In a midseason purge that was magically suspicious, the Celtics sacked mascot Lucky the Leprechaun — or, as the little people call it, downsizing. This management move broke Lucky’s pink heart, kicked him in his yellow moons, and put him out to pasture in the green clovers. Possible replacements for Lucky include Brian Scalabrine, Eddie House’s son, and, until last week, Jason Varitek. Personally, I’m looking for Lucky to resurface as a guest drinker at the Fours.
The Elephant Golfer
Third-year PGA Tour pro John Merrick almost won the Bob Hope tourney a week ago. When I Googled Merrick the player, his PGA photo came up along with the original John Merrick. ... That's right. The Elephant Man.
Guy couldn't putt worth a damn, and he obviously took a couple of Top-Flites off the noggin.
It seems that Barry Bonds' urine has come back so chock-full of 'roids that most of San Francisco faces indictment. The government has been holding on to Bonds' urine samples since at least 2005, evidently aging them like a fine Bordeaux. Where do you store a urine sample for four years anyway? Do you cellar it like a first-rate wine? Does a urine steward come to the grand jury table, uncork the bottle, and give testimony? "This is a 2003 Barry Bonds, extra strong and fortified. Its bouquet hints of leather baseball, hickory, testosterone, and just a trace of ballpark toilet."
David Wells is very upset at how he's portrayed in Joe Torre's new book. So much so that he could hardly keep his fifth plate of food down. Boomer thought he was punked when Torre wrote, "Wells arrived overweight for spring training in February, and when the other players saw his shadow, we knew we were in for six more weeks of winter."
Docs in the house
I find it bizarrely reassuring that the guy delivering the medical news on Kevin Garnett and other Celtics players is Doc Rivers. It's the "Doc" that inspires false confidence. Even though I know that Rivers has no medical degree, way in the back of my obviously tiny mind I hear, "Well, his name is Doc. He must know what he's talking about."
After winning eight gold medals at the Olympics, Michael Phelps went to a party and smoked marijuana. I guess that "you'll never make anything of yourself if you smoke pot" theory just went up in smoke, huh? Phelps has been known to eat up to 10,000 calories a day, whether fueling up after training or gobbling Twinkies after hitting the bong. What I'd like to see is a water sports cross-promotion: the Bassmasters trolling a pork chop for the always-hungry Phelps. Reels at the lake would sing as lures shaped like pizza, chicken wings, and manicotti tempt the gold medalist as he shoots past on the first leg of the butterfly.
Hands of stone
After the Shane Mosley fight, boxer Antonio Margarito was suspended for having his hands illegally wrapped in plaster of Paris, or cement, or maybe it was ground glass embedded in a spinning band saw. Margarito will undoubtedly defend himself with some outlandish claim that he was involved in a promotion for Home Depot, but judging from the beating he experienced, he would have been smarter to wrap cement around his head. It was the kind of butt-whipping you witness at a Chinatown subway stop.
Every dog has his day
Quarterback/prisoner Michael Vick may soon be transferred to a halfway house for QBs who can’t go all the way. When Vick went into prison, he was the highest-paid player in the NFL, but now his financial statements look as though Bernie Madoff ran them through the wash. Still in the doghouse with NFL commissioner Roger Goodell, Vick hopes to resume his NFL career, which should temporarily end his dream of opening a pet shop.
Boston stand-up comedian Mike McDonald tells funny stories all over the world and sells the World’s Funniest Golf Balls at ComedyGolf.com