Trunk Junk

Let me apologize for the intrusion, the inconvenience, the inconsistency, the malfeasance  even! It appears that I left a few items off the list of easy distractions from blogging duties. It seems that I am also easily swayed by: shiny ribbed leggings, The Chronicles of Narnia, unavoidable naps, nail lacquer and ugly Christmas sweaters.

Ugly Christmas Pose…Sweater, Too.

I did manage to watch the ugly shouldnta-loss to the Pistons last cold Thursday night, in the dim and, once again, soundless surroundings of a neighborhood bar. I may have been alone while Quadzilla got superdrunk with The Boys, but have no fear, I had the excellent company of $0.25 wings and 2fer taps and my still beautiful and shiny new lappy. Only for the second half, though, the first was spent running around like a chicken with my head cut off…pretty much the only way I can be persuaded to run around at all.

Just enough of a rather sloppily played game to feel pretty dismayed about the recent run of my dear, beloved Nugs. And I ain’t talking the kind you can get at any of the single medicial marijuana shops that have sprouted in L.A. so frequently that now they outnumber Starbucks and McDonald’s there…combined! (Thank you, NPR, this mention of how clearly you have enriched my life is my donation.)

According to a interview with the holiday-appropriate-portly Karl, the Nuggets are “a good team. Not a great team.” That may be Georgey Porgey, but it’s news to me. I recall a pretty great team last year. Now all you smarty, farty, basketball gurus can bite me. I saw them play, we were a rockstar second half team that new when it had to get it’s shit together and clinch a moral-boosting win in the end. That is just not what went down Thursday.

Shouting like a Mad Madame Mim in a bar that couldn’t have less to do with basketball, I made friends with Greasy Stranger At the Bar and he really like it when I called us a Second Half Team. But it’s true, we just need a good kick in the pants. But this go round, all we did was follow Melo around like tired, Billups-shot missing puppies. Spesh disappointing was the lapsed lay up by Mr. So-Called Big Shot. Pfff. Maybe the man just couldn’t quite stomach handing it to his old team the way he really needed to. Certainly not Mr. Big Chops. (We heart you Chauncey.)

Naturally, I missed that silly game against Phoenix, which we managed to actually win. I was too busy wearing shiny ribbed leggins, a glittery shirt and pearls to fall down on 7th and Clarkson. Best. Day. Ever.

I’d like to say that the following game that sport and it’s magnificent athletic specimen–spesh the glorious return of my be-tatted and beautiful favorite: Kenyon, pinky in tact–had all the attention and affection due their magnificent selves. However, in the interminable search for a bar that will allow me to have sound on what they see as an unimportant, insignificant game in a gagillion-game season, I ended up, shoes two feet from the edge of a bed-couch at a Polish bar/restaurant a few blocks from home with Boobs pretending to pay attention to the thrashing we were dealing OKC.

Now this was to be expected, as Boobs is one of my besties and we hardly see one another now that we are both busy and all married up with men folk. I think it says everything that needs to be said about this uneven match-up when Boobs said, “Since when did Oklahoma City get a basketball team? What, you just buy a team and then…you just have one?” And it’s true, I do not know how the magical birth of a basketball team comes to be. If i had a billion dollars could I buy a bunch of beautiful black men and a few lonely white ones, give em a snappy name like THUNDER and send em off to River City, IA, where I would plan to sustain their financial needs with spectacular displays of musical song and dance named after other small towns (Gary, IN, por example) and selling things off the Wells Fargo Wagon, since there wouldn’t be anyone there to go see my small-town wonders play roundball. They’d all be busy at the Hoosiers game.

But really, it was a game of little flair and much distance, for me. Literally, the television was hiked way to the high corner away from my red bed-couch. And I will leave you with this:

“Would you really want to have Oklahoma City across your shirt?” – Boobs


Prodigal Blogger

It’s snowing in WordPress! Has it really been that long? It’s like I hibernated through the Fall: I left blog in the gloaming tones of autumn and only returned in time for sub-zero temps of my very very least favorite season. Geez, Sleeping Beauty, why didn’t anyone wake me up?

Strange that there is snow in my blogosphere. I didn’t approve it. It must surely be the first snowfall that all the crazy widows and orphans of the intertubes have ever seen, sheltered as they are, cozy in their rambling blogs, entrance essays and last-minute E-Vites.

