Where In Blogosphere is Ivan B ???

Andy Horwitz

What am I doing here? I have a pre-imminent retro date with a snow bank off of I-90. Why am I smoking and drinking, simultaneously watching one monitor of the Tight White Right Alito coverage and another of the Suns beating the crap out of the Laker’s? You can still find dive bars like WEED’S, a stone’s throw from Steppenwolf here in Chi-town. Not the case in Manhattan. Despite the seedy appeal of my present environs, I hate most sports almost as much as I hate Fox News . . . yet here I sit.

American political ears only burn when it comes time to elect a President. Unless, of course, you are Gay or Christian. Then yours might get pricked up when someone on the Supreme Court dies leaving you to vie for Jane Roe or Henry Wade or Harvey Milk, depending on your disposition.

Appointments to the Supreme Court seem to be the last throwback to the Royalism of our European Forefathers. You maybe get the same reverse feeling as when going to see a play in London and you have to pay for programs or matches when you buy cigarettes or packets of ketchup at Mickie D’s . . . these things we all take for granted here.

Then there is Steve Nash, a late blooming Canadian star-athlete whose politics are as agreeable as his skizelles on the court. The only reason I notice this guy is because he used to play for the Spurs, JackDaniel’s™ favorite college b-ball franchise. Regardless, Texas has been doing well recently as her Away Message can attest: “How does it feel having a Longhorn’s penis in your mouth?”

Nash is also a short white guy, which might also be giving rise to my sudden bicameral political/sports fetish. Or maybe its the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson pulling me out of my Prozac induced slave mentality . . . forcing me to question not only my own complacency but yo ass as well. Yes YOU muthafuka . . .

Unplug your iPod, put down the pipe and stop sweating your neighbor’s car or your parents’ lifestyle that is inextricably linked to the pros & cons of whatever ethnicity with which you are cursed. Shaq’s knees are toast and Kobe is all alone out there, now having graduated from the Sports Section. Obey Your Thirst has a whole new meaning, huh? Hope your making lots of cake so you can fly your teenage daughter to Europe to score some RU-486.

OK, Boppers let’s get down to it . . .

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3 responses to “Where In Blogosphere is Ivan B ???”

  1. JackDaniels

    Ivan is clearly disconnected from the sports world, but it was a nice try.

    I feel the need to set a few things straight:

    Steve Nash did indeed play for the San Antonio Spurs. They are however, NOT a college basketball team, they are the best team in the NBA, they will be repeating their championship performance this year or I am out $600.

    Furthermore, the Spurs are totally not connected to the University of Texas Longhorn football team, who recently beat USC in the Rose Bowl to become the national champions, hence the longhorn penis in your mouth comment.

    Rather than bet money for that one, I instead put my dignity on the line and bet a couple of guys who went to USC that if their team won I would wear a USC cheerleader outfit to law school for a day. If Texas won, they each had to eat a bull’s penis…it was a glorious victory thanks to Vince Young (watch for him in the NFL next year) and honestly, there isn’t much that compares to watching two guys eat STEAMED bull dick covered in miso sauce.

    Just wanted to clarify a couple of errors. Ivan, the blog is great…but stay away from sports references or check out EPSN first.

    Reply
  2. USvsThem

    To JackDaniels

    No one who reads culturebot cares about college basketball

    No offense…

    To Ivan

    I heart you

    Reply
  3. Ivan

    You think you’re starting to get better — I mean you really fucking do. You take the fucking pills and you go to the VA — I go there. I share. I got a sponsor. I facilitate the cirlce on fucking Thursday nights. I got a chip. I got five fucking chips. I tell the brothers and the psycho chick and the old guy with the metal plate in his head — I tell them all about the mass graves, and the torture and the school bus we accidentally blew up — on the road there — from — you know — and those women and children — all those brown crispy babies laid out on plastic — and how I didn’t fucking care — not one moment, no fucking way I’m letting that choke well up in my fucking throat — no you’re not ever going to see me shed a fucking tear in public. No fucking way. Puts you at way too much personal risk out there. And I even tell the group about Freckles Murphy. I tell them all about Freckles Murphy and the faulty rocket launcher that took off his fucking face and how it landed in my fucking lap and sure — you can laugh — laughabout his face — about I laugh. It’s better than — than this fucking — the fucking alternative — I mean, you got no idea, man. Yeah yeah yeah. Whatever. You have no fucking idea. Freckles gets his face blown off — and — and — what, I’m thinking about national health care? I’m bitching about the State of the Union address? You know what I am thinking about. Yeah yeah. Whatever. Listen to me. I mean really listen: I’m talking about his face, not his head, but the actual skin of his face, the mug, the countenance, sitting right there on my lap, staring up at me with eye holes but no eyes, lips but no teeth, like I’m in some fucking Greek tragedy with no people, just masks. Only Freckles is still alive right — he’s screaming with just this red pulp for a head — trying to get me to put the face — the flesh — back on him. But the guy I know as Freckles — at least the Freckles I recognize as the one I’ve been fucking for six months — he’s sitting on my lap. This other guy coming at me, screaming at me –screaming with such rage and fear — he’s some fucking — I mean which one is it? Which one do you care about — when you go back to your safe little domestic nest — do you care about the person or the face. When you’re fucking somebody are you fucking the face or the — the –pulp. When you look at yourself in the fucking mirror is it the pulp or the face that you recognize as your true self???

    – the character of the Army Deserter from THE PUZZLE LOCKER by W. David Hancock

    Reply

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