You see, every year I like to recap the Super Bowl in some form or fashion (here’s an article from last year for reference). This year will be no different. Well, slightly different.

This year, rather than just going on and on about my own opinions of the game, the ads, the halftime show, the Puppy Bowl, the pageantry, the commentators, the event and any of its surroundings as a whole, I want to include all of you, as well. Yes, I’m lazy. I thank you in advance for your help.

For those of you who follow me on Twitter, I’ll be brain-dumping all my immediate thoughts there for the better part of the afternoon. If you’d like to contribute a brief quip that could possibly find its way into the interactive recap, by all means please send those thoughts to @alexssn.

If you don’t have a Twitter account, feel free to participate on Facebook by commenting on the message thread (it will be up later, shortly before kickoff) on the Seattle Sportsnet page.

You guys are awesome and I look forward to hearing what you have to say. Enjoy the day, make sure you drink a lot if you’re a drinker, eat a lot if you’re an eater, and have fun with your friends. Because really, that’s what the Super Bowl is all about. A great effing time.

If greatness were, in fact, determined by the hair upon one’s head, then Shawn Kemp would not only be the best dunker of all-time with a tilted flattop fade, but also the best dunker of all-time, period. End of story. You know he was the greatest. It goes without saying. And that fade? It was filthy. F-I-L-T-H-Y. How many people have you ever seen with a tilted flattop fade? One. Shawn F**kin’ Kemp. Nobody else has ever dared to do that with their ‘do. And if they tried? People would just laugh and call them Shawn Kemp imposters. Because Kemp was that prolific. Pro-effing-lific.

I like Blake Griffin. I do. For a guy who looks like the offspring of Cory Matthews and a Monstar, he’s pretty good. He plays a decent game. He fields lob passes nicely. He can navigate a Kia with the best Korean drivers in the world. He’s even made me a part-time Clippers fan (full-time Sonics fan, however…that will never change). But when it comes to dunking, he is the senpai to Kemp’s sensei. Bow to your sensei, Blake Griffin. Bow to him!

Shawn Kemp was a fierce dunker. Blake Griffin has some cute jams.

Shawn Kemp was a cold-blooded killer. Blake Griffin occasionally dabbles in crime.

Shawn Kemp scared grown men. Blake Griffin entertains women and small children.

You see the difference here? Kemp was a monster, a beast, a man so ferocious that he inspired his opponents to do weird, non-customary things. Like the time he threw down so hard on Golden State’s Chris Gatling, that Gatling pissed his pants, then stood up and congratulated Kemp on his homicide. Don’t believe me? Here’s the video evidence:

That was weird shit, huh? You felt weird watching that, admit it. And in all honesty, I don’t know if Gatling actually pissed his pants. I fabricated that part of the anecdote. But I bet he did. There had to be a few dribbles, at least.

In his prime, Kemp was a freak. He could do the things all of today’s dunkers can do and more. Take Dwight Howard, for instance. Kemp could slam better than Howard. And — here’s the big kicker — he could do it without all of Howard’s panty-crumpled bitchiness. “Yes, everyone, I’ll bang on this 12-foot hoop for you…right after I whine about Stan Van Gundy and demand a trade.” Okay, pretty boy.

Or what about JaVale McGee? Kemp could out-dunk JaVale McGee any day. Assuming he could find JaVale McGee. Because no one actually knows who JaVale McGee is. Forget JaVale McGee. JaVale McGee is not a real name, which means JaVale McGee is probably not even a real person. You are a figment of our imaginations, JaVale McGee.

Maybe Chase Budinger could give Kemp a run for his money. That was a bad joke, I’m sorry.

Chandler Parsons? Apologies. Followed up one bad joke with a worse joke. I’m better than this, I swear.

I don’t know. As a kid, I remember watching dunk contests that featured the likes of Jason Richardson, Stromile Swift, Jonathan Bender…the dregs of the league…and thinking to myself, This shit is stupid. I grew up paying first-hand witness to the greatest dunker of all-freakin’-time. Don’t try to give me a dunk contest, NBA. There is no contest. Shawn Kemp wins every time.

Speaking of, the NBA should really let Kemp come back and judge all the future dunk “contests.” See how that goes. “We have a 10 from Darryl Dawkins…a 10 from Spud Webb…a 10 from Julius Erving…annnnnd…waiting on the last vote still…a three from Shawn Kemp. Three? Really?” Yes, three, you idiot. Because every dunk was a three compared to the Reign Man’s dunks. Don’t even play like that. Don’t even play!

He would dunk on Blake Griffin, Taylor Griffin, the Griffin brothers’ mommy and daddy, their aunts and uncles, their grandmamas and grandpapas, cousins, babies, pets, you name it. Shawn Kemp would dunk on the moon, dunk on a Martian, dunk on Tim Tebow, dunk on Obama, dunk on all the Kias in the world, dunk on Kendrick Perkins as many times as he wanted, dunk on Fidel Castro (¡Cuidado, Fidel!), dunk on Chuck Norris, dunk on Kim Kardashian’s fine ass, dunk on Justin Bieber (oh no, not Bieber!), dunk on Bieber’s girl (Selena Gomez, for the uninformed), dunk on every man, woman, and child on this beautiful planet of ours. Shawn Kemp would dunk on Jesus Christ, Himself, if Jesus Christ was blocking the lane. Get out of the key, Lord and Savior! You will not get that charge call. Nope, not even You, Your Holiness.

The best dunker in the NBA right now has a motherf**king perm. You just…I just…HE HAS A PERM! Ridiculous. Shawn Kemp would dunk on Griffin’s perm. Because he’s better than Griffin’s perm. And he’s better than Griffin, too.

Shawn Kemp, hands down, is the best dunker the world has ever seen.

Fin.

If anything, women should have learned long ago to never overestimate men. We have a capacity for things we’re good at that maxes out around, say, six or seven. You’ll never meet a guy who is good at more than six or seven things. If you’re a woman, you better hope the man you settle down with doesn’t waste that capacity on stupid shit like Magic Cards or the construction of rubber band balls. We’re working with limited resources here.

Further, men only like six or seven things, as well. Most often the things we like are closely tied to the things we’re good at. For instance, I’m good at reading books. I also like reading books. You see how this works? It’s not that difficult.

Why do I bring all this up, you ask? Well, that’s a good question. Lately, I’ve been thinking about all the stupid things men do to please women, and likewise all the stupid things women do in overestimating men. For the sake of humanity, I think we need to patch the holes in our coexisting relationships.

So I’m here to offer women advice. You think you have us figured out, but you don’t. I’m going to do my best to help. I’ll give you valuable information you can use in understanding men, two theories at a time, on an ongoing basis. We’ll mix these theories into the Pop Culture Friday segment going forward. Why not, right?

All I ask is that you read this and tell your friends. This is my attempt at charity. Enjoy.

The Jack Johnson Theory

No man has ever said to himself, “You know whose music I really like? Jack Johnson.” It hasn’t happened yet. It likely won’t ever happen. Why? Because Jack Johnson sucks. His music was written for women. Women love his music. Men, on the other hand? We hate his mellow garbage bullshit. Every time that clown gets on his guitar and starts strumming, the collective sperm count of men everywhere drops. Jack Johnson’s slogan should be “Fueled by Estrogen.” To the male species, he is the anti-poon.

This wouldn’t be a problem if women weren’t forcing Johnson’s crap music on us all the time. They’re convinced that we like him as much as they do. To make matters worse (better?), men know this. We know that a) women love Jack Johnson’s shit-tastic tunes, b) women think men love Jack Johnson’s shit-tastic tunes, too, and c) women will push Jack Johnson’s shit-tastic tunes on us because of this blatant misconception.

So what do men do as a result? (And remember…simple creatures.) We tell you we like Jack Johnson! We lie to you! Because we know that if you like Jack Johnson this much, and we say we like Jack Johnson, too, holy crap, you might have sex with us! That’s really what’s going through our minds. Here, I’ll break down the thought process:

1. Damn it. This chick likes Jack Johnson.

2. Good lord. She really likes him. She is not gonna let this go, is she?

3. Maybe if I just say I like Jack Johnson, this will all go away and we can get naked.

4. “Hey, girl. I didn’t know you liked Jack Johnson, too! What a small world.” Nailed it.

5. Oh yeah, she’s taking off her shirt. This is really going down.

6. Why hasn’t she turned Jack Johnson off yet? I’m not gonna be able to get hard to this!

7. F**k you, Jack Johnson.

Sometimes it backfires. Simple creatures.

Frankly, women, I understand your dilemma. You’ve been led to believe that men like Jack Johnson’s music because of what we’ve told you while trying our best to get laid. We were thinking with our Jack Johnsons at the time and not our brains. I apologize for that. But you need to know that a man’s perceived affinity for that jerkoff, lyricist beach bum is a complete and utter falsehood. Pretending to like BS music is a man’s way of getting in your good graces. You have to respect our effort, but you need to see through it.

