Jersey Boys Part 4: The Mamba's Revenge

(An Unexpectedly Happy Ending to Our Somewhat- Awaited Finale)

So you've all been waiting patiently like the good 'lil Bigmouth fanatics that you are, but fanatics get restless, as is their way. Where is the conclusion of this engaging opus on the state of Laker Fan-dom? What fate has befallen our courageous author on his quest to expose the very intricacies of this superfluous social quagmire?

Well truth be told,  your narrator has been doing what he's supposed to as a holier-than-those-guys Laker fan: watching the playoffs. It's hard to write when you're screaming at a flat screen; words fail as you monosyllabically high five your co-workers the following day in the elevator. And if honesty is your game, then try this jersey on for size: The original plan for this final piece was to blame Kobe Bryant for the bandwagon, the bro-sephs and the whole backwards affair.

But it can't be done. He won the MVP. He thanked his teammates ( whom he refers to as "The Bench Mob", which is a great nickname) in his speech after accepting that award. He jumped over a speeding Mazeratti in one YouTube video, and a pool full of dangerous snakes in another. He's gotten his own nickname, "The Black Mamba", because he's so dangerous in the fourth quarter. 

So what once seemed like such an easy equation (selfishly fickle superstar+fairweather fans= what the hell we've been blabbing about for four whole posts) now seems like a pretty big glass of Haterade. You win, Mamba. Now bring on the Celtics so we can make fun of those drunken chowderheads from Massachusetts.

Jersey Boys Part 3: Return of the Man-Children

(The End Draws Near)

The existence of such fairweather fans, while not forgiveable, is understandable. Why watch a struggling sports franchise when you could be enjoying your next door neighbor's star-making appearance on "Cops"? What is utterly incomprehensible to me, however, is how a so-called adult could willingly rock the uniform of a team he is not a part of while watching a sport he doesn't play.

There are t-shirts, hats, sweatshirts, sweatpants and a myriad of other options that display your team's emblem, sir. These items politely showcase your affection while still conveying that whole "grown-up" vibe that everybody seems so keen on these days. Give it a shot. You might find yourself looking remotely employable as a result.

The addition of these jersey boys to any social setting is much akin to the addition of the Ewoks in "Return of the Jedi"; although they're intended to be endearing, they're actually just really, really annoying. Children love Ewoks. And jerseys. And that's ok, because they don't know any better. Imagine if one of your friends told you that they realized as they got older that "Jedi" was their favorite "Star Wars" installment because of the Ewoks. How would you view your friend after that kind of comment?

Anthony Kiedis wears a Lakers jersey to games. Jack Nicholson doesn't. Case closed, amigos.

Jersey Boys Part 2: The Bandwagon Strikes Back

(Our Epic Saga Continues)

So here we have morons of every shape, size and color sporting a specific piece of athletic wear dyed in regal purple and brilliant gold. Although their surnames all differ, the handle on the back reliably reads, "Bryant"; the 2 and the 4 displayed prominently just below are also a given. Are they diehards? Kobe cultists? Over-enthusiastic supporters of the mesh tank-top? Our sideline reporter Amy Winehouse says no, no, no... then nods off in a junk-induced tv time-out.

What they are, in fact, are members of the Lakers Playoff Bandwagon, which unlike migratory birds, cannot be counted upon each spring. Their presence is as erratic as their gameday behavior at the local watering hole, and about as enjoyable to experience as a kick in the mouth with a golf shoe. You'll know them from true Laker fans when you see them, and you'll probably hear them calling Pau Gasol, "Paul" before that. These are the same residents of this fine city of angles that have no problem rooting for USC football and UCLA basketball simultaneously, because you can't have a favorite college team if you never went to one. These are the "proud" fans at Dodger stadium who throw beers at fathers and sons who happen to be wearing the visiting team's hat. They are, besides their beloved Kobe Bryant (who demanded to be moved so much and so often last summer that some people mistook him for Al Davis), the real reason why fans in every NBA city learn the "Beat L.A." chant at birth.

But never fear, faithful Laker supporters. Their joy, like their fanaticism, is fleeting. For how can you appreciate the success of a team if you've never experienced the sorrow of years past?