Widows and orphans, ob-v.

Speaking of widows and orphans, I can only assume that is what has become of my blog–abandoned and orphaned, so long has it been since I have visited. I am the dead beat Dad of the uninformed NBA blogging world. At least the club is an exclusive one. I would like to say I am more devoted.

I wish that I had the determination and focus of a dog with a bone, a mother whose child is in distress, those beefy women in Girls Just Want to Have Fun who rescue party invitations from under a car. I’d like to say that nothing can tear me away. However, in the spirit of the holidays, and therefore of honesty (That IS what Christmas and Hannukah and all are about right? Honesty? Truth? Not overeating and overspending and overindulging in the coat room of your company’s Christmas party?) here is a short list of the things that will, indeed, keep me away from this blog:

Friends, family, aeroplanes over the sea, brutal ear infections, The Tudors, vicodin, Chinese food, laundry, my second job, sleep, my cute boyfriend, PBR, my third job, Farmville, the broken E button on one of my keyboards, the smell of gasoline on my scarfWoot-offs, impromtu major hair changes, AAA, no sound in the bar, Christmas shopping, no visible power jack, terrible Matthew MaConaughey movies, balancing my checkXcellSheet and giant Mexican marshmellows.

Fist-sized mallows

Prescription: hilarity

Not to mention the truly unimpressive display of Nuggets basketball that led to a disappointing–to say the least–and an appalling and horrific–to say the most–lost to the Bobcats on Tuesday night. That’s right, after all the Psycho babble, I DO actually intend to over my very few pittences about basketball, whether you want them or not. After a shattering Monday evening, on which I made a huge blunder, misreading the time of a Nuggets game and, like a fool, a FOOL, opted instead to update the iTunes library on my uber-sexy new lappy with Rockn’ Mole. I took no small amount of flack from said Yeti, either. “Iverson only back once…kissing the floor…trusted you with the time…yada yada yada.” That is is tack: bully and mock until submission=lesson learned. I can’t wait for you to have children, Moley, Mole, Mole, Mole.

But I did agree that the event of my silly mistake–stupid even, if we must be so blunt–was a sad one. I was looking forward to my triumphant return, and had already missed so many gems of things to rip apart on my blog (tigerwoodsyouadultereryou, melowherewereyouforthatgameagainsttheVikings, Birdmanpleaseshaveoffyourmustacheyouarecreepingoutthechildrenandspreadingmorefearthanwings), and, after a week away and a week bedridden as Yao in the 2008-2009 season, I really wanted to get back in the game, so to speak.

I did manage to make it to a dark, loud and distant-screened bar in time to see most of the game after the 1st quarter against the Bobbies. However, between the viewing handicaps, the car trouble and trips out to meet Triple A, the stress tears and subsequent Irish coffees, little quality viewing was done. However, even the dad, we will call him PJ for the sake of his privacy and esteem in his local communities, who is no fan of the NBA knew enough to say that we Nuggets had no business losing to “those jokers.” Amen, PJ, amen.

For the sake of time I must end my rant there, with little original commentary on the two-days-ago game, and one last gift to scout, I must be out. But let this blog be a show of good faith: Elvis is back in the building.

Turkey Talk

Sorry for the long break! The holidays have gotten time away from me…and a little away from the Nuggies as well, judging by the tragic loss to the Clippers.

Take solace in the decisive wins that have taken place since. We made the Timberwolves howl and handed it to the Nets (and let’s be serious, the only that would’ve been more depressing that the loss to the Clips would’ve been a loss to the Nets. That would’ve handed us our pride in a puddle.

That doesn’t make too much sense, however, this is sort of an off-the-cuff, less planned sorta post. Mostly to say that, I do intend to keep this going, for all my fine feathered fans, and I will resume, with my normal incisive wit and sharp basketballian analysis.

After the turkey coma.

Until we meet again, my pretties.

Kareem Abdul Jabber

A Photo of My Old Mom

An Old Photo of Abdul Jabbar


You can see the resemblance, right? That isn’t all they have in common. They’re both famous. They’re both Hall of Fame NBA players. Ok, that’s not true, but that’s not really my mom, either.