Fact is, we hate Jack Johnson. But we really like you. So let’s cut the crap, turn off the radio, and get down to brass tax. There you go.

*Side note: This theory can also be amended to include John Mayer, Coldplay, or one of a handful of other artists/groups. It’s not just Jack Johnson who sucks.

The Sex Question Theory

We’ve all been there before. Things are getting heated in the bedroom when suddenly she blurts out the question, “How bad do you wanna f**k me?”

Damn it.

Women should know that asking questions during coitus — and/or the moments leading up to coitus — is ill-advised. I mean, really ill-advised. Like when a point guard runs up the court and jacks a 25-foot three with nearly every second on the shot clock remaining and the announcer goes, “Oh my! That shot was ill-advised.” That kind of ill-advised.

Men don’t do well with questions. We tend to have analytical minds. You present us a question and we’ll think about it until we have a good answer. So even a question as seemingly rhetorical as “How bad do you want to f**k me?” can really throw us for a loop.

Worse yet, there is no good answer to a question like that. Sure, we could just reply, “Really bad.” But that sounds stupid. When you’re sitting there naked, trying your hardest to look smooth, answering “Really bad” to a girl talking dirty to you (or at least attempting to talk dirty to you) seems lazy and cliche. Lazy and cliche is not the message we’re trying to send in the bedroom. So we over-analyze.

I’ve thought up some possible responses to our question should men be presented with this ill-advised rhetoric in the bedroom:

“Well, um, I guess I wanted to f**k you a little more before we started this interrogation process.”

“How bad? On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d say probably about a 7.”

“Is this multiple choice? If so, I’ll take ‘C.’”

“Dumb question. Next one.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to belittle your inquiries. I just want this to serve as a lesson to all you women out there: asking questions during happy time is not a good idea. Men are not properly equipped to deal with that sort of thing. As alluded to in conjunction with The Jack Johnson Theory, we are either thinking with our dicks or our brains. Not both. It’s one or the other. You can’t ask us to do both. That’s unfair. There are ground rules here.

Well, that about does it for today. I’ll be back in the future with more theories to share. Please try your best to heed this advice. We’ll all be better off for it. Thank you.

We do have some of those fans here in Seattle. Many, I’d imagine. But we also have a number of other fans. Different types of fans. Unique fans. Good fans, even. It’s time we examined those fans and looked within ourselves to find out who we truly are.

Below is a list of 11 fan profiles for your viewing pleasure. This isn’t just any list, though. It’s a list pertinent to our very region. These are Seattle sports fan profiles. They’re ours. And they’re amazing.

11. Disciples of Geoff Baker

These people hate their lives. They’re constantly under the impression that the sky is falling and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. They read everything Baker writes and treat it like gospel. He is their Jesus. Some of them don’t even like Geoff. Not at all. But they’re addicted to him like a bad smack habit, returning to get their fix — his take on the Mariners — time and again.

Trying to talk to a Disciple of Geoff Baker (DGB) is like interacting with a 13-year-old emo kid. A DGB will rarely, if ever, make direct eye contact with you. A DGB possesses the personality of Eeyore, wears dark clothing, and appears convinced that a doomed fate is inevitable. DGBs need help, but don’t ever seek it out. You, in turn, want to help these people but simply don’t know how. Questions you’ll find yourself asking DGBs are along the following lines:

-Can I take you to a rehab clinic?

-Can I offer to pay for your counseling?

-Have you confided in friends or loved ones?

-You’re not cutting yourself, are you?

DGBs aren’t bad people. They just happen to belong to a cult founded upon negativity. Can they be saved? Yes. Will anyone step up and save them? That remains to be seen.

10. Irrational Imbecile

The Irrational Imbecile is both crazy and stupid, hence the name. He does not have a clue about life in general, let alone sports. He may or may not have graduated college. Hell, he may or may not have graduated high school. He loves Seattle teams, but he also hates Seattle teams; his opinion changes from one minute to the next.

The Irrational Imbecile has never had an original thought that wasn’t borderline insane. He calls into sports radio shows and yells, then goes online to message boards and misspells the shit out of everything he vomits onto his keyboard. He wants everyone to see things his way, but that would be impossible because “his way” is about as clear as mud.

The Irrational Imbecile is a complete idiot, but no one has the stones to tell him that for fear he might kill them. He is a danger to society. He should be forbidden to procreate, but unless he donates at the sperm bank that shouldn’t be a problem because no one will ever attempt to conceive with him.

It’s okay. He won’t ever read this. He doesn’t like to read. It’s like we’re communicating in code right now. He has no idea this is happening.

9. Irrational Imbecile Who Doesn’t Know He’s An Irrational Imbecile

Unlike the Irrational Imbecile before him, the Irrational Imbecile Who Doesn’t Know He’s An Irrational Imbecile is the most dangerous of the most dangerous. He is convinced that he’s a genius and is determined to push his agenda on everyone else. He may have (ahem) a blog, or at least (ahem) post his thoughts on Twitter or Facebook on a daily basis. But no matter what it takes, he shares his stupid thoughts with as many people as he possibly can, whenever he can possibly do it.

The thing about the Irrational Imbecile Who Doesn’t Know He’s An Irrational Imbecile, he knows like twelve big words. He doesn’t necessarily know what those twelve big words mean, but he likes to use them to sound smarter than he really is. He’s a lot like ESPN’s Mark May. If he can present things in a way that sounds good, he may be able to distract you into thinking he’s not as stupid as he really is. Don’t be fooled. This person is just as crazy as the yelling, ranting, raving Irrational Imbecile. He just packages his irrationality in a nicely-wrapped gift box.

The Irrational Imbecile Who Doesn’t Know He’s An Irrational Imbecile likes to engage in online warfare with accredited media members. He’ll challenge writers, radio personalities, and TV newscasters alike, all in an attempt to prove he is more knowledgeable than they are about sports, and therefore more qualified to possess their career in the industry. Never mind that he lacks people skills. He has no idea what those are, so they have become irrelevant. His goal is simple: fight media member online, announce triumph over media member online, get attention for fighting media member online, impress media member’s boss by having won this fight, get hired by major media outlet to cover sports, marry hot chick. Every day of his miserable existence is spent pursuing this goal. He will never achieve it. He will never even come close. In his mind, though, he is a superhero. And maybe that’s really all that matters.

8. Disciples of Dave Cameron

A Disciple of Dave Cameron (DDC) is incredibly matter-of-fact. So matter-of-fact, in fact, that you want to kick his ass for being as matter-of-fact as he in fact is. Does that all make sense?

DDCs have a tendency to visit USSMariner.com on an hourly basis, reading the occasional USSM article, but mostly showing up to weigh in on comment threads. DDCs are normal enough on the surface. Underneath their average exteriors, however, they own a burning desire to be perfect. DDCs aren’t sports fans so much as they are information junkies. Their day is made when stats are laid out neatly in front of them and numbers are used to draw a conclusion. This makes their world go ’round.

DDCs are creatures of habit and routine. They wake up at the same time each morning. They go to bed at the same time each night. In between, they press their slacks, starch their shirts, pack their lunches, go to work (same route each day, regardless of traffic patterns), pencil-push at their desk jobs, spend five minutes at the water cooler, laugh heartily at small-talk jokes with coworkers, unpack their lunches, eat their lunches, use the bathroom after eating their lunches, pencil-push some more, come home, kiss their wives, watch world news, tuck their one-and-a-half children into bed, kiss their wives again, go to sleep, and begin anew the next day. These aren’t opinions. They are facts. Science has proven them. This is a matter of fact. Just as DDCs, themselves, are products of matter-of-factitude.

Are they boring? Yes, DDCs are rather boring. Are they smart? Yes, quite smart. Are they annoying? I can’t quite put my figure on why they’re annoying, but (as a matter of fact) they kind of are.

7. Storm Fans

Well. This one is pretty self-explanatory.

Here, I’ll give you a blank. You can fill it in with your own explanation. Like Mad Libs. Enjoy.

Storm fans are _____________________.

6. Casual Businessman Transplant

The Casual Businessman Transplant (CBT) didn’t arrive in Seattle until at least age 18, and in many cases not until after college. He migrated for one of three reasons: school, work, or wife. He either went to college in the area, had his job relocated here, or married a Seattleite who wanted to be closer to her family. He had some say in the move, but he’s a fairly passive individual and really wouldn’t have cared if he ended up here or anywhere else. He’s a businessman. He’s casual. He’s whatever, ya know?

The CBT couldn’t care less about the local teams, but he does have a good deal of generic sports knowledge. He watches SportsCenter semi-regularly. He’s up-to-date on all the current events. He has an opinion on Tim Tebow. He’s likable, but not overly-likable. He’s quiet, but not too quiet. He can speak on almost any subject, from the weather, to politics, to the hot college intern in Human Resources. He’s a guy’s guy. He drinks beer. But not too much beer.