How do you rejoice over Robert Horry or Derek Fisher's three pointers if you've never witnessed a Van Exel brick? How do you delight in the grace of Pau Gasol when you've never cringed at the dreaded Divac flop? How can you chant "Kobe" when you've never cursed Kwame?

You cannot. Anyone who endured the Del Harris years will tell you that. So we will have our memories of the good, the bad, and the Vlade, and they will have their sleeveless shirts.

Jersey Boys

(A Bigmouth Special Report/Scintillating Sociological Discussion in Four Parts)

On a recent trip to Baja, my friends and I delighted each other by 1) Purchasing wrestling masks
2) Passing out Otter Pops to vendors as we waited at the border ('tis better to give, people, and infinitely more amusing,) and 3) Laughing our asses off at the Grownups Gone Wild shenanigans witnessed at the world famous Papas N Beer cantina in Ensenada. (Big Mouth Note: If your girlfriend goes on one of those 3 day cruises to Mexico, break up with her before she leaves. It'll save you both a LOT of trouble.)

My laughter came to a grinding halt, however, when I realized that 97% of the Sir Perv-a-lots in attendance at that god-awfully entertaining establishment were rocking Lakers jerseys and/or Dodger hats. I was initially perplexed as to the lack of Padres paraphernalia, given the proximity to San Diego, until I realized that all those idiots were probably attending a home game for said team in said city.

Then last night, while I was at the gym (rare occurence alert!) sweating my bald little brains out (everyday occurence alert!), I noticed many a meathead, broseph, and dude-brah sporting the legendary purple and gold as well. Now perhaps, beloved Big Mouth enthusiast, none of this strikes you as odd in the least. Fair enough. But to me this brings about two very disturbing trends, which will be discussed in a four-part post-ravaganza.

The bandwagon has rolled back into Los Angeles, and a bunch of neolithic man-children are celebrating it's arrival in uniforms for a sport they don't play.

I Love Dick

It is safe to say, dear reader, that I am a rather complicated man. One would only have to peruse the menagerie of topics and obsessions contained within these digital pages to figure that out. But the human dichotomy that is your narrator never gets weirder than this: Of all the lovable rogues in this strange and wondrous world of ours, none has a softer spot in my heart than the modern Darth Vader himself. Ladies and gentlemen, I am in love with Dick Cheney.

It sounds insane, I know. How could he, you ask yourself, and you would have every right. How could I indeed. Me, a Bush-hating, hemorrhaging-heart liberal whose brain has nearly blown a gasket after the last eight years of lies, war, torture, wire-tapping and other imperial nonsense of which Dick is the primary architect. But hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, and seeing as how I was previously obsessed with Saddam Hussein ( and Genghis Khan before that), it's pretty clear that I've got a thing for the bad boys.

Because if you play helpful co-dependant to Dick's abusive tyrant, he comes out looking like a badass. Let's review. He's had four heart attacks and is still alive. He talks in a kind of drunken Donald Duck voice where the first syllables of any answer he gives go "whah, whah whaaaaah". He was evacuated before the president on 9/11. The place to which they evacuated him is some kind of secret bunker that I'm fairly sure has a stripper pole and a bevy of flat screen tv's that show old John Wayne movies on a continuous loop. When told recently that 85% of the country currently opposed the war, his answer was, "So?" And finally, HE SHOT A GUY IN THE FACE, and THE GUY APOLOGIZED for HIS FACE being in the way of CHENEY'S GUN. The guy makes Chuck Liddell look like a Backstreet Boy. He should change his name to Dick Dreamy. Seriously.

So as happy as I am that Governor Bush and his cronies will be off drinking near-beer and snapping towels at each other far and away from our country's seat of power, I'm honestly gonna miss old Dick. Because the villain is always cooler than the hero, and Cheney is as skull-numbingly stone cold eveeeeeeel as we'll ever get in the White House. I guess I'll have to find a rebound dictator to help me get over it. Anybody have Kim Jong Il's number?

The Quote Jumble: Vegas Edition

(The Innaugural Edition of an as-of-yet non-recurring feature)

If you've said it once, you've said it a thousand times; nothing captures the spirit of a story like uncredited source quotes taken completely out of context. Well we here at Bigmouth agree wholeheartedly, and have chosen the occasion of a recent bachelor party in Las Vegas ( Perhaps attended by the author, perhaps not. What are you, a lawyer?) to use as a template upon which to focus that most magical of storytellers' lenses ( Whew. That was a long way to avoid a dangling participle.) Onward to the jumble!

