex screams Miami ostentation: reggaeton remixes blare from Wade's collection of Ferrari drop-tops; supermodels in thongs adorn an Olympic-sized swimming pool filled with nothing but Grey Goose; flamingos in cutoffs scamper playfully on a private golf course; Cuban refugees drown while attempting to cross Wade's "bay of Bacardi" moat.

Chris Bosh drives up to the estate's secured gate, punches in 712010$$ as the security code and then continues up the platinum-encrusted driveway to Wade's house. Confused yet vaguely impressed--mostly because he had never seen a keypad with dollar signs before--he somewhat diffidently knocks on the front door. As the door opens, he hears...

Wade: Lebreeeeeezy, right on time!!!! I knew you would come.....

The door opens fully. Wade, shirtless and wearing matching pairs of Dolce and Gabana shorts, sandals and sunglasses, looks up blankfaced. After looking up and down Bosh's 7-foot frame several times without a hint of recognition, Bosh decides to break the ice...
Bosh: Sup Dwyane.

Wade [over-excitedly]: Oh shit, my bad Chris! With the Florida sunlight this bright, sometimes it takes me a second or so for my eyes to adjust. Sun always shines in Florida, Chris. You'll get used to that. Glad to see you could come man!!!
Bosh: No problem, I'm just happy to get the invite. I know it sounds corny, but I really am honored to be considered good enough to help one of ya'll win a championship. Thanks man.

Wade: Ahh shit Chris, don't be modest!! You were damn good in Helsinki. I just invited you down here so you could get warm and get a tan, man. Half the time we played up there I couldn't tell the difference between you and Bargnani.

Bosh: Hahaha, yeah I know its cold up there. I played in Toronto, for the record. Pretty good city actually.

Wade: Toronto, Helsinki, whatever man. If it ain't South Beach, it ain't worth learning the name.

Bosh: So New York, LA, Chicago...

Wade: Never heard of them.

Bosh: You grew up in Chicago.

Wade: So I'm told. Come on in man, my Mojito is getting room temperature.

Wade and Bosh make their way into Wade's living room, where all four walls are covered with 72 inch plasma flatscreens. The north wall tv is playing Scarface; the west and east, Bad Boys 1 and 2, respectively; and the south is playing Burn Notice.

Bosh: Ahh man, I love Burn Notice.

Wade: I know, right? Michael Weston is the shit. You know where it's set? Only stuff like that can happen in one place: Miami....

Bosh: Right, right. I think they film that in Vancouver, but whatever, I'm picking up on the theme. So who else is supposed to show up to this thing?

Wade: Ahh man, everybody. Amar'e, Carlos, Dirk, hell we even invited David Lee. Of course Lebron, although he hasn't been returning my text messages today for some reason. Probably shitty reception in Cleveland. Joe's already here, he's standing right next to you.

Bosh looks up to find Joe Johnson half an inch from his face, avoiding eye contact.

Bosh: Oh shit! Damn Joe, you scared me. I didn't hear you come in at all, how long have you been standing there?

Wade: He's been there this whole time!!! I know, its crazy. Dude never makes a peep, he's like a Prius or some shit. Go ahead and put your ears to his lips, you can't hear inhaling or exhaling.

Johnson sits down on a leather sofa across from Wade and Bosh.

Bosh: How you been Joe? That postseason was rough, but hey at least you got there man. Fuck I wish I had Al Horford.

Johnson takes out a small notepad, scribbles something on it, tears out a page and hands it to Bosh.

Bosh [reading the note]: "I'm good. Gettin' paid." Yeah, man. We all about to get paid.
Johnson shakes his head, scribbles another note.

Bosh [reading the new note]: "No. Gettin' paid right now. By Wade."

Wade [looking sheepish]: It was the only way he would come, man. Shit, it's the only way he leaves his studio apartment. For anything.
Bosh looks disapprovingly at Wade, who shrugs. Suddenly there's another knock on the door. Wade gets up excitedly to greet the new arrival.

Wade: Ahhh shit, he always makes a grand entrance. The man himself, Lebree....Oh. Hey Dirk.

Dirk: Hello Dwyane. Hey Chris, Joe.

Bosh: Hey Dirk. Oh, Joe's writing something again. He wants to know whether Dirk is getting paid for this too, and how much?

Dirk: What?