But what IS true is that Kareem Abdul Jabbar speaks on NPR, and my mom listens to NPR. That makes her a qualified commentator, doesn’t it? My mom (whose likeness does resemble this one in that she is pretty, brunette, has a toothy smile and just screams pro-sports fan) gets to hear all about my life. All about it. Triple how much I ramble about myself here and you may have a drop in the bucket of how much I jabber at my mother. So, naturally, I felt the need to share with her the greatest news in the world!:
Today’s a good day for lying, no?
But what I did tell her was that I was actually at the sold out Lakers/Nuggets game at the Pepsi Center Friday night. Being less than dedicated fans (evident in the infrequent blogging), we missed the line-up-at-dawn opportunity to snag 5 dolla tickets the day of the game and were left looking at single seats for nearly 50 bones, standing room only tickets, or sad mugs and mugs of beer at a bar. Luckily, The Ham manned up and we went for the SRO and stood for more than two hours in the handicapped aisle behind all the wheelchairs. Now, this carries the risk of sore feet and the horrific possibility that I will spill an entire beer on a cripple (This nearly happened, actually, my clumsiness is nearly a handicap of its own, these days.), but you’re nearly on the court, the bathrooms and concessions are but a few gallops away and you get to stash your stuff under a wheelchair. Pret-ty sweet.
CBG: It was so fun, even though we had to stand, we didn’t mind.
Mama: Because you could spin the people in front of you around during the game?
But seriously, being at a live game, especially one where my team is executing a team as vile as the Lakers, exorcising a bitter loss in the semi-finals last year and solidifying our status as a team to reckon with. The stadium was thundering. For all the Benedict Arnold Laker fans in Denver who showed up decked in their garish purple and gold (are there were loads), we sure rattled the roof offa that center.
M: I think they have a chance this year.
CBG: What? Who?
M: The Lakers.
CBG: What? Are you directly quoting Kareem Abdul Jabbar?
M: He thinks they have a chance.
CBG: Of course they do, Mom, they’re the Lakers, they’re defending champs. But Kobe didn’t even play in the fourth.
M: And who does he play for?
CBG: The Lakers, mom.
And indeed, KAJ does think they Lakers are in good standing to repeat. But you can’t believe everything Kareem Abdul Jabbar tells you, even if he is well-spoken and one of the greatest players of all time and diagnosed with leukemia. (We’re rooting for you KAJ, BTW.)

He may have a pretty face, but it masks the face of a devil!

In case you all are even less impressive Nuggets fans than myself, I will go ahead and tell you: we ran the Lakers’ asses off, we came after them, picked their asses up and handed them back to ’em. That nasty man Kobe didn’t even make an appearance in the 4th, taking a seat with the rest of the Laker starters for a nice leisurely ride along the bench while we served it up to their second string.

Noting that the Lakers loss last year on our longest playoff run since I have been around (born?) is fuel for the Nuggets’ fire, George Karl gave this quote to, “‘Everybody got a taste of the wine or the food that we all like,’ Denver coach George Karl said. ‘It’s a special taste.'” Oh, George, you are so articulate. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

But it was not just the fearsome intensity with which we brought the game that got us there Friday night, nor the lingering absence of Pau Gasol for the Lakers but a back-to-himself showing on the part of J.R., whom the hometown welcomed like a war hero/sexy vampire heart-throb and a massive performance by our fabulous and personal favorite for Rookie of the Year, Ty Lawson. Less-than-tall Ty has proven to be one of the greatest catches of the rookie batch, chasing after preternaturally good and undeniably unattractive Brandon Jennings (who slammed down 55 points in one game over the weekend, if the message hadn’t been clear enough already) with a fantastic performance and a dunk–Lawson is 5’10? 5’11?–that got my up on my feet. Oh, wait…I was already on my feet. But as you can imagine, this is where the beer entertained spilling on the aging lady in front of me.

Awesome Lawson (for UNC..barf)

He is small but mighty and I love him despite his attachments to UNC, a natural-born enemy to the Jayhawk, though some coaches like to think that the people they abandoned in Lawrence have forgiven them. Come on, Roy. So you conflicted with some people at KU? So you dad and your sister were in poor health in NC? Wah wah, some things are bigger than ourselves. This is BASKETBALL we are talking here!

