With the Cleveland Cavaliers on the brink of elimination in the NBA Eastern Conference Finals, speculation is rampant as to LeBron’s “legacy” in the sport. And with good reason: without a championship, can you even mention him in the same sentence as six-time ring-winner MJ? No one wants to be Wilt Chamberlain to history’s Bill Russell; and for all the premature burying by the media, it looks as if Kobe, in the end, may come out on top this season and thus carve a significantly deeper niche in history’s bedpost.
Recently, ESPN pushed the LeBron issue even further and published an article evaluating the current best-athlete-on-the-planet’s relative chances in the NFL, should he choose to go that route. Unsurprisingly, Bronnie’s forecast was sunny; but I for one like to imagine that if LBJ had a mind to pull a ‘94-’95 Jordan and go on hiatus, he might perhaps consider a different athletic career: to wit, a season or two in the Valley, playing for the Van Nuys PussySmashers. Let’s do the pundit thing for a moment . . . and see how he stacks up.
Recently, I’ve decided that this column needs to address a rather burning question: notably, who are the true standouts among the field? My first respondent is an expert of sorts: Billy Watson, pornographer, record collector, and author of the entertaining, highly-informative insider blog, “I Shoot Porn.” Here, Watson takes on the issue of most interesting porn chicks of his career. Click on images to enlarge.
You’re in a bit of a pinch, I won’t lie to you. Since the beginning of time (1971), the porn industry has been ruled by schlongs the size of Carmelo Anthony’s forearm and grapefruit-sized testicles that could be used as speed bags by a young Leon Spinks. But don’t despair, small-cocked-man: there’s always room for one more freak at the circus. If you’re willing to consign yourself to years of hard work and unrelenting dedication, there could be a slot for you, too. Let’s take a look.
Ed Powers. The most famous baby-dicked pornstar of all time, Powers made a name for himself in the late 1980’s as a producer of a series of gonzo-based vignettes, Bus Stop Tales, which featured him as a roving cameraman bent on seducing sweet young things in West LA. He took the charade one step further when he created the now-famous Dirty Debutantes series, where he made a habit of filming rising stars’ first scenes. By plying the actresses with double-portions of his own brand of avuncular schmaltz, the small-balled Jew with a ponytail soon nailed over a thousand beautiful 18-year-olds, reaping untold millions in the process.
The lesson here? If Ed, who no one in the entire universe really wants to watch fuck, can make it in porn, well, so can you - probably. The truth is, Ed’s got a certain magic about him, which maybe you don’t. Don’t start getting all cocky and think you’re Ed Powers, okay? Because that’ll ruin it.
America is sick - and I’m playing doctor for a day. No, that doesn’t mean I’m going to pull America’s pants down and try to sniff its butt crack; nor will I inspect it superficially for fifteen minutes, and then bill it for $950. It means I am going to fix things.
America’s main problem? An abiding love of compartmentalization. For example, we envision our Mr. Obama as principally a speech-maker and a hand-shaker. But the truth of the matter is that he is likely equal parts fart-maker and delicious-masturbation-taker.
Compartmentalization is a kind of hypocrisy. It is a kind of untruth. Most of all, compartmentalization is a denial of the diverse and often contradictory nature of humankind. For this reason, I prescribe more mixing.
Indeed: mixing. Let me elaborate. We’re all riveted by the NBA Western Conference Finals, right? It’s Carmelo vs. Kobe, a battle for the ages; and only inches away, courtside, you get the Laker Girls spinning dextrously on glimmering haunches designed by God and gift-wrapped in shimmering purple latex. Yet we get about seventeen televised seconds - max - of Laker Girls per playoff game. Even a seasoned wank specialist like myself can barely pull off an explosive, satisfying orgasm at that rate.
My suggestion? Upon completion of a crowd-pleasing alpha-play (such as a thunderous dunk or a murderous blocked shot, wherein the roundball is expelled from the court into the stands with a rousing, abusive smack, to be followed by a victorious testicular bellow and a clenched-fist-forearmed-stiff-twitch-of-the-pectorals) - it’s blowjob time. Lamar Odom + Latina Laker Girl + slobbering deepthroat action = ratings through the roof, not to mention a David Stern with a sufficiently more lubricated anus.
You spend hours of each day in your darkened, carpeted, suburban basement, hovering in front of a grimy PC with a handful of lemon-scented Jergen’s in one palm and a wadded lump of damp Kleenex in the other. Your neck’s tense and your eyes don’t blink - you’re a porn addict, hard-core, and there’s no changing you. But don’t despair, cousin; things have been worse! Here’s what’s AWESOME about your porn-drenched lifestyle:
- Thanks to recent developments in modern technology, your addiction costs a lot less than it did ten years ago, and is far easier to hide. Guys like you used to shell out $47.99 in “Sex Shoppes” for one measly, oversized, mammoth VHS copy of “Cheatin’ Hearts.” (Where do you put that so your wife doesn’t find it? In a drum of motor oil?) But now, unless you’re a total idiot, or hate having money, your entire collection’s probably built around mpegs and websites. The biggest problem you’ve got now is making sure your keyboard’s free of wayward shots of stringy, aged, yellowing jism. But that’s your deal and I can’t help you with that.
I’ve been reading a lot of Bill Simmons these days (”The Sports Guy” from ESPN). He can rock a column like no one I’ve seen since Hunter S. Thompson or Chuck Klosterman, and the beauty of it is, I don’t really care what he’s writing about. Yes, I’m partially fixated on his columns about the NBA because I’m a rabid basketball fan, but while I hate both football and baseball, I find that when Simmons is writing about them, I’m nonetheless totally interested. Some people are just geniuses like that. Hunter Thompson’s book on the 1972 McGovern campaign made me a political junkie for a few weeks, when in my real life, it’s something I basically can’t stand to even speak about.
Recently, one Simmons column featured an extended email-engagement with author Malcolm Gladwell (”The Tipping Point” and “Outliers”). Their debate focused upon a group of celebrity athletes whom Simmons had identified as the opposite of Gladwell’s “Outliers:” in his words, “Inliers.” Allow me to quote:
“In “Outliers,” your thesis was that success wasn’t as random as people seem to think, and that outside factors play a much bigger role than we realize. I thoroughly enjoyed the book even if you totally missed an obvious chapter: How the dawn of the Internet made Anna Kournikova about three times as wealthy as she would have been had she broken onto the tennis scene 10 years earlier. Does she bank $50 million in endorsements without horny teenagers Googling her? No way. . . I also think you should have done Donna Summer, Scooby-Doo and Jerry Seinfeld chapters.
My idea for the sequel? “Inliers.” Not as catchy, and it kind of sounds like a bad George Clooney movie, but bear with me.