Wade: Nevermind, man. Just come on in. Hey, before we start, I just want to say no hard feelings from 2006. I'd love to bring you here to be my 4, mostly so I can stop pretending Udonis Haslem doesn't belong in Greece. Plus, not only would you be playing with a champion, but you'd be living in M-I-A-M-I........That spells Miami.

Dirk: Thanks, Dwyane. I'd love to play alongside a true star like you, and I've always dreamed of having Pat Riley bitch me out publicly for being soft. But I'm not so sure about moving to Miami.

Wade: "WHAT!?!?!!?" "WHAT?!?!?!?!?!"

Bosh: Yo man, I can understand that. It's always tough to move family, leave friends. Plus you got a ultra-loyal fan base like in Toronto.

Dirk: No, it's not any of that. I could give a shit about our part-time Cowboys fans. It's, uh....it's the women.

Wade: "WHAT?!?!?!?!?" "WHAT?!?!?!?!?"

Dirk: There's something about them here I'm just not attracted to. They're too, I dunno...effeminate. They're just not my type.


Wade continues to stare uncomprehendingly at Dirk. Johnson scribbles another note and passes it to Bosh.

Bosh [reading]: Dirk's into that Ali Larter from Obsessed type, except replace the justifying hotness with more crazy.

Dirk: Exactly! That's why I've already signed a max deal with the Nets. The women there are as mentally ill as they are handsome. Can't wait to play in Newark.

A long, uneasy silence is interrupted by the doorbell ring--which is not a traditional doorbell at all, but an all-instrumental rendition of LMFAO's "I'm in Miami, Bitch". Wade gradually makes his way to the door, still recovering from the exchange with Dirk.

Wade: I don't remember inviting you guys.

The door opens to reveal Paul Pierce and Ray Allen. Both are wearing FUBU tracksuits, while Allen is listening to a Sony Walkman CD-player.

Pierce: Sup Dwyane. We figured with the way the playoffs worked out, you'll have to do what the media is doing and reluctantly consider us still relevant. Plus, we didn't want to go to the summit Shaq and AI were hosting. Shit gets depressing when you see the same Mystikal music video girl at every party since 1997.

Wade: Fine, I guess you guys can come in.

Pierce: Sweet! We'll make it worth your while, man. I brought some of my favorite episodes of Martin. You got a VCR, right?

As soon as the door closes behind them, they hear what sounds like someone attempting to ring the doorbell but missing the ringer and instead hitting his finger on the door. After several instances of this, LMFAO finally starts playing and Wade opens the door to find Amar'e Stoudemire and Steve Nash, with Nash holding Amar'e's finger inches from the doorbell.

Wade: Amar'e! And Nash! Why are you here Steve? I thought you were tethered to Phoenix until you retire or they accidentally deport you.

Nash: Amar'e got lost at the airport and couldn't find his way here, so he called me to help him out. Happens every now and then.

Amar'e: Steve's just got a good sense of direction. I mean, I could have made it here without him, but it was quicker for him to fly down here and help me out.

Wade: Well, the more talent the better! Maybe we can work out some type of package trade deal. Come on in, we're just getting started.
Amar'e: Yeah, that sounds great! I'd really like it if Steve and I could still play together. Not that I can't win by myself. I'm Amar'e. But just to give Steve another shot at a championship.

Amar'e and Nash make their way over to the sofa where Johnson is sitting. An unopened bag of Doritos lay on the coffee table. Amar'e picks it up and attempts to open it, but even with his massive 6'11 frame can't seem to get the job done.

Nash [obviously used to this]: Here, Amar'e let me take care of that for you. Don't want to have another Dorito-related eye injury.

Nash opens the bag effortlessly, and hands a chip to Amar'e. Amar'e raise the chip above his mouth and repeatedly tries to drop it in, but misses the target each time. Nash, who has moved to the other side of the couch, finally grabs the chip and effortlessly tosses it into Amar'e's mouth from about four feet away.

Bosh: Yeah, a package deal sounds best.

Wade: Alright, let's start this already. Riles tells me we have room for two max contracts in Miami. Who wants to be Phillip Michael Thomas to my Don Johnson?

Bosh [reading another Johnson note]: Who the fuck is Phillip Michael Thomas?

