FREITAG DICKCHEESE: zwei Köpfe von betreuer Prince und Arzt Jarvik

1. Herz! 2. Authentizität! 3. Qualifiziert!

EIN! Big heart. Livingblood. #1 pumper. Of champions. Champheart. Heartionships.

ZWEI! Super real. Talkingstraight. #1 truth. Of polyvinylidene chloride. naturPeVaDlC.

DREI! Well fit. Headingclass. #1 road. Of Zion. Hören. Live. Triumph.

FRIDAY DICKCHEESE: Sports Writers

First it was Roger Clemons. Then it was Barry Bonds. Then it was the humiliating Joe Dumars incident which was closely followed by that disgusting mistake with Ralphie the Buffalo. And then whole the London Eye/Millennium Wheel thing. But what about right now? Right now, it is all Michael Beasley (pictured right, above Mac Stevenson). Michael Beasley. Not surprisingly, it looks like sports writer nation has it dreadfully wrong yet again.

I mean, what the fuck is so fucking great about Michael Beasley? Seriously, dude. Forget about the fact that his game has more holes than a huge field totally filled with tons and tons of holes in it. HE’S A CRYBABY FLOPPER. AND SOFT. Michael Beasley. That’s right. What the sports writers won’t tell you is that Michael Beasley doesn’t slice the salami of the NBA’s jib. But that’s not their fault. They’re just too dumb to see it. Which is their fault.

For example, Mac Stevenson (pictured right, below Michael Beasley), who writes that KU plays like “a bunch of frightened freshman,” has guards that are “substandard on both offense and defense,” and is a team that is “going downhill on a fast horse,” really, really likes Michael Beasley a lot. He basically thinks that Michael Beasley is pretty much a badass. But that’s cool. I’m cool with Mac.

Current events in senility aside, though, don’t be shocked if Michael Beasley slips and slides all the way down to the second round of the NBA draft. Michael Beasley. Professional NBA scouts are paid in money to know like they know their backs and hands when a player’s lines of stats are way over inflated due to being on a fucking awesome team that also happens to have a fucking awesome coach. Shithead sports writers aren’t.

FRIDAY DICKCHEESE: LEW-SER DICKCHEESE

We’re in for a treat today, homeboyz. You see, I just got up on my tiptoes, reached for the top shelf dickcheese, and pulled down one hell of a preemo slice: KU Athletic Director Lewis Perkins.

Aside from being the Director of Athletics at the University of Kansas and also the President of the Ugly as Fucking Sin Club for Men (and also a member), Perks is most famously known by the masses for his interest in fatness and fatness awareness related issues.

After thoroughly enjoying gastric bypass in 2002, Perko has dedicated himself to doing some major fundraising in a forward-thinking and brave attempt to provide this miracle sports procedure for at least some of his employees. As, like, a benefit or something.

I’m all for charity work (God, who isn’t?), but if I could be so bold as to offer a tiny, post gastric bypass sized wad of constructive criticism, I would exclaim that Perky, like, needs to focus way more on his career.

I don’t know. Maybe if, instead of conducting comprehensive research on the latest advancements in bariatric surgery, he had actually devoted some of his time to not getting caught cheating, he wouldn’t have been found guilty by the NCAA of a lack of institutional control. That might have helped his career a smidgen. It’s such a waste when you really think about it.

Now, due to this disappointing lack of purpose by Perk, he has been surpassed this week in the measure of life's successes by one of his former subordinates who is younger, (naturally) thinner, and kind of a whiney bitch: Former KSU Athletic Director and new Deputy Commissioner of the Big 12 Conference Tim "Wiser" Weiser. Not good, LP. Not good. Very dickcheese, IMO.

FRIDAY DICKCHEESE: NCAA DICKCHEESE

OMIGOD, you guys! Meeghan so just told me that Kelvin got totally busted for using his cell in school. I feel, like, so bad for Kelvin. I mean, hasn’t anyone ever heard of the First Fucking Amendment? It’s like when these teachers try to tell you what clothes you can and can’t wear. What the fuck, dude? You don’t know me. You don’t know how I feel. You don’t know Marilyn Manson 2004 Summer Concert Tour.

(ii.) ON HEINOUS RULES. There’s a little known saying about heinous rules that you may have heard once or twice in your ear. It comes from Maine. Way up in the top part. It says that heinous rules are made to be trampled upon. Forget that one. It doesn’t apply here. I’m talking about a different saying. The other one. It’s the one that says that heinous rules are enforced by dickcheese.

Awwwww, yeah. Kaboom! There it is. Myles Brand is so totally this week’s dickcheese. How does it feel, Mr. Myles? Maybe if you had better things to do in your life you wouldn’t be perusing phone call records, you fucking pervert. Best of luck Coach Sampson!!! Go show ‘em what you’ve got! Go KS! GO KSU! GO CATS!

FRIDAY DICKCHEESE: GENERAL DICKCHEESE

You've heard all sorts of yarns and tales this week about Bob Knight - or "Coach K" as he is affectionately known. Most of it is about the legacy he leaves behind him. Some claim he was a very, very great man who did very, very great things yet was, sadly, misunderstood. Others contend that he was a huge fucking asshole sometimes mistaken for something else. I don’t know anything about any of that. What I do know is that Coach K was, if nothing else, 100% dickcheese.

Judgements about things like whether or not and to what degree Coach K was a huge fucking asshole aside, everyone around town agrees that he was a master of a zenmaster motivator and teacher. Pretty much almost like a non-fiction Yoda. While widely lauded for keeping his cool when an out of control hippie referee threw a chair at him simply because he asked for clarification of a rule (a stupid rule to begin with), perhaps Coach K’s greatest act of selflessness and goodwill towards his fellow man came when Zeke Thomas had some diarrhea type issues during a game one night. Coach K stayed behind long after everyone else had gone home and, on his hands and knees, cleaned up all the Zeke dookie which covered the entirety of the locker room floor.

Much like I felt when the lovable Woody Hayes passed on, I'm now wishing that I could have had the honor of meeting Coach K before he died. One thing is certain, though. Each time I catch a glimpse of the shit collected on the wad of toilet paper that I’ve just used to wipe my ass, I’ll remember you, Coach K. Rest in peace, dickcheese. And may God’s love be with you.