"He said it would be weird being the only girl at dinner. I said it sounded like fun." "Dude! You're funny... we should do some illegal shit later on together." "What were you doing upstairs, extracurricular activities?" "Location?" "Is that the white Baron Davis?" "This is the first and last picture we're taking this weekend. Everybody clear on that?" "Are you in town for the construction convention?" "Bachelor parties are my specialty!" "Thanks for sniffing out the hooker for us." "No seriously. I can't be around any drugs or I could lose my job." "He's not the bachelor! He's already married!" "We stayed up all night and re-invented the wheel, at least three times." "I wasn't exactly sitting on a stack of Bibles when I met her." "A Mormon bachelorette party? Let's go steal their ginger ale." "Whoa, somebody call 911." "This techno music goes great with my irregular heartbeat." "I woke up last night and it took me two whole minutes to find my arms." "The hotel pool isn't the greatest place for a vison quest." "Jim Morrison and a naked indian should be here any minute." "How are things back in the Shire?" "Would you put your feet in my Ugg boots?" "I don't like you. You're funnier than me." "I don't think I have that in my fanny pack." "I know everything about Romania. I'll blow your mind." "It's a 15 minute loan! Fuck you guys!" "Let's make that magic happen now." "Somebody owes me $4.99." "I can sum this up in two words: Dudes and money." "Most forms of German food are phallic." "I bet her hair smells nice, too." "She was from Alaska? Did she have all her teeth?" "Oh look at my goth uniform, my life is so miserable." "I got a sack full of quarters right here. I'm gonna go down to Fremont and make it hail." "We need more dudes on this Dude Bus. Wait, we need new dudes!" "It's not Pac Man Jones, is it?" "What, I can't test out the merchandise?" "Bring me a helmet for these beers and then you can sit down." "I AM being gentle." "Marry you? I would never even date you!" "This town loves a sucker, and tonight that sucker is me." "Here comes the anxiety." "By the time we got home he'd already re-decorated the bathroom." "I've taken the day off tomorrow, for religious reasons."

Almost feel like you were there, don't ya? God bless you, quote jumble, and all who made you possible.

Yo Bama

(Big Mouth Note: Things are about to get political up in here. Proceed with caution, dear reader.)

Recently Bill Clinton made a statement referring to Barrack Obama as "America's imaginary hip black friend" and added that the country didn't need a fairytale like that in the White House. Poor Bill. He's in danger of being replaced as the country's first black president, and he knows it.

Of course, Bubba is right. We don't need an imaginary hip black friend. We need a real one. And as far as I can tell, Obama is that man. I would go as far as saying that EVERYONE needs a hip black friend, and the good ol' US&A is at the top of that list. Let's face it: we're lame. Unpopular.
Unfriendly. And so uncool. We're like Ned Flanders' alcoholic twin brother. Who the hell wants to hang out with THAT guy? Well the hip black guy still does, and he's got a makeover for you that just might work.

Your hip black friend can improve so many facets of your life. First and foremost, he makes you look cooler to everyone who sees you with him. If the United States walked into a club with Barrack Obama, the rest of the world would think, "Damn, that must be a pretty cool country if that guy's hanging out with him." It's called street cred, and it's something that a ball-busting woman and a fiery old man can't get you.

Secondly, your hip black friend can get you into places that you couldn't go to before. There's a whole world (more fried plantains, papi?) out there that the US doesn't know about because we essentially don't know the handshake at the door. Nobody wants the loudmouth capitalist pig ruining their exotic evening, and now they don't have to worry. "You're with him? Si papi, es bueno."

Finally, and most importantly, your hip black friend can get you laid. This is the inevitable combination of points 1 and 2, as long as you've paid close attention and learned something while hanging out with your new homey. We're in the position we are as a country right now because nobody wants to get into bed with us. This in turn makes us cranky and angry to the point that we end up lashing out at people who have nothing to do with us and our lonely little existence. It's the motivation behind every bar fight (or war) you've ever seen. The only dudes throwing down are the ones not getting any lovin (or oil).

So wake up America. There's a world party going on and you haven't been invited. But there's someone knocking at your door with an invitation in his pocket, and it reads, "Obama + 1". Barrack, let's rock.