Pierce [while attempting to shove one of the video cassettes into a blue-ray player]: Detective Ricardo Tubbs, dummy. Shit man, you don't want watch Miami Vice? I got those on VHS too, can get them over here real quick.

Bosh: Look, I'm down to play with either you or Lebron, I feel like I can win a championship with either of you. But to be honest, I think Chicago has more talent around us and can still afford two max players, so why not there?

Wade: Chicago? Seriously? I'll tell you why, M-I-A-M....oh wait up. I'm getting a text from Lebron.

All noise and action in the room comes to an abrupt halt, and everyone in attendance looks intently at Wade's blackberry.

Wade: Looks like he's not coming. I guess Jay-Z and Prokhorov are throwing some party in Moscow, he's taking the Concord....

Before he can finish his sentence, everyone in the room vanishes except for Bosh and Johnson.

Wade: Fuck. Joe, you're off the clock, I ain't paying...

Before can finish his sentence, Johnson bolts, then quickly returns to grab the half-empty Doritos bag and vanishes.

Vanilla Mamba

[A BOP/Chris Kaman Swagger Co-Production]

At first glance, Kobe Bryant's photoshoot and interview with Los Angeles Times Magazine (read this first so you get the jokes!!!) seems troublingly bizarre, inexplicably humiliating and vaguely Islamic. The photos have already generated a whirlwind of criticism and parody, even prompting Mormons to risk sitting behind a black man not named Howard Eisley just to take a cheap shot at Bryant.

Sadly, this isn't the first time the Lakers superstar and secondary scoring threat has fallen victim to a massive public misunderstanding of his actions. When this happened, Kobe suffered unfair criticism for choking away his team's postseason while denying more proven teammates the opportunity to take clutch shots. Little did we know, at the time Kobe was suffering from a unique form of vertigo you can only contract from prolonged contact with R&B singer Brandi's forehead, his date for high school prom. This is also the explanation behind Mekhi Phifer's career trajectory.

Luckily, Bochy's Oversized Pillow and ChrisKamanSwagger have obtained the full, unedited transcript of the LA Times Magazine interview, which provides indispensable context for the now infamous photoshoot. After reading the interview in its entirety, the notion that Kobe is a self-obsessed sociopath with the world's worst publicist seems ridiculous. He is simply a humble, salt-of-the-earth, average helicopter-commuting Los Angelino, with the fashion taste of a Pashtun Mark Twain. Enjoy:

It’s almost 4:30 in the afternoon. In the vast Blossom Room of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, everything is in place for Kobe Bryant’s cover shoot: The photographer and his three assistants have been here since 8 a.m. creating a set for the shoot that is swathed in black duvetyn. There is even a Kobe stand-in for adjusting the lighting: Smush Parker, who is also part of the catering crew and between drink orders offers me a delectable mushroom quiche.

There’s a stylist and a seamstress, a groomer and a manicurist, sneetches with and without stars, assistants and publicists galore. Smush is trying to sweet-talk a woman from Harry Winston here into purchasing one of the gold-plated Casios he carries underneath his work uniform.

There’s just one thing missing—Kobe himself. He’s running late...actually, not running at all. Flying. In his helicopter. Made of platinum. From his home in the O.C.-- Olympus County, the gated community around the Acropolis in Greece, home to only Kobe, George Soros and the sun god Ares.

“I knew he’d be late,” says the creative director, completely unfazed by the fact that he now has barely two hours to pull off a job that normally takes at least four. And there’s no wiggle room: Bryant has to leave by 6:30. He’s doing the Kimmel show tonight, and needs at least an hour to come up with some bullshit story about him being friends with his teammates, probably involving Derek Fisher.

Suddenly, there he is—long, lean, in shades and simple gray sweats made of black pearls and caviar, a small entourage in tow. Bryant ambles over, smiling and exchanging hugs, handshakes and fist pumps with Toto, his aboriginal body man and the only person allowed to make physical contact with Kobe. The stylist shows him the clothes, and they chat easily in Italian while deciding on the first ensemble.

Tom Murray: I have to ask, When you’re in that chopper, do you ever look down on the city, pinch yourself and say—
Kobe Bryant: How lucky am I that Chris Wallace is the general manager of a professional basketball team? Absolutely—every time.

But this is some dream s--t. Wardrobe that’s all white? This just doesn’t happen. Not for me. This is crazy.