If you ever have an extra ticket to a game, the CBT will definitely take it. He’s good for things like that. He’ll sit with you for two or three hours and keep the conversation going, as per usual. He won’t really cheer or anything. He won’t cause a scene. He’ll wear neutral colors. He’ll buy you a drink for inviting him. He won’t wow you. You won’t make a habit of inviting the CBT to games with you in the future. A year from now, you’ll forget you even went to a game with him at all. Which is good and bad, I suppose.

He’s like the color taupe, a quality umpire, or Eddie Murphy’s singing career: you hardly notice he’s there at all. That’s the CBT. And for the record, I crammed him into the middle of this article so you wouldn’t remember him. You’re welcome.

5. Jet Setting Hipster

Contrary to popular belief, not all coffee-shop-dwelling, beard-doting, skinny-jeans-wearing, bespectacled, bike-riding hipsters are anti-sports. Some are jet setters. Some appreciate a bout of athletics from time to time. Some wear slim-fitting Mariners apparel every now and then. These sports fans are known as Jet Setting Hipsters. And they are abundant here in our rainy climate.

Your typical Jet Setting Hipster lives in the hills: Capitol Hill, First Hill, Queen Anne Hill, etc. He is working on his fifth Masters’ Degree in a field that matters to no one outside of academia. He is a pompous, friendless ass, but he means well. He spends most of his time sampling Americanos and Espressos and Mochaccinos. He smells funny and shops at the Goodwill. Not because he can’t afford to shop elsewhere. It’s a matter of principle, you see. This is just what Jet Setting Hipsters do.

He owns a Sonics shirt, a Sounders shirt, and a retro Mariners cap. He wears the shirts beneath his Patagonia fleece, often in tandem with his cap. He remembers Shawn Kemp from his childhood, hence he’s a “true fan.” He also goes to games occasionally. But only on nights when the homework load is light.

He’s pushing 30 and he has no plans for a career. He has a girlfriend who he sees every other weekend; she is also a hipster, but not a jet setter. If all goes well, she will one day be a high school counselor. For now, though, she’s a barista. That’s part of why he likes her.

He doesn’t have a job. He has various forms of financial aid and a rich father who he doesn’t tell people about. He likes to pretend he makes his way on his own, but the trust fund doesn’t hurt. He’s just anti-trust fund, you see. It goes along with the Goodwill shopping, et al.

He laments the Sonics leaving. He didn’t really petition for them to stay or anything. But Starbucks represents The Man, and The Man is bad. The Man stole those Sonics. It’s a travesty. Plus, his girlfriend works at Caffe Ladro. So, you know.

He is a man of mystery, this Jet Setting Hipster. That is to say, he was a man of mystery. Mystery solved.

4. South End Seahawks Fan

A running punch line on local sports radio, the South End Seahawks Fan is a special breed of human being who deserves an entry on this list all his own.

First, and most obviously, he is from the South End. The geography of the South End extends north of, say, Centralia, and runs all the way up to the east-west line that connects Bellevue to Seattle. There are a handful of reputable do-gooders who live in this precise region. I, myself, happen to have settled (at least temporarily) in Renton. But the South End Seahawks Fan? He’s a special guy. And you gotta love him.

He is loud, your South End Seahawks Fan. He is proud, as well. He will paint his face blue, scream for hours on end, and essentially allow his entire world to revolve around the Seahawks. He drinks to the Hawks, prays to the Hawks, bleeds for the Hawks…let’s face it, he basically is the Hawks.

He is no savant, your South End Seahawks Fan. That’s just a fact of life. He likely won’t ever beat you in Jeopardy or anything. He’d get schooled in book-reading and fact-finding by your Jet Setting Hipster. But what he lacks in intellect he atones for in passion. That is something the Jet Setting Hipster could never understand. He’s got spirit, that South End Seahawks Fan. He quit his job once to go to the Super Bowl. He divorced his first and second wives for season tickets in the Hawks Nest. He puts blue food coloring in his Natural Ice before drinking it. He defines devotion. He has a picture of Kenny Easley tattooed on his left buttock. He’s as hard as they come.

When the Seahawks win, he wins. When the Seahawks lose, a part of him dies inside. He takes defeat harder than any player ever has. He doesn’t know why. He just does. And if you can’t understand that, well, that’s too bad.

The South End Seahawks Fan. Holding it down from Kent to Lacey and all points in between. Represent.

3. Disciples of Softy Mahler

They would kill a Cougar fan. Seriously. They’d do it. Don’t test them! They’d do it!!! Or, at least, you know, they say they would.

They are all things purple and gold. They are the University of Washington’s proudest fans. They graduated from I.T.T. Tech with an AA in searching the web, but come on. You don’t have to go to the school to be a part of the school, you know? Alumnus. What does that word even mean? It’s a stupid word. It’s like…French, or something. France sucks, anyway.

It’s comfortable inside the box where they do most of their thinking. Give me two choices, they say, and I’ll take one. Gun to your head: Bishop Sankey at running back OR a hot meatball sandwich? GUN TO YOUR HEAD!!! YOU CAN ONLY HAVE ONE!!! DO YOU REALIZE THE CRITICAL NATURE OF THE QUESTION??!! I don’t think you do. Amateur.

Disciples of Softy Mahler (DSM) like loud noises. If they had ever studied poetry, they would be purveyors of onomatopoeia. BOOM! CRASH! WHAM! SQUIRREL! Oh yeah. They also get distracted easily. Some of them have various forms of A.D.D. Hence the squirrel.

They don’t like Oregon. We can all respect that.

They’re up on their recruiting news. They basically know where every kid age 12 or older may one day be going to college. They’re just invested like that.

DSMs also have a really weird affinity for Kevin Harlan. It’s kind of hard to explain, but every time they hear his voice on play-by-play, they kind of get aroused.

They often yell at work. Yelling at work is underrated.

Sometimes they get so sidetracked, they can’t even complete their — Squirrel!

2. Eastsiders

To your typical Eastsider, Seattle may as well be Siberia. Cross a lake to get to a game? That doesn’t sound very enjoyable, let alone efficient. We already do it five times a week for work. Isn’t that enough?

Eastsiders are not exactly motivated by the fact that they have comfortable SUVs to ride in, or the financial wherewithal to travel to and from games by Lear jet, if so desired. No, for Eastsiders, it’s all about martyrdom. Eastsiders love to bitch and moan and be negatively impacted by the positive world around them. It’s why they listen to rap music and watch movies about gang warfare. They like to pretend they’re going through the struggle, too. Except, well, they’re not.

The Eastsider treats ballgames like social events. He throws on his logo-embroidered Cutter & Buck windbreaker and treks over to Safeco Field to mingle with business associates and engage in forced conversation all evening long. He enjoys a genuine ballpark hot dog and sips on $10 stadium microbrew. He has a small dose of fun, but he’ll never admit this. Owning up to a good time would reduce the aforementioned martyrdom. Games are supposed to be an inconvenience. He’s just doing this to make partner, anyway.

1. The Committed

In the past five years, he has been to Starbucks once. He really had to take a leak. So he walked into the men’s bathroom, pissed on the wall, unrolled all the toilet paper, carved “Save Our Sonics” into the mirror, and walked out.

He once camped out for a regular-season Mariners game. And it wasn’t a bobblehead night.

He owns a game-worn Jack Perconte jersey. Signed by Jack Perconte, too. But he doesn’t frame it. He wears it to bed.

He has sworn on his mother’s grave that if he ever came across David Stern — EVER! — he would kick “that motherf**king punk-ass motherf**king bitch” in the balls with no fear of retribution. His friends believe him. They’ve already started a collection to pay his legal fees should it ever go down as promised.

He has season tickets to the Seahawks. He eats ramen four nights out of the week just to afford his seat in the nosebleed section, five-yard line.

He graduated from the University of Washington with a BA in BS. It was his dream to be a Dawg. He didn’t have a plan. He’s still paying his student loans. He’s pushing 50.

His congressman gets a hand-written letter from him every day. Most days, it has to do with arena funding. Some days, he changes it up. He once wrote a letter about the problems associated with the Wing-T offense, for example. He has not yet received a single letter back.

His AIM screen name was SeattleSportsFan. Notice it has no digits attached. He was that good.

He made $10 million off a tech startup in 1999. He blew much of the money on a cross-country, year-long road trip following every Seattle team to every out-of-state destination on the map. He blew the rest of the money on a failed investment in a professional jai alai league that would have been headquartered in Seattle. He really likes jai alai. He wanted the best for his city.

He is the committed Seattle sports fan. He is one of us. He is part of all of us. He may or may not exist. But he is a figment of our imagination that we, as sports fans ourselves, can all admire.

