Fuck Sasha Vujacic

Hey, I'm live-blogging my post-game misery after Sasha "Slavic Shithead" Vujacic hit a completely meaningless three-pointer with about 0.3 of a second left in the Spurs-Lakers game tonight! Why do I care so much, other than the fact that committing such an act when your team is already safe atop the summit of victory mountain is stupid and tactless and should be punishable by death? Well, I bet on the Spurs +7.5 and Sasha's pointless summertime hijinks heave gave the Lakers an 8-point margin of victory.

I should point out that the line for the game actually opened up at +8, meaning if I had put my bet in earlier, I would have at least pushed (broke even). Now, allow me to recap some notable moments in tonight's game...

So the Spurs come out guns blazing and jump to a 17-point lead in the second quarter (covering by 24.5 points)... I'm all smiles ready to change the channel, talking about how I should have bet moneyline, no way the Spurs are going to lose this series 4-1! (even though in the back of my mind I know it's too good to be true and somehow I'll get screwed over).

Then the 2nd half meltdown begins, the type of fall from grace that the Spurs were no stranger to during the course of their playoff run. Kobe Bryant proving once again how dominant he is, automatic at the line, getting to the rim at will, not missing a shot, and when he rarely did, it would be in-and-out, probably a deliberate miss to ward off suspicion that he's half-god. Parker and Ginobili not making their presence known at all. Tim Duncan looking like a bow-legged retard at the line.

Fast forward to the last minute of the game. Spurs coming back from timeout with possession and desperately need a big three. Who better to go to than Brent Barry, who, in spite of his teammates' subpar performance, has been letting it rain throughout the night. Pass inbounded to... Duncan? Duncan... shoots a three? As you may have guessed, the ball did not manage to find its way through the basket. It wasn't so much a brick as it was a fucking cinder block. I could have made a more accurate shot from where I was sitting 3,000 miles away.

That brings us to intentional foul time. So that bullshit transpires and leaves the Lakers with an 8-point lead with seconds left... the first time the entire game that they've covered the spread. I'm ready to accept defeat when Tony Parker charges down the court and tosses up a 3-ball to cut the Laker lead to 5 with maybe 4 seconds on the clock. Holy shit! I'm gonna cover! My friend Skunk (who also got action on the Spurs) and I are going nuts dancing around the room. The Lakers inbound the ball, dribble it for a few seconds, and proceed to celebrate their great series-clinching comeback to send them to the NBA finals, right? Nope. Instead, Kobe Bryant is fouled by about 29 Spurs players (no call) and launches the ball downcourt to Sasha Vujacic, who, with literally less than a second left in the game his team up by 5, decides to shoot a three... a shot that goes in even though Vujacic is what Michael Boulton might describe as a "no-talent assclown" with a career average 5.2 ppg.

The clock runs out and the Lakers win 100-92. With that single unnecessary shot, millions of dollars across America suddenly change direction. One guy on a sports betting message board suggested that there were some courtside gamblers yelling "Just shoot it, Sasha! I got money on it!" Possible, though I think the more likely scenario is that he's just a stupid asshole who independently made a stupid asshole decision.

Good job Spurs. At this point it feels like you've been winning championships every other year ever since Dr. James Naismith nailed a peach basket to a wall. Maybe win two in a row some time?

EDIT: In the comments section, somebody noted that Sasha did it for the fans, since if the Lakers score at least 100 points and the Spurs don't, everybody in attendance gets two free Jack In The Box tacos. If that's the case, I hope Jack Nicholson's contain rotten beef (should he, with his millions of dollars, decide to use a coupon for two free tacos). I like him as an actor, but I don't need to see a shot of him standing up clapping after Kobe hits a jumper. Sit the fuck down and take your sunglasses off, you're indoors and you're not as cool as you think.

Dinner Conversation Revolves Around Mashed Potatoes For Over 15 Minutes

PORT JEFFERSON, NY -- With the table conversation quickly running dry at the Johannigans family Easter dinner, somebody needed to step up and re-energize it. As members of the family poked around at their food desperately searching their minds for a thought to vocalize, the lingering silence continued, demanding to be broken. But most were held speechless.

"I had some things passing through my mind," said Brian Johannigans 17. "But it was all inappropriate stuff. It was just a freight train of lewd and disturbing thoughts that I was powerless to stop. It's like when somebody tells you to try and not imagine a pink elephant. My first impulse was to say, 'I'm gonna shove this fucking asparagus up my ass and go rub some aloe on my balls.' I have no idea why I thought to say any of that. I really have no desire to put steamed vegetables in my ass, nor did I need to apply a salve to my testicles, let alone announce it to the table."

"I really wanted to mention how nice the weather outside was, but it had already been mentioned three or four times. I couldn't bring myself to do it," lamented Uncle Bert, who silently prayed for a thundershower to pass through and provide new fodder for weather conversation.

Finally, upon realizing that nobody had commented on the home-made garlic mashed potatoes yet, Aunt Carol saved the day.

"I just said, 'These are really delicious mashed potatoes, Barbara.'"

With this stroke of genius, the floodgates opened.

"Yeah, they're great."

"Do you have a recipe for them?"

"What kind of potatoes did you use?"

As the mashed potato conversation flowed, all Brian could think to say was, "These truly are exquisite tubers, hows about I dip my hairy balls in them? Excusez-moi, I'm going to go take a big fat shit and wipe my ass with the shower curtain."

"Again with the ass and balls, and this time with a French expression thrown into the mix," he pondered later. "I honestly don't know where these thoughts were coming from."

When the potato talk finally ran its course after 17 minutes, Uncle Bert, whose mind was by then as dry and empty as the Sonoran Desert, summoned a fake yawn and stretch, lying that he has to "wake up early for work tomorrow" and "should really get going," resisting his sister-in-law's insistence that he and his family stay for dessert.

"I had to get the hell out of there," Uncle Bert later acknowledged. "I was in no mood to make exaggerated moans of pleasure in order to convey my approval of the key lime pie."