Isiah Thomas shifts his eyes in a deceiving fashion, carefully watching his enemies plot his assassination.

Stephon Marbury blinks, letting darkness engulf his defeated soul.

Renaldo Balkman’s braids yearn to bounce to the tune of another conductor.

Malik Rose dies a little more as sweat pours from his brow.

The Knicks lose to the Celtics, 104-59.

This is the end.

With only one season left before they move into their new digs at the alright sounding but terribly spelled CitiField, the Mets will be wearing the design above on a patch to commemorate 45 years at Shea Stadium.

I’m a Mets fan, but wouldn’t this be like Jesus Christ giving high fives and celebrating his three hours on the crucifix, or Elie Wiesel cherishing those fab moments in the Nazi concentration camps?

Oh, Shea had its charms of course. The cheap tickets, sausage and peppers, and beat-up home run apple were certainly all the tits. But, in reality, Shea was like a mustache grown to be ironic. The only reason we lavished it with praise was because we knew it was actually a shitty place. So bad it was good. A loveable loser of stadiums. You get the point.

I’ll miss Shea — a clusterfuck of concrete, paint and piss — but I’m definitely ready for CitiField.

Must-read of the week:

A great example of sports writing, and simply just a great, great read. It’s going to be hard not to root for Dirk Nowitzki and the Mavericks after reading this.

The piece goes from last season’s heartbreak to the beginnings of Nowitzki’s basketball career and back to the future. With passages like the following, how can you resist?

“Geschwinder approached basketball with the frenzy of a mad scientist. Using calculus and physics and factoring in Nowitzki’s height, he calculated the “optimal angle” Nowitzki should shoot the ball from, encouraging him to shoot a high-arching rainbow shot, releasing the ball high above his head. Every morning before school, Nowitzki would take 500 of these shots. He also made him do his push-ups from the tips of his fingers so the ball would leave his hands at “sub-optimal” velocity.

A basketball team was like a good jazz band, he told Nowitzki. Some players were virtuosos, and others were specialists, but to make good music they all had to know their parts and play them well. Sooner or later, everyone would have to step up and play a solo, and the others would fade into the background. He had Nowitzki learn to play the saxophone to reinforce this principle.”

That’s just a fraction of the greatness in here. Please read and leave a comment.

I wear Zubaz. You wear Zubaz. I’m pretty sure Conan O’Brien wears Zubaz. We know cool people wear Zubaz, but we could not confirm bonafide American heroes wear Zubaz. Until now. Frank Reich played 13 NFL seasons for Buffalo, Carolina, Detroit and the NY Jets. He earned his dollop of fame during his run as Jim Kelly’s back up during Buffalo’s Super Bowl also-ran run. In college, he quarterbacked the University of Maryland to overcome a 31-point deficit against the U in 1984 for the greatest comeback in college football history. Did his Christian faith inspire Reich to victory? Was it his thick, lustrious hair? Nobody knew, until now. (more…)

Notre Dame Head Coach Charlie Weiss moments after finishing 3-9 — the worst record in the history of Notre Dame religious fanaticism.

What a sick, sick, sick individual Charlie has come amidst the losing.

Bill Parcells has done it again.

He has systematically revived a losing team and left it on the verge of greatness.

Herm Edwards was the beneficiary in New York and this time around it is Wade Phillips in Dallas.

Me, I am about finishing the job once it has started, so this Pacellsian logic is way beyond my grasp.

Duane Charles wastes all his god damn time metaphorically jacking off (blank) franchise — really working up a lather upon his Jersey brow by drafting the players and hammering out the foundation for a fresh system. He probably develops an acute case of tendinitis in his elbow during the process, thereby taking it out on all the innocents that surround him. It is a pretty miserable existence if you ask me.

But since Parcells exhibits this trait in football, it leaves a gaping window of exploration and bounding hypotheses into his life off the gridiron.

In what other areas of life does he display such tendencies?

Taking a shit

After storming through a bread bowl of chili and cheese, Bill really feels the pressure mount upon his anus. He follows it up with a double shot of espresso and sits in a perverse doggy style manner upon the floor — allowing the gas to seep from the orifice deep beneath his starched, pressed khakis. As the turtle head starts to protrude and poke into his 1980s Hanes, his asshole just fucking shuts down code red style. The gates to the Willy Wonka’s chocolate paradise cannot be opened without a golden ticket. Enter Jason Garrett, the present day Charlie Bucket and a human mother fucking laxative.