“Take a look at me now, ’cause there’s just an empty space. And you coming back to me is against all odds, and that’s what I’ve got to face.” -Phil Collins.

Hello Rich,

You’ll notice I’ve quoted Phil Collins above. A man only does that when he’s desperate, Rich. I wish I could just make you turn around. Turn around and see me cry. There’s so much I need to say to you. So many reasons why.

Rich, I’m writing to you today with a plea. I’m writing on my own accord, unbeknownst to my cohorts, asking you to let us bring back the internet’s greatest podcast, Karate Emergency. I’ve searched the entire web. There are no better podcasts. Ours won. It’s science.

I’ve heard things, Rich. I’ve heard that as KJR’s esteemed program director, you pulled the plug on our online radio show. We were too edgy or something. Too meddlesome. I understand that. And I respect your decision. But I also respectfully disagree with your actions.

First of all, you noticed us. As did many others. Okay, a few others, but who’s really counting? Fact is, we were good enough to get noticed. And that’s what really matters.

Second, we were quality. Most podcasts are tape-recorded concoctions mish-mashed together in a damp, dark basement. They’re boring, lame, lack any semblance of organization or entertainment, and, in general, suck. Our podcast was none of those things. It was recorded in a legitimate studio, one that you oversee. It sounded so good we called it aural sex (because we’re edgy). We were organized. We had voiceover guys. We had people begging us to be on the show. We had respect. We said all the things the legitimate radio hosts couldn’t say. We were their voice. The voice of the people.

Third, we enjoyed doing the show, Rich. Ashley Ryan, Josh Sabrowsky, Ryan Divish, and myself. We had more fun together than we ever thought possible. We barely even knew each other when we started. But over a few months of shared airtime, we became good friends. And not only that, but we were a talented group. As individuals, we’re who we are, nothing spectacular. But together? Together we were rock stars. We were onto something. We know what we had: an FM morning show format with AM sports radio content, mixed with a heavy dose of relevant pop culture. It was entirely unique. No one did it well before us. No one’s done it well since. I have no qualms about telling you how great we were. We were fantastic.

Fourth, we’re willing to admit our shortcomings. We cussed a lot. Sure, we censored it. But we’re willing to drop the cussing altogether if you let us back on the air. We’ll do whatever it takes to prove we’re legitimate. Just look at the gold mine you’ve got at your fingertips with us:

-Ashley has the ultimate radio voice and the on-air personality every guy swoons over.

-Josh is a producer extraordinaire that possesses all the qualities necessary to drive his own show (you know how rare that is, I don’t need to tell you).

-Divish is a 36-year-old curmudgeon who appeals to all the old, grumpy men out there. (And he’s already getting dual airtime with your crosstown rival, so you know he’s a commodity worth locking up.)

-And then there’s me, the fat girl from high school who might very well turn into a hot chick after college. You don’t know. I might blossom, Rich. I’m an ugly duckling right now. But there’s an inner swan there. And when it comes out, you can say you allowed me to flourish by reading this letter and thinking to yourself, “Yeah, let’s give those Karate Emergency hooligans another shot.”

I’m asking for our chance to prove to you that we can be amazing. We were good before; now we’re aiming for great. And on a selfish side note, this show made me a better writer. My writing hasn’t been what it once was since our show got canceled. I need this show. It inspires me. Sitting there talking about random shit (I mean…crap) makes me better. So yeah, I want it for me, too.

You’re not paying us. We’re not costing you a dime. We’re good at what we do. People (a few) actually want to listen to us. We’re well-mannered when we have to be. We’re knowledgeable. We bring in a younger crowd, a crowd that needs targeting. We have sex appeal. We’re big on Twitter. What more convincing could you possibly need?

We’re like your kids, Rich. You’ve grounded us for a little while, but you know deep down you love us. We’re gonna do right by you. Because you believe in us. You know you do. We know you do.

You can’t deny us, Rich. Just take a look at those faces in the picture. Just take a look at us now.

XOXO,

Alex Akita

A short while ago, Doug Pacey of the Tacoma News-Tribune wrote this article on fans’ “nastiness” during the recruiting process. The piece could not have been more precise in explaining the ever-narrowing gap between fans and prospective college athletes, a divide that has been lessened with the rise of the internet age.

While college recruiting has always been a sleazy industry, hardcore fanatics have only really been brought into the fold over the past decade, as sites like Rivals.com and Scout.com (host to our very own Dawgman.com) have made prep athletics — and all which that entails; namely, recruiting — their primary focus. At the same time, social media websites like Facebook and Twitter have given fans direct access to the recruits themselves, a caustic union akin to mixing Tim McGraw and Nelly (every time I hear Over and Over, I’m quite positive a child in a third-world country is stricken with malaria).

While Pacey’s piece nailed it from one end (I’ll admit, I just wanted to say “nailed it from one end” in an article) by placing the onus for this behavior on the adults in the situation, the stupidity of recruiting is not a one-way street. And here’s where we run into problems. Who do we blame when things get out of hand? What I mean by that is, can we really convince ourselves that fans are the only ones at fault for turning the process sour?

Fact is, there are no winners here. None. At all. On either side of the fence.

Sure, adults should know better than to pick on juveniles. But most of the adults doing the internet bullying are basically kids themselves. These are the same morons who procreate just so they can beat their children at Wal-Mart. Trusting them to do anything with any amount of sense is like handing Richard Reid a shoebox and asking him to faithfully look after it for you. “Here, Rich. I just got these Nikes. I’ll be back in five. Don’t be running off now!” BOOM! That just happened.

Likewise, if a high school athlete — with his future and a scholarship on the line, no less — has any intelligence at all, he’s not sitting on Twitter and Facebook interacting with people dumber than him. Yes, young Jedi, it is entirely possible that there are adults out there who have lower IQs than you. Adults aren’t always right. Adults aren’t always knowledgeable or informed. It doesn’t mean you’re some kinda genius or anything (so don’t get too high up on that saddle), but it does mean you have the chance to improve yourself through a very small dose of adversity.

You know what, though? Before we give high school athletes too much credit for dealing with these imbeciles, allow me to offer some words of advice.

First of all, highly-touted recruit, stop being so damn sensitive. I’m getting sick of hearing 17-year-olds say stupid shit like, “I didn’t choose School X because the fans were saying things to me on Twitter.” Really? REALLY?! Here you are about to have a free ride to a university of your choice, you’re going to be hooking up with beautiful sorority girls in a couple months, you have the chance to make millions upon millions of dollars, and you really have the wherewithal to play that card?

Kid, you KNOW you created that Twitter account to get virtual blowies from all the fans out there. Don’t act like you didn’t. Don’t turn innocent on us now, player. You’re seriously turning the tables on the public because you don’t like what they have to say? Grow the f**k up. I don’t care if you can’t legally buy a skin mag yet, you need to start the maturation process NOW. Why? Because of all the reasons I just listed: the free ride, the jersey-chasing hos, the potential fame and fortune…in a word, the pressure. If you think having people talk ill of you isn’t fair, then you better get that education because you’ll never make it in this world. Life isn’t fair. And when you’re afforded opportunities that the average person can’t have, the average person gets jealous and says some things that maybe aren’t so nice. Deal with it. Rise above it. Learn to be better than it. It means you’re fortunate.

And not only that, but you’re really going to let the actions of a few dumbasses dictate your academic and athletic future? I hope you wouldn’t pick a school just because the fans were nicer to you. That’s incredibly vain and illogical. Pick a school because it has a major you’re interested in, or a coach you like, or a gameplan you want to be a part of. Don’t let the fans steer you here or there. That’s not how the rest of us pick our higher learning institutions. You have a brain. Please use it.

Secondly, no one has any empathy for you, kid. We haven’t been in your situation before. Ninety-nine-point-nine-percent of us will never be in your situation. So we can’t feel your pain. Because we don’t know your pain. And therefore, we really don’t give a shit about your pain. You’re a talented, capable, young human being with all the potential in the world. You happen to be the subject of a bittersweet process. You will benefit from this process. You will also be used throughout this process. I apologize for that. You deserve better. But as it is, this is the way of the world. This is the unfair part of life I was talking about. Handle it. Don’t let it handle you.

Thirdly, there’s this, an old saying that I bequeath unto you: Never mud wrestle with a pig, because the pig might like it. These fans, these crazy neanderthal fans that are causing you trouble, they are your pigs. They’re dragging you into this mud pit and demanding you spar with them. Don’t do it. If attention from a teenager inspires these goons, you want nothing to do with them anyway. Walk away and let it go. It’s not worth it. Not even in 140 characters or less. Not. Worth. It.

It’s stupid. It’s stupid that I have to waste a thousand words on this article, telling people how stupid they are for being stupid. Recruiting is the bane of our very existence. It elicits the worst traits of mankind, it pisses everyone off, and it sets humanity back by generations.