Looking confused, the stylist tells Kobe he has several different colored suits, mostly black and navy, none that are all white. Bryant replies that he brought some of his own threads, and yells at Toto in Italian to fetch him his clothes.

Hmmm...You’re very relaxed. Of course, we’re talking as you’re getting a manicure and a facial before you have your makeup put on. Is this a side of your personality you’d like more people to see?
I think people, especially here in Los Angeles, are starting to understand me a lot more in terms of what I’m like personality-wise. I’m relaxed, laid back, pretty funny, smartass, humble. But if you're asking whether I play without putting foundation on first, the answer is never.

But people don’t often see that relaxed side of you...
When they turn on the TV or go to a game, that’s not the side of me they want anyway. Know what I’m saying? Most of the time when they see me, I’m in that golden armor. When I'm walking around LA LIVE, in my chainmail.

You take heat because of your demeanor in postgame interviews, especially if you lost.
Well, everybody gets upset. But if I’m being short, I’m being short. It’s not like I’m telling people to go F-off.

The stylist approaches again with a selection of ties. Bryant tells her to fuck off, and then proceeds to wrap what seems to be some kind of braided napkin around his head. He asks Toto if its "poppin", and Toto assents.

But wouldn’t it benefit you if the media in L.A. saw this side of your personality more?
It probably wouldn’t be helpful for them, because they have to write and sell stories. And you can’t have everybody saying positive things all the time. It’s just not going to work, even though this is, like, my city when it comes to sports, you know what I mean? You gotta have people on one side of the fence and people on the other, people who do the sexual assaulting and people who get assaulted, ya know?

How do you like to enjoy L.A.?

We go to restaurants, things like that. I love Koi, Flamingo, Zebra. Most of the time, after a game, I go across to the L.A. Zoo and they just let me have what I want. Got a pretty big tab over there.

So, what else can you tell us about yourself?

I love dogs, I hate bees, I love snakes, hate human connection. And I hate dog s--t. I absolutely hate dog s--t.

So what do you do when dogs poop in front of the house?
Call Smush. Ain't that right, Smush? Nah man, I don't want your fucking Casios.

You’re playing Guitar Hero at an event with Baltimore Raven Ray Lewis after this. You play a pretty mean air guitar?
Oh, yeah, man—everybody can play a mean air guitar! I’ll be rocking out! We'll also be playing "Avoiding a Felony Conviction Hero" on Kimmel.

Any songs or bands you like?
“Hells Bells”—a little AC/DC never hurt anybody. Dropkick Murphys get me going, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana...yeup, that's about all the white people music I can think of. But really I've been a huge Juggalo since Chris Mihm took me to a concert a few years back.

It’s time for Bryant to head to the set. Insane Clown Posse pounds and lights flash every few seconds, and when he’s finished, there’s time for just a final few questions out by the pool.

Do you think about your basketball mortality at all—that one day you won’t be able to do everything you can now?
I feel invincible out there, but it’s a different kind of invincible than when I was younger, like a superinvinciability, or kobinvicability. Can I jump over two or three guys like I used to? Yes. Am I as fast as I used to be? Yes. Probably faster. But does it matter when I go 8-25 from the field? No.

Have you thought about what you’d do after your playing career that would get the juices flowing as much as basketball?
Basketball really isn't my career, it's a means to an end. It's a way for me to gain money, power, social-standing, and a blind devotion from the retarded masses of Los Angeles. Also, I get to kick it with Ryan Phillipe whenever I want.

Do you think you might stay involved in the game?
I’ll stay in the game as long as I damn well please. I can jog up and down the floor and shoot free-throws until I’m 29 Kobe-years, or 356 human years.

Time’s up. Bryant has other commitments, then it’s back to the chopper. “What do you think about while you’re up there?” Kobe is asked, as he winds through a throng of Chris Kaman’s admirers.

“I think about a lot of things,” he says. “I think about driving around the streets of Philadelphia as a kid. And then I fast-forward, and here I am, riding the coattails of a 7-foot Mexican stork to a championship in a city I’ve graced with my presence for 14 years, while only threatening to leave or implode the team for 12 of them.

“I think about all the fans we have, the houses I’m flying over. Especially when I’m heading to a game, I’m like, How many will watch us play for the next two hours and be pulling for us? That helps motivate me. But most of the time, I just poke people on Facebook."