Where is the sarcasm font when you need one?
But, really, in the spirit of my two favorite teams being pitted against two defending champions in two boiling rivalries (one long-standing and one only growing–we’re lookin at you, Jackson) I look forward to the opportunity to face off again against both UNC and the Lakers (not facing the Nuggets again till February), possibly challenge them in post-season play and maybe, just maybe, bring to life last year’s dream of a home-made T-shirt that shows Kobe’s creepy face and reads “Where’s the beef?” Or, “Beef, it’s what’s for dinner!” Or is that too abstruse for the NBA?
Anyhow, tonight showdowns on both the fronts: Kansas v. Memphis, a game that we will surely not deliver with a 36-pt slaying as we did with Hofstra Friday night, and the Raptors at the Nuggets, a game that, if history repeats itself, is destined to be a whooping.

 Only down side? NBA at 7, NCAA at 8, GWD at 8. So much round ball, so little time. What’s a Celebrity Ball Girl to do?

Prom Puppies


Kid n' Player

Dear Basketball Diary,

Pardon the tear stained pages, it has been a rough few days. I try to keep the crying to my bedroom, the shower, long highway drives and bathroom stalls, but sometimes I am just too overcome. The whole office doesn’t know what to do with me weeping in my cube.

This is just like the time I didn’t get invited to the prom.


Sorta like this sad prom-goer, only more tragic. (Funny how everyone has the same tacky living room furniture in at least one dance picture, right? Barf-colored florals and taffeta. Sigh)

I had a great plan: witty lines, glittering smiles…a pink outfit. But, just like that fateful day in 2001 when I DIDN’T have a date cop a feel while trying to pin a corsage that I didn’t get onto the dress that I didn’t get to wear, Wednesday night ended in disappointment, heartbreak and chicken wings.

And I was gonna lay one on ya’ll bout how, though no good luck charm is perfect, it was pretty darn clear that the Nuggets do better when I am around. They are improved by my presence (if only figurative, over-the-airwaves-backwards presence). Then we were both going to laugh and I was going to add, “As most men are,” and then clench my teeth together and laugh with my nostrils flaring and jab you in the ribs with my elbow. It was gonna be priceless.


Tragic like this, only not a biological male, right?

But no. I have been robbed. And I do consider this loss to the Bucks a larceny, a petty, petty larceny. Who are the Bucks anyway? If it weren’t for sometimes-flat-topped, horse-faced and grimacing but undeniably freaking good Brandon Jennings, would we even know who the Bucks were and where they came from? I know I’d hear Buck and think broncos and 6 pronged deer faces.

But for the time being, they are the team the Nuggets chased like jumpy amateurs for 2 hours Wednesday night, missing easy lay-ups, dishing out lazy D and forgetting, it seems, that if you are down in the second, you should make BOTH your frees. CoughBirdmanCoughCough.

Of course, in my desperate attempt to make a real, readable biz of this feeble little blog–and in my current and naggingly consistent poor, cableless state, the Bucks Nuggs showdown found me seated alone at a bar. A Redwings bar at that, but they have a good happy hour special. A chubby grey-haired thing in a stripey shirt feels the need to give commentary on the Nuggets’ controversial victory over the Bulls the night before. He has no problem with the white-knuckled hail Mary shot in the final tinypartofasecond but takes issue with the foul itself. I personally see the controversy as more like, should we have won when that shot was not in time? Or should we have won .39722123 seconds before that when time would’ve run out if not for the slow fingers of the hometown officials. The Bulls had to foul or eat an easy 2. Kirk Heinrich himself would’ve called it a foul. I know, he is a good Kansas boy, if a tall Lurch-y one. Shut your pie hole and get back to the puck, guy, some of us are here for TODAY’s game.


Holy crap this dog is cute. Apparently, it had a sad prom, too.

Some of us are here, at a bar, alone…again. Is there such a thing as becoming and NBAlcoholic? Could it be that, years from now, when I am all sallow and sagging, psoriatic, having lost love, loot and lively hood to the drink, I will look back and say, “I blame in on the NBA?” Nah, that won’t happen to me. I’m only gonna do meth once. I’m not going to end up like that guy. But, it does dawn on me that with all the money that I spend at bars feeding my need for sweaty athletes palming their balls, I might actually pay for a monthly cable hook up. I ponder this. But it would give me so much less material. I would no longer be able to conjure up the sexy and citeably credible image of a sad, drunk girl, shoveling Buffalo wings into her face like a little piggy (or a not so little one) and grunting with frustration as we waste yet another possession in a game against a young, spunky team that isn’t gonna let us get away with THAT. Melo, Chauncey, we are lookin at you.