We’re better than this. I swear to God, Allah, Buddha, Tim Tebow…we are better than this.

Adults, grow up. Kids, grow up. Stop fighting. Stop being morons. Stop acting like bitches. This ends in a zero-zero tie. Done.

I was at the grocery store preparing for this monstrosity earlier today. I scoured the aisles like I was on Supermarket Sweep, stockpiling all the essentials: microwaveable meals, cookies, Red Bull, string cheese. My cart was a dietician’s worst nightmare. But whatever, right? That’s why we have the Wroten Workout Plan. Unclogs the arteries. Oh, and the Red Bull was sugar free, so there’s that.

Anyway, the grocery store was absolutely packed. I would not recommend going shopping in this pre-Snowmageddon era. If you haven’t loaded up on provisions, you’re probably better off going on a hunger strike for the next couple days. I was in Safeway around lunchtime and it was like a Bayside High School pep rally at The Max. There were seemingly a thousand more people in this single location than you thought previously existed. Hey, you in the crimson track jacket! I’ve never seen you in any episode before. Where have you been hiding, jerk? You just come here for the pep rallies or something? Try getting to class sometime, slacker. Yeah, I’ve seen every show, you’re not gonna fool me.

The great thing about a Seattle snow storm is it causes people to irrationally freak the hell out. Take, for instance, the guy standing in front of me in the checkout line. For one thing, he had about 50 items (granted, he was obese). For another, most of these items were completely unnecessary. Example: he had not one but TWO giant jars of real mayonnaise. Because when the power goes out and the heat shuts off, you’ll need BOTH jars of mayonnaise, sir. Giant sub sandwiches for all! We’re gonna make it. Got mayo for days. We’ll pull through…

Here we are late on Tuesday night and we have yet to see many flakes in the metro area. I’m daring it to snow right now. Let’s bring Jim Forman home! He’s tired of having to go up to Granite Falls and down to Vader just to cover people doing stupid shit on ice. “Hi, Jean and Dennis! You’ll notice we’ve found a man in a 1987 Honda Civic willing to slide down the cliff behind me and jump this ravine while drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon and wearing nothing but this Hawaiian lei we purchased at a second-hand store. Are you ready for this? I know I am!” Jim Forman deserves better. I hope he’s making commission off this.

Perhaps the best thing about all this snow is how it’s taken all the pressure off the city’s newest resident, Jesus Montero. Yes, Jesus, who will save us all, is coming to Seattle. And all we had to do to get him here was relinquish everyone’s second-favorite starting pitcher, Michael Pineda. It’s like we traded two of our best goats for our neighbor’s finest cow. You hate to lose these two, fantastic goats. Buuuuuuuut, that cow is gonna help out quite a bit on the family farm. Pineda was great. We all loved him. But Montero? He’s pretty great, too. We’ll find a way to pour our hearts out in his honor.

By now, I’m sure you’ve read all the specs on Montero. If you haven’t, go here. The dude’s a six-foot-three-inch, twenty-two-year-old power-hitting catcher. The rarest of the rare breeds, an über-prospect with unrivaled physical talent. He’s been compared to Miguel Cabrera. He projects to be a future All-Star. He’s everything you want in an everyday player. We’re absolutely lucky to have him.

But.

There’s always a “but.”

Pineda is an ace-in-the-making. A gargantuan, hard-throwing right-hander who will take to New York City like Godzilla to Tokyo. We, as Mariner faithful, envisioned him as a fixture in our rotation for years to come. His sophomore campaign was going to be the stellar encore to his phenomenal freshman debut. Like Montero, Pineda is just twenty-two years of age. He’s been compared to his former teammate, Felix Hernandez. In his only major league season, he’s already earned an All-Star nod. We were absolutely lucky to have him.

On top of all that, Pineda was wildly popular with the fan base. Almost as popular as the inimitable Green Hydro, I’d reckon. Which is probably what makes this bittersweet pill that much tougher to swallow for all of us. We loved Pineda. And we knew he’d be great. There was no getting around that.

Montero? We think he’ll be a stud. We hope to love him. But we’re not there yet. We just broke up with Kelly Kapowski. And now we’re being asked to believe in Stacy Carosi. I guess it’s okay. We’ll need some time to mend our hearts, however. Can we trust the Jack Z. blueprint? Sure. Do we have to love it right this moment? No, we don’t. That’s the emotional nature of fanaticism.

There is a forecast. It says we’ll likely get a lot of snow soon. We don’t know if they’ll be right, those weather people, but we certainly believe in what they have to say.

There’s a forecast for Jesus Montero, too. It says he’ll be something special. We don’t know if they’ll be right, those baseball people. But we believe they probably will be.

For better or worse, this is our guy now. Jesus. Bring on the storm.

Welcome to Pop Culture Friday! As you probably know, I don’t always write about sports here at Seattle Sportsnet. So rather than keeping you guessing on when non-sports articles will appear on these pages, I’ve devoted Friday to the eclectic cause. Expect a good dose of pop culture every Friday from here on out. If you love it, enjoy. If you hate it, that’s one day out of the week you don’t have to visit the site. Without further ado…

The other day, my buddy Griffin Bennett (@GriffinWB on the Twitter; read his work over at Montlake Madness) tipped me off to an article simply entitled 10 Most Crucial Middle School Dance Jams. I took a look at the piece…and was thoroughly disappointed. First of all, any list that considers a song by Joe to be the most crucial of the most crucial is absolutely abysmal. Joe’s own mother wouldn’t put his music at the top, so why should anyone else?

Regardless, the article inspired me. It inspired me to not only compile a list of my own, but also to make that list helpful in some way or another. Writing about middle school dance jams is nostalgic and all, but it isn’t much more than that. So I decided I’d give every guy out there advice on music by which to get laid. Don’t thank me. I’m just trying to do my part.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this is both shallow and egotistical. And you are correct! But at the same time, it’s fun for all and all for fun. So let’s enjoy this together. The article, that is.

Song No. 1: I Want It That Way, Backstreet Boys

Was 1999 a good year or what? Bill Clinton had his name cleared in impeachment proceedings, we were prepping ourselves for the technological Armageddon known as Y2K, and the Backstreet Boys released one of the best-selling albums of all-time, Millennium. And there, amidst all the other poppy riffraff of that studio monstrosity (I kid, it wasn’t a monstrosity, it was actually very beautiful), sat one gem of a song: I Want It That Way.

Destined to be abused by drunken frat boys on karaoke mics for all eternity, I Want It That Way could not have been a better tribute to the teen pop genre. Simple, catchy, dramatic, and easy to sing, the tune touched the hearts of millions, if not billions. Girls swooned over the video (shot in an airport hangar…weird, but okay), while guys secretly pretended they hated the cut, despite memorizing every single lyric in their spare time.

Over the years, I Want It That Way became the type of jumpoff jam that could take a party from awful to amazing in a heartbeat. Think about it. Every time you’re in a group setting and that song gets piped through the speakers, girls scream like Prince just strolled into the room. The high-pitched squeals are indubitably followed by the shrieking of such comments as, “Oh my god!” and “I LOVE this song!” Might as well be a lyrical aphrodisiac.

I had this theory once that by wearing Polo Sport cologne, a man in his twenties could give off the pleasant aroma of a much simpler time in a young female’s life. Hey, hot college girl, you smell that? That’s the fragrance of your junior high school Valentine’s Day dance. Remember those days? Yeah, you do. Let’s go get a drink together. At least, that’s how I always pictured the exchange going. Anyway, the point is, a song like I Want It That Way is essentially the musical version of Polo Sport cologne. It takes a girl back to those happy days gone by. And that, dear friends, is why it’s so special.

You want to get laid. Play I Want It That Way. It’ll let her know you are fun, goofy, diverse, irreverent, and willing to get it on. All good things.

Song No. 2: I’ll Make Love to You, Boyz II Men

Quite cliche, I know. But if this isn’t the most epic I-wanna-get-down song, I don’t know what is. Just watch the video and tell me you don’t want to make love to something, anything.

I don’t even have words. You had me at “Close your eyes, make a wish.” Let’s go, girl. This will only take three minutes, tops.

Song No. 3: Find Your Love, Drake

Women love them some Drake. Never mind the fact that he’s basically Canada’s version of Will Smith. They absolutely adore him, without remorse, for reasons no one can really justify. They’re aroused at the sound of his voice, turned horny when he starts to croon. It’s science. We learned about it in health class.

As a man, you might be torn on Drake. I’m sure many of you like him, many of you hate him, many of you don’t care one way or the other. That’s fine, but it’s not about you. It’s not what you care about that matters. It’s what she cares about. You don’t give a damn about flowers, for instance, but you still buy your girl roses from time to time because you know it’s a good idea. Here, take these plants. They’ll be dead in a week, but at least you’ll be happy today. Enjoy. Listening to Drake for the sake of your relationship is like giving a girl flowers. It inexplicably brightens her day. So just go with it.