Waiting in line at Six Flags

All fucking day you have been waiting in line to ride the newest “Cheat your fucking existence” ride at Six Flags. Parcells is there, wearing some fucking bogus shirt about his cock being able to penetrate a pussy better than the 3-4 defense penetrates an offensive line. Anyway, as you approach the front of the line, Parcells starts fucking whining about a fear of heights and all this bullshit. He demands a Chinese ransom of opium in order to board the ride. T.O. comes to Bill’s aid with a special blend of “My grandma was was fucking crazy” drugs.

Carving the turkey

Parcells has baked the bird all day. It is seasoned with a special bled of parmesano and oregano, lifting it to the ethereal level of a Dirty Jerz bird. Bill, equipped with Reebok oven mits, reaches for the oven door and just fucking stares at his reflection. Tears begin pouring down his face and he thinks of the millions of birds slaughtered each year. He then thinks of the thousands of Indians that were scalped and begins to crawl into the fetal position.

“SOMEONE CLEANSE ME OF THIS PAIN!” he screams as the bird blackens in the oven.

Doing a power hour

Parcells, equipped with a cooler pack of Coors Light bottles, starts shooting off at the mouth about Wichita State and all the bald beaver he ravaged there. The 59th song of the power hour, which is titled This Is the End Of The World As We Know It, begins to blare over the speakers. Parcells, clothed in a Giants sweater vest, climbs on the coffee table and starts nailing the verses.

The power hour begins to tick down.

5 … 4 … 3 …

** Parcells takes his fingers and jams them down his throat. Puke starts absolutely rocketing out of his mouth **

Aikman comes in and fills up two cups with the vomit, grabs a video camera and takes it to Arenz Battle’s house.

So, what other activities can you see Parcells exhibiting such cut-and-run behavior?

Thirty seconds of love, a day of pleasure.

That is how I feel about my long time lover: ESPN Sportscenter commercials.

Maybe it’s just me, but I love commercials. Shit, I actually make extra money on the side bootlegging them.

Love them so much I would rather watch commercials than the actual show. However, nothing waxes my surfboard like a great Sportscenter commercial.

These guy have taken self promotion to a whole notha level.

The only guys in the locker room with Sportscenter is the Cavemen and Gecko from Geico.

Seeing these commercials make me believe there is a fantasy land full of athletes. Where the Denver Nuggets are gold miners and the NY Knicks are janitors.

Here’s a personal favorite: Old Timer’s Day

Grandma you so crazy.

Ok here’s “The New Kid”

And to think we all went to college after High School.

Now, the all time best.

Who writes these things? I want them writing my wedding vows.

Let’s all dream that one day Sportscenter Land will become reality. Where Mickey is replaced by Babe Ruth, Minnie becomes Anna Kournikova, and Reggie Miller turns into Dumbo.

Bill Belichick walks the line against the Bills on Sunday night.

One Bills fan opposes the stalwart general, exhibiting the face of a man pushed beyond the edge of reason.

Belichick orders Randy Moss and Tom Brady to sink the knife deep into the young man’s radical heart.

This is a microcosm of everything, man.

Jets fans are a delicate breed.

Fueled by alcohol, viagra, gel and a strong inferiority complex, they create an Animal-House-like atmosphere at their home games.

The Gate D flashing tradition?

I participated in it back in 2003 during a Bills game, however, I was too obliterated to really remember any of it.

Well, The New York Times got a heady reporter on staff to take a plunge into the hedonist zone and come out with some quotes and descriptions to write a story on the male libido in action.

At halftime of the Jets’ home game against the Pittsburgh Steelers on Sunday, several hundred men lined one of Giants Stadium’s two pedestrian ramps at Gate D. Three deep in some areas, they whistled and jumped up and down. Then they began an obscenity-laced chant, demanding that the few women in the gathering expose their breasts.

Wait … tits, beer, Jersey / LI trash, a sputtering franchise, fucking L.A. Looks gel, Vinny still playing in the league, Namath sobered up, Brady fucking Andrea Kremer with his eyes … this doesn’t all add up to make perfect fucking sense?

Christ, why not just compare the scene in the ramps to Dante’s Inferno?

Anyway, here is some video evidence of the Gate D tradition.

Videos were stripped from youtube.

If you have one, we will gladly host it.

Or I will just get some hard evidence at the Browns game on Dec. 9.

Are we playing the Colts in Baltimore this year? I love crab soup.

I never trusted OJ. He called me a “honkey” once. I don’t even like country music. 

Maybe we should draft a fat Chinaman.

Somebody should draw Marv Levy a bath. He smells like mothballs and Fixodent.

Why do you keep calling me Grand Negus Zek?

I never appreciate those titter twisters from Jerry Jones.

I think President Hoover is doing an excellent job.