The spirit was low, that is for sure. Wednesday’s game had me feeling like the Bucks had rode us hard and put us away wet. We did avoid a total spanking, and, on occasion, the Bucks seemed like they were gonna take a dip into the dark side. Halfway through the 2nd, a nameless Buckaneer (I couldn’t pay attention to the names I was so blinded by the hideous jerseys) threw a bounce pass that was straight out of my 4th grade four square championship. And, if my 4th grade memory serves, his behavior looked a lot like a temper tantrum. Or maybe he had some kinda elbow twitch. You know I don’t know jack about this game.

In the end, the highlight of the game for me was the fisticiffs I almost got into with a old gal at the bar who hadn’t a shine to my funfun game time antics. She and her other time-pudged and jeweled-shirted friends were having a little chat and gaping at the only gal at the sports watering hole to actually WATCH a sport. Naturally, the best choice was to catch her eye, pop a googly eye at her and drop my jaw like a bomb. I do so love mocking lesser-than me, middle aged, hater women.

She told me I was doing great, she loved me. I think she might have been facetious. But you know what they say, many a truth…

Anyhow, apologies for the delay in posting. It is worth noting that I have been so scatterbrained lately that yesterday I put my cellular telephone in the freezer. For two hours. Don’t even ask.

I do so hope you enjoyed the visit. Please, come again. Features and fun to follow. I may not be an athletic scholar, but I am a card. If you don’t agree, well…In the immortal words of Off The Record: Everyone in the world is an idiot, except me and you.

Like It’s The Very First Time


Not This Time, Bull-er-oo

So, it’s official. I matter. I am important. Shiny and important. And not just to all of the adoring fans and melting groupies that know me in real life either. I don’t even notice their drool anymore. No, this time my influence has stretched to affect some people whose own importance matters to me.

I matter to the Denver Nuggets.

Now, now, before all the eye-rolling, superstition-slapping, positive-thinking poo-pooing begins, let me just say. I had been a failing fan and a below-par blogger (note: this is my FIRST basketblog, 8 games into the season, for shame) for the last days and weeks, missing the two games before this Nail Biting Action (NBA, for short–baddum-ching!). I had managed to watch at least part of all the prior match-ups and the Mile High guys had come out on top. With me missing, the momentum was shot. Consider Tuesday night my triumphant return and that for the Nuggies, even if only by a hair.

It felt good to be back, and I know my boys could feel it, too. They get my vibe.

And let me be upfront about this: vibe is what I got. As a part of my inaugral blog, it seems only natural that mention the mission of said useless, anonymous internet blabber: to talk about basketball, the men who play it, the fans who witness it, the friends who support it and inform it, the family who loves or hates it, and the girl who likes it. That would be me. I dig the roundball. Don’t let this be confused for having anything prescient, insightful or even technically correct to offer. This is strictly for fun, should not be considered direct advice, should not be the basis of any argument, should not be followed to the letter and should not be tried at home.

Naturally, this means that this particular girl ball will mean the Nuggets and–though fairly enough, this blog will have far more NBA chatter, as there is just more NBArtifacts floating around on the interwebs, on the airwaves and in my personal circle–the Kansas Jayhawks. If you find that biased and unfair. You’re right. Go cry to your own local blogger, we here at SheBall do not give a shit. I watch what I want and say what I will. You will have to find the focused and detailed analysis of the hairstyles and tattoos on the Knicks players somewhere else. Though it should be stated that we also do not advise you give a shit about the Knicks.

So here’s to you Creepy Architect Guy, I AM going to report on a game that I, as you so debonairly put it, I know nothing about. I’m crushed you left without asking for my phone number, but if you would like Booze Hound’s (you did seem awfully keen on him), I would be happy to give it to you. That way you can stick him in a hole in your basement and spray him with a hose. I encourage it. 

But back to the Bulls. Tuesday night’s game was one of mixed emotions for me. I laughed, I cried, I sat alone 2.2 feet from a big screen TV with no sound, and I screeched like a banshee, frightening all The Geeks Who Drink And Do Not Like Basketball. I mean really, is it so hard to believe that one girl could take incredible pride on naming Alberto Gonzalez on the visual “Serial Killers” round AND loves sporting events? Sheesh. And to think I really thought that, after the miraculous Nugg win and all (and the random and fortuituous SMS from Lurlene that read “Sloth Love Chunk” and thence became our team name), we would break our weekly 8th place barrier and rock the shit outta trivia. Instead, it was our worst week ever. However, as some small solace, let me say that we made the photo gallery for last week, when we still reigned great at eighth: Say Cheese! Just try and guess which smiling face, bedenimed crotch or kicky leg is me, sports fans.