Of all the Drake tunes that could possibly help you do the deed, this is the one I put the most faith in. This joint is Drake at his Bing Crosby finest, crooning all up and down your woman like she were covered in sheet music and he didn’t know the notes. She’ll hear his voice on this track and practically drag you to the bedroom. You won’t know what the hell’s going on because this song is that unassuming, but trust me, you’ll be pleased.

Yes, Drake, you’ve done okay things for men. We still don’t know why females love you so much. You’re kind of like Taylor Swift in that regard. But we’ll let you go about your business so long as you keep playing the role of wingman. Gracias.

Song No. 4: (Everything I Do) I Do It For You, Bryan Adams

Bryan Adams. Blessed with two things women love: a raspy voice and a guitar. Why can’t we all have raspy voices and guitars? It’s almost not fair.

Aside from the fact that this is one of the goofiest music videos of all-time, the song itself is pure poetry. Yes, it’s slightly over-dramatic — whoa, chick, we just met…I don’t know if I’d be willing to die for you yet — but it’s emotional, and that’s what really counts.

Song No. 5: This Woman’s Work, Maxwell

First fun fact: This song has nothing to do with making love.

Second fun fact: This song was originally written and performed by a British woman.

This Woman’s Work might be the biggest of the big guns when it comes to love-making music, however. For context, it was the backdrop to a sex scene in the movie Love & Basketball. And that’s really what gives it its appeal. You play this song and feelings will get serious very quickly. It should really come with a warning label. You play this around the wrong person and, well, nine months later, who knows.

All I’m saying is, be careful. Very potent, this song. It features a harp, for Christ’s sake. A freakin’ harp. The official instrument of heaven. Don’t say I didn’t properly prepare you. Good luck.

One for every f**king year of history we have.

1. We’re the Seattle Supersonics, the only team in NBA history to have the word “Super” in our nickname. That’s not by accident. We’re super awesome.

2. We used to play our games in the Coliseum, which is so highly thought of that the Romans named their ancient structure after our much more modern one.

3. Our mascot is the only known Sasquatch on the face of the earth.

4. Dale Ellis holds the team record for most points in a single season. He tallied 2,253 of those during the 1988-1989 campaign. Dale Freakin’ Ellis. The Michael Jordan of his era.

5. This video:

6. We had to endure two seasons of Jim McIlvaine. Every other city that had to endure even one season of McIlvaine still has a team. That’s not fair.

7. In 1983, our general manager, Zollie Volchok, won NBA Executive of the Year. His name is Zollie Volchok. That should count for something. A name like that is rare as shit and you know it.

8. New Orleans doesn’t give a damn about their team. They’re like the chick with a nice rack who wants to get breast reduction surgery. And we’re the flat-chested girl that’s wondering what the hell that big-boobed hottie’s problem is. You’re taking this wonderful blessing for granted! Why can’t we get some of that action? Stop being so damn selfish.

9. Our own Xavier McDaniel once choked out the Lakers’ Wes Mathews. Everybody hates the Lakers. He was doing it for America! It looked like this:

10. Our arch-rival — the Portland Trailblazers — is rival-less. That’s messed up. That’s like if Mr. Hand never had Jeff Spicoli in his life. We are the stoner student to their buttoned-up history teacher. We belong together. Aloha, Portland.

11. NBA Jam is worthless without the Sonics. Every gamer knows the importance of Payton-to-Kemp.

12. The guy that made the headband popular was our point guard. He was also named Slick. A guy named Slick who made headbands cool. That’s pimpin’.

13. Ricky Pierce used to play for us and he had one of the greatest mustaches of all-time:

14. We took bullets for the rest of the league by wasting first-round draft picks on a handful of centers that never amounted to anything: Rich King, Vladimir Stepania, Robert Swift, Johan Petro, Mouhamed Sene. Where’s our thank-you card?

15. We had to put up with the fat, alcoholic version of Vin Baker.

16. We have our own award-winning documentary, Sonicsgate, which should be viewed by anyone who considers themselves a basketball fan.

17. The greatest white dunker in the history of the game, Tom Chambers, spent some of his best years with the Sonics doing crazy shit like this:

18. Jesus Shuttlesworth played for us.

19. We have more NBA championships (one) than the Phoenix Suns, Cleveland Cavaliers, Los Angeles Clippers, Utah Jazz, Denver Nuggets, Indiana Pacers, New Jersey Nets, New Orleans Hornets, Minnesota Timberwolves, Orlando Magic, Memphis Grizzlies, Toronto Raptors, Charlotte Bobcats and OKLAHOMA CITY THUNDER combined.

20. Our last owner abandoned us.

21. The owner before that also abandoned us.

22. Both those owners are notoriously horrible people who will one day burn in hell. Would you rather support the notoriously horrible hell-burners or an innocent, victimized fan base?

23. This video:

24. Shawn Kemp’s tilted flattop fade was the coolest hairstyle of the ’90s and you know it.

25. Proving he is one of basketball’s all-time greatest defenders, Gary Payton has spent most of his post-playing career campaigning for the return of the team to Seattle. Give the man a rest already.

26. The first coach in franchise history to lead us to a winning record was also the team’s starting point guard. His name was Lenny Wilkens.

27. Dennis Johnson’s jump for joy during the 1979 championship run:

28. We let Danny Fortson play for us. Most teams wouldn’t do that.

29. Our nickname refers to the boom heard when an object in motion travels faster than the speed of sound. That kind of scientific sophistication makes teams like the Nuggets and Jazz look foolish.

30. We had Predrag Drobnjak on the squad. And we let him do this:

31. If the previous reason didn’t sell you, consider the fact that Drobnjak had a cat named Jinkies and then rethink your decision.

32. David Stern hates us. Everybody hates David Stern. Ipso facto, everybody should love us.

33. In Seattle, we really like complaining about poor officiating. There’s really no officiating worse than that of the NBA. We need each other. It’s meant to be.

34. Michael Cage’s Jheri curl juice:

35. Sir Mix-A-Lot wrote this song about the Sonics shortly after writing another song about ample female posteriors:

36. Steve Scheffler’s dancing in the above video. That alone should make us worthy of getting our team back.

37. Two words: Olumide Oyedeji.

38. Luke Ridnour did a lot of NBA players favors by never playing any defense. We should get some sort of credit for all those points he relinquished.

39. It rains a lot here. When it rains, we need to go inside for shelter. NBA arenas provide shelter. We have one of those, but we can’t currently use it. That just seems like a waste.

40. Ask NBA players if they’d rather spend a night in Seattle or, say, Indianapolis. They’ll tell you where they want to go. Our ladies of the evening are high class.

41. Because we didn’t deserve to have them stolen from us in the first place.

Bring back our Sonics. Stop being so mean.

As a collective unit, this year’s squad resembles Matt LeBlanc in Joey. After Friends, that guy completely mailed it in. He used to care. And then Joey came along. At which point, he more or less gave up. NBC was still signing off on his paychecks. That’s really all that mattered. Lazy bastard.

Since the Huskies neither star in a sitcom spinoff nor get paid, I can’t imagine what’s motivating them to take the court these days. Maybe it’s the free gear they get, the nice kicks they wear, or perhaps all the hot college chicks they get to bang. I don’t know. I am not a psychologist. All I see is a lack of effort, hustle, and desire. Which leads me to question the heart of the entire program.

When things go bad for this team, the body language tells the whole story. Players sulk. They pout. They mope. They walk around, frankly, like losers. Nothing about the collective attitude of this ballclub screams “winner” when the rain starts to fall.

Adversity is an impossible hurdle for this team to overcome. One could make the argument that they’re young and aren’t mentally equipped to handle heavy doses of adversity. That would be a fair argument. But the fact is, the talent of this group should outweigh any emotional obstacles they could face. It’s like they say in high school. If you just show up and put in a little effort, you’ll get at least a “C.” In the figurative sense, the Dawgs aren’t coming to class and they certainly aren’t putting forth much effort, hence the continued failures.

For evidence of this, one look no further than the defensive end of the court. The Huskies are committed to some Godawful form of defense that we have never seen before. It’s not man, it’s not zone…it’s basically five guys playing rover. It’s pitiful. No one guards anybody. Luke Ridnour, who once got crossed over by a paraplegic, would laugh at this team. They are that abysmal. They have relinquished an average of 74.4 points per game to their opponents, most of whom aren’t even that good. Which is absolutely tragic. Because all defense really is is effort. And if defense isn’t being played, then effort isn’t being given. That’s damn unfortunate.

The thing about not giving a shit is you can’t hide it from the masses. The Dawgs have played poorly before, but rarely has it inspired this much venom from the fan base. I can see what’s on my Twitter timeline and my Facebook feed. People are pissed off. And it has nothing to do with the losses so much as it has to do with the way the team is losing. No one wants to watch the uninspired. No one wants to watch the heartless. Yet that’s what we’re being asked to do with these Huskies.

Like Joey before them, the Dawgs are on the verge of being canceled. It’s still too early to write off the entire year, though. There’s a chance, however fleeting, that Washington could make a run at the NCAA Tournament. Until these players decide to play with passion, with desire, with energy, and with attitude, however, it will not matter one bit.

This team is a lost cause if it doesn’t start to care. We’ll just have to see how badly they want it.

There are any number of things I loathe about Twitter. Not so much the things we all know about already — like the fact that many athletes are uneducated morons, for one — but rather the things that have come to dictate our social behaviors as a result of 140-character status updates.

Take, for example, the fact that Twitter gives us a false sense of surrounding at all times. Think about it. If you’re alone or even feel for a second that you could be alone (ex. party wallflower syndrome), you can grab your phone and peruse your Twitter feed. You can tune out from the real world and tune into a universe that accepts you for the two or three sentences you, or others like you, might be able to cram into a text box. That’s a powerful distraction, one that rivals drugs and alcohol in its ability to divert the discomfort of a situation.

If you need a boost — an ego boost, an enjoyment boost, a laughter boost, a knowledge boost…I feel like Jamba Juice with all these boosts — Twitter is there to give it to you. There’s a never-ending stream of tweets from those you follow to keep you company. And if you’re really lucky, a bevy of followers clamoring for your attention will catch your eye by tweeting at you. With that much information going back and forth, it’s a wonder we ever look up from our feeds at all. To digest this much knowledge, we would need more alone time than Tom Hanks in Castaway.

And that’s the scary thing about Twitter. It allows us to feel wanted, to feel loved, to feel important, to feel needed entirely through characters on a screen. As a result of that, we don’t need to look someone in the eye to know they care. We don’t need to hug somebody or tell them we love them. There’s an emoticon for that. There’s a retweet button. We can retweet someone we care about all day long and never actually tell them how we really feel. Because it’s easy. And it does the job. At least temporarily.

We, as a people, demand instant gratification. When we see something we want, we need it now. Why have we made credit cards so popular? Why are loans so common? Why do we like fast food? Immediacy. We put an incredible amount of stock in immediate feedback. First dates, first impressions, first kisses, first place. No one ever talks about the second or the third of anything. We want the first. It makes us the best. We hedge our successes on the immediate. You can have that iPhone, but if you’re the last person to have that iPhone, you’re not nearly as cool as the first person to have that iPhone. The end is only slightly more important than the means by which you, or I, or anybody got there. Nobody wants to work for what they’re after. We know that there’s a heavy premium on getting that thing we want as fast as we can possibly get it. That’s the power of immediacy. That’s what makes Twitter relevant.

The immediacy of Twitter allows us to forgo the effort we put into making relationships work. I speak from experience. I’ve gotten dates because of Twitter. I’ve met friends because of Twitter. I’ve made enemies because of Twitter. But Twitter doesn’t actually tell anyone who you are. What Twitter does is provide a window to your brain. I’ve always said that the things I post on Twitter are my thoughts on steroids. They are fleeting blurbs that dash across my brain, captured in a nanosecond, typed up, plastered onto the internet, and shortly thereafter forgotten about. Thing is, while I may forget them, others do not. And because their only exposure to me is through a 140-character medium, they will either love me or hate me based entirely off a social networking application. How crazy is that?

Back in the day, we used to have to meet somebody face-to-face. Then call them. Then go out with them. Then call them again. Then keep going out with them until we were convinced that this relationship would either work or it wouldn’t. We got to know people by being around them. That’s not the case anymore.

Look at it this way. There’s a girl that I like. I talk to her almost every day through some form of communication. But I started thinking about all the ways we’ve communicated in the past few weeks and it blew my mind. There’s Twitter, of course. Then there’s Facebook. There’s email. There’s texting. There are phone calls. And then at the back end of all that, there happens to be the most infrequent way we communicate: face-to-face interaction. For every time we’ve hung out together, there are hundreds of messages back and forth through some other means. And yet the most meaningful thing I can get from her isn’t a text or a tweet or a chat or an email. It’s simple. It’s a smile.

Maybe that’s why Twitter is that thing I hate so much. It’s stealing the moments we can never replicate through words and replacing them with commentary. How do you describe a smile? You would never be able to do a smile justice in a thirty-page dissertation, let alone 140 characters or fewer. But we try to do it every day. I, myself, am guilty of that. I try to do that nearly every hour. Not with a smile, but with an explanation of who I am. Twitter is this thing that confounds me. There are people out there who are interested in those fleeting blurbs that dash across my brain. As a result, I share as many of them as I can. And in the end, no matter how many tweets or retweets come my way, I am left feeling incredibly unfulfilled by my contributions. I imagine I’m not alone in feeling that way, either.

There is something quite ironic about Twitter. It leaves us wanting more. And in leaving us wanting more, you would imagine that we would leave Twitter to find it. Maybe click on a link that leads to an article, or dig deeper to get in touch with a person we find especially compelling. While we explore these avenues from time to time, the irony is that we keep coming back. We always return to that thing that leaves us wanting more, searching for a certain fulfillment that we may or may not ever find.

Twitter is our drug of choice. We’re addicted and we can’t find the rehab clinic.

I love you, Twitter.

But I hate you so, so much.

So where do we go from here? Great question. I don’t have ESP, but I like to think I do. Here are my predictions for everything that may or may not happen in the coming year. Just remember, sixty percent of the time, these work every time. Unless they don’t. In which case, at least we had fun pretending.

Without further ado, here are your absolutely ridiculous 2012 Seattle sports predictions. Because predicting the future is super fun.

11. The Seattle Mariners will shock everyone and win the American League Western Division.

The Angels’ Albert Pujols will regress dramatically after switching to the American League. The Rangers will be stricken by a bevy of injuries. The A’s will be…well, the A’s. And the Mariners? Behind the leadership of MVP candidate Dustin Ackley, Cy Young winner Felix Hernandez, and offseason free agent signee Prince Fielder, the M’s will become 2012′s surprise team in Major League Baseball.

On top of all that, the team will pull off the move of the century during Spring Training when they sell Chone Figgins to Japan for 80 yen, which is equivalent to one U.S. dollar. The Mariners will then use that dollar to buy a pack of Bazooka Joe bubble gum, validating the deal entirely because Bazooka Joe is awesome and comes wrapped in comics.

Oh yeah, and Larry Bernandez will finally make his big league debut. So get ready for that.

10. Ian Furness will receive a well-deserved extra hour of airtime on Sports Radio KJR, but…

It’s no secret that Furness’s daily, two-hour radio show is not unlike frequent guest Ryan Divish in that it’s a little short. That will all change in 2012, however, when the Furness Show gets a fifty-percent raise in airtime.

The extra five hours each week will start off well, what with the recurring segments for fresh faces in media — like Erin Hawksworth and Alex Akita, perhaps — but quickly spiral out of control as it becomes painfully clear that Josh Sabrowsky is ill-equipped to handle the extra daily hour of production duty. Between leaving early to go shopping at H&M, spinning music that is borderline good on Bad Music Friday, and struggling to play a mean air guitar the way he once played it, Sabrowsky’s downfall will cost the show its extra hour just two months in.

But don’t worry about Sabrowsky. He’ll continue to produce those two hours at an A-plus level. He’ll then utilize the newfound extra time to get his hirsute modeling career off the ground. Just what the world needs.

9. The Washington Huskies Men’s Basketball team will win the Pac-12, receive an automatic bid to the NCAA Tournament, and make it all the way to the Elite Eight.

After a slow start to the season, the Dawgs will post a record of 14-4 in Pac-12 play AND win their final non-conference game against Seattle University, bringing their overall regular season record to 23-9 on the year. They’ll win the Pac-12 Tournament, gaining automatic entry to the Big Dance, and proceed to overwhelm opponents with relentless athleticism and a speedy, four-guard lineup.

Upon finishing the season, both Terrence Ross and Tony Wroten, Jr. will be viewed as first-round NBA prospects and debate entering the draft. Both will ultimately return for another season, however, when they come to grips with the fact that college is arguably the greatest experience of any person’s life ever.

While each will want their shot at a 2013 National Championship, Wroten will also come back to help the university promote the Wroten Workout Plan, a fitness regimen that will sell millions of DVDs worldwide. The WWP will eventually supplant P90X as America’s favorite workout video.

8. The 2013 Men of Seattle Sports Media calendar will be the must-have stocking stuffer of the 2012 holiday season.

With unique beach scenes, neon clothing, humorous poses, and little left to the imagination, the Men of Seattle Sports Media calendar will revolutionize the charity calendar game and blow up across the nation. All proceeds will benefit a couple of special foundations that are near and dear to our hearts. The photography will be high-class and professional. There will be wardrobe and lighting. Models will coach the media members on how to pose. Women will inexplicably flock to the public signings. The married media members will get more love than they’ve ever received from their spouses previously. The single media members will be among the city’s most eligible bachelors. It will be, in a word, amazing.