But, again, I digress. (Get used to it, distraction and meaningless amusement is my bread and butta.) So, there I sat 13 inches from the fuzzy Park Tavern low-D cable, swilling cheap crappy beer, furiously thumbing notes into my smartphone and wishing to heck that there was someone with me to give a J.R. high five. I missed that angry little man. So what if he killed his friend driving recklessly? Surely a 7-game penalty is sufficient penance for vehicular manslaughter. Right. Right? But in all seriousness, I love the little man’s tattooed visage and his clutch jump. There is just one little problem. It seemed Smith’s shootin hand was just a little rusty. He didn’t have that normal J.R.–or is it Earl?–flair that I have come to expect. I mean, where was the jersey tugging? The big balls dance? But we can’t hold it against the man too much, his first game back played in a thundering United Center after 2 consecutive losses. I know that one of my favorite players will come back to his glittery, 3-point shootin, crazy car-drivin’ self in no time.

To better my mood further? Carter no starter. I don’t have any hate for the dopey-eyed point gaurd. But I have to say: the useless turd is just NOT Nuggets caliber. Instead, I was pleased and plum when our rockin’ rookie Arron Afflalo got to bring all his b-ball skills right from the jump, straight outta Compton. I am wooed by our strong freshman-year boys, confident that the future of the Nuggets may hold the kind of talent that we have in the present: beautiful, young, ball-handlin’ talent. If ya know what I mean.

But for all the good signage, the 10 pt. lead at the quarter, it seemed that those darn Chicago ballers were gonna bully us to the last. Initially, the Bulls’ tight, fast-paced offense looked like it would get the better of us. Now I don’t know bunk about basketball plays, but I know those boys had that ball dinging around the Nuggs like pinball wizards. But we respond well to pressure, we kept it up, pulled away…fell back…pulled ahead…

And we all know how it ended. Rockin’ Mole tells me, in his expert b-ball opinion, that the play should’ve ended after the sandbagged freethrow–and in his defense, I have since read that, on average, a rebound recovery takes .5 seconds–but I didn’t know this at the time. I didn’t know shit at the time except that I was surrounded by nerds completely oblivious to the Mario Chalmers-esque miracle shot that might have ruined my theory that it is my presence and fandom that makes or breaks games for this Denver team. The Ham and I shrieked (I think he may have dropped a double-digit-decible F bomb or two, actually) and sat down, dejected at the table that we thought would witness one sad, unbelievable loss. (It did, later, as we achieved the lowest score in trivia in recent Abullah Ab-Don’t-Lah history, but that’s another story.) It appears, after three hundred and twenty-four view of The Shot, that, indeed, our friend Williams Miller couldn’t get his hands off his balls before the buzzer. And thank goodness, those Bulls fans were rattling like Chicago itself was riding on the game. Then their faces fell, as the reality of their impending slavery to Denver Superiority set in. Thank goodness for slow-mo instant replay, right, Derrick Rose? You might be good, but time is on our side. That is what you get for showing so much perfectly scultped side-boob Joakim Noah. Everyone elses jerseys fit snugly over their man-breasts, why can’t yours? Geez, what do you think the NBA is? Cheap entertainment? Fast-paced aggression and an excuse to shake smooth skin at eager audience members? No, sir. Not this sport.

Lastly, I will leave my adoring someday-to-be readers with a photo montage I like to call: Flustered and Harried: Hair Don’ts According to the NBA. Even YOU can pull this euro-mullet-hawk hybrid, Birdman, you silly rabbit. Trim it up. Salmons, what were you THINKING with that long goatee?! One fierce jump ball rumble and boyfriend gonna get that face-pube snagged…Ouch! Andrei…really? REALLY? And Dirk? ‘Nough said, you shaggy bastard. You may LIKE to date trashy criminals, but you don’t have to LOOK like one. Sheesh.

Chauncey, I love you, but don’t think that ratty facial hair slipped past me. You appear to have eluded the photography cameras and I am not allowed to upload video. You’re safe. For now.