Now to talk everyone into it…

7. The Seattle Sounders FC will win the MLS Cup.

I have no basis for this prediction. I just think it’s time. And there’s a track record to support the success. Make it happen, Sounders.

6. The Seahawks will select Robert Griffin, III in the first round of the 2012 NFL Draft, then go on to win the NFC West behind…Tarvaris Jackson.

They’ll trade up to nab Griffin, then give him a year to study under Jackson. Jackson, in turn, will seize the opportunity to become a capable, playoff-caliber starting quarterback. His solid performance throughout the 2012 campaign will cause Hugh Millen to go on a profanity-laden rant on the airwaves of Sports Radio KJR, the likes of which the FCC has never seen before. In the process, Millen will drop 15 F-bombs and invent three new profanities which had not previously been introduced to the English-speaking world.

Jackson won’t be alone in his endeavors, as Marshawn Lynch, who was re-signed to a lucrative contract in the offseason, will become an All-Pro running back in his third year with the ballclub. Second-year wideout Doug Baldwin will emerge as a 1,000-yard receiver, safety Kam Chancellor will continue down the path towards greatness, and the entire defensive unit will find itself among the league’s elite.

In spite of all this, the Seahawks will not win the Super Bowl, as the world will be ending on December 21, 2012. This, according to the Mayans and various Hollywood films of a similar theme. Also, this song by Jay Sean and Nicki Minaj:

You know what? F**k it. For the sake of this article, let’s just assume the world won’t end. To hell with it, just give the Seahawks the 2012-2013 Super Bowl title right now. Boom. I’ll go on record with that optimism.

5. Mike Leach will lead the Washington State Cougars football program to their first winning season in nine years, then promptly retire to become a real-life pirate.

Shortly after winning the 2012 Las Vegas Bowl, Leach will move to Somalia and adopt the nickname Captain Mike Black Raven Leach. As a pirate, Leach will command the high seas on a yacht that he purchases with the money he earned during his one season at WSU. As most pirates navigate the waterways on slow-moving ships, Leach will have a clear advantage over his competitors in this respect. He will dub his vessel “The Spread,” a nod to the high-flying, fast-paced spread offense he employed during his days as a football coach.

Stunned Cougar fans will lament the abrupt departure of their fearless leader. They will decry his name at first, but eventually come to grips with Leach’s destiny, even going so far as to brew a liquor in his honor. While Captain Black Raven Spiced Rum will become a hit in Pullman, the nation will be hard-pressed to buy into the low quality of the Cougars’ attempt at alcohol. Black Raven will sit at the bottom of most store shelves, right beneath the likes of Admiral Nelson.

4. Heisman Trophy winner Keith Price will lead the Washington Huskies football team to their first Rose Bowl appearance in more than a decade.

Self-explanatory, really. Three letters and a number to sum this up: KP4H.

3. Two former Huskies will represent the United States at the 2012 Olympic Games in London.

You may have heard about my buddy Norris Frederick. He’ll be tearing up the track in London come summertime. Bank on it.

You may not have heard about my other friend, Jeffrey “Crossbow” Anderson. Crossbow is a future Olympic archer and one of the most skilled marksmen in the entire world. He’s like a modern-day William Tell. We call him Crossbow because it sounds cooler than Bow-and-Arrow. We’ve also tried to get him to bring his weaponry out in public on numerous occasions, which he sadly refuses to do. Regardless, he’s the next great American archer and once earned All-American honors shooting targets at the University of Washington. To prove to you how badass Crossbow is, here’s a picture of him eating a sandwich:

Ladies, he’s single. Now’s your chance to get in on the ground floor.

In all seriousness, I couldn’t be more proud of these two friends of mine. I’m pulling for them all the way and hope to see them in London a few months from now. Get ready to book that vacation…

2. Plans for a new multi-purpose arena in the Seattle area will finally come to fruition.

This should give everyone a little hope. It’s bound to happen.

1. The Sonics will return to Seattle.

You’re probably wondering how this will all go down. I’ve thought it out in great detail. Here you go:

David Stern will fall into a coma after choking on a pastry at a Starbucks in Oklahoma City. His lunch partner, Clay Bennett, will attempt to perform the Heimlich maneuver on Stern, only to fail miserably when he slips on a coffee jacket and knocks himself unconscious. The blunt force damage to Bennett’s skull will cause him to develop amnesia; the resulting memory loss will render him incapable of holding his position as head of the NBA’s Relocation Committee.

With both Stern and Bennett incapacitated, Deputy Commissioner Adam Silver will assume everyday operations of the Association and, in a panic, appoint Mark Cuban as head of the Relocation Committee. This will set off a chain of events that eventually leads to the New Orleans Hornets exiting Louisiana, headed for the Pacific Northwest.

A friend to fans everywhere, Cuban will entertain a sit-down meeting with the guys from Sonicsgate. The Sonicsgate crew will then convince the Mavericks’ owner to overthrow the incompetent Silver as acting commissioner of the league. Cuban, enamored by the prospect of ultimate power, will oblige to the suggestions of the Seattle faithful.

Armed with seemingly endless pockets, Cuban will hire a posse and stage an old-fashioned coup of the NBA offices. Scared out of his mind, Silver will flee the building naked, screaming like a little girl. Onlookers will wonder why he removed all his clothes before running away. For this, we will have no answer. Silver will never be heard from again.

With the league under his control, Cuban will do a solid to the gentlemen who helped conceive his reign by forcing the Hornets out of their less-than-ideal circumstances in New Orleans. The team will be relocated to Seattle, where they’ll adopt the Sonics name, logo, colors, and history. The city will rejoice in the midst of its good fortune.

Shortly after the move is made official, Stern will awake from his coma and try to seize control of the league once again. The coalition of owners, having been paid hefty sums of hush money from Cuban, will instead transfer Stern to a nursing home in suburban Oklahoma City where he will spend the rest of his days.

Bennett, meanwhile, will never regain his memory, yet still live a long and productive life as a drag queen named Glitter. Dancing in front of millions of tourists each year under the lights of Las Vegas, Glitter will become one of the most renowned and respected transsexual celebrities in the history of the world.

Sonicsgate. Believe it, baby.

Anyway, we get to Twin Liquors in San Antonio, find our desired purchase, and make our way to the cash register to pay. The following conversation then ensues:

Cashier No. 1 (upon seeing our Husky and Sonics attire): What are you guys in town for?

Side note: Big sports fans in this town, as you can plainly see.

Me: Football game, the Alamo Bowl.

Cashier No. 1: Oh, yeah. That’s today isn’t it. Isn’t that today?

Cashier No. 2 (in borderline Rosie Perez voice): I don’t know. Don’t look at me. I’ve never watched a football game before.

Me: Yeah, it’s today.

Cashier No. 1 (having rung up our purchase): Okay, your total is $28.10.

Me (having misunderstood the total): Sorry, how much did you say? $20.10?

Cashier No. 1 (having now misunderstood me): Yeah.

Me (reaching into my pocket, pulling out a $20 bill and a dime): Here you go.

Cashier No. 1 (handing me the receipt): Hold on, I’ll get you change.

Me (thinking, Why is he getting me change? then looking at the receipt and realizing I’m $8 short): Wait…

Cashier No. 1 (waiting for the change I don’t deserve from Cashier No. 2): Alright, go Baylor Bears!!!

Me (deciding if he’s going to make jokes, I will not say anything).

Cashier No. 1 (thinking I must have given him $40.10 and not $20.10, handing me $12): Here you go. Go Baylor! And I overcharged you for that, too (laughs).

Me (laughing): Okay, dude. See you later.

We get outside. We realize we just bought a $28 bottle of liquor for $8. We appreciate the irony of the joke the cashier made at our expense, not realizing that he shorted himself by $20. We figure this can only be a good sign for the rest of the day. We reason that this single act alone will lead us to an Alamo Bowl win.

Small victories. They lead to big victories.

Go Dawgs.

The association with El-Amin only paid dividends one time in my entire life. I was in seventh grade, sitting in Spanish class working on some sort of group project, when the girl I had a huge crush on asked me if I knew the name of UConn’s portly little superstar. I looked around first to make sure she wasn’t talking to someone else, then picked my jaw up off the ground and managed to stutter, “Uh, you mean, uh, Khalid El-Amin?”

“Yes!” she replied. “That’s him. He’s my favorite player. Thanks!” End of conversation. I should have asked her to marry me right then and there, but I didn’t. I was 13. And probably sweating at the time, too. Both due to nerves and girth. Sweating is a problem for the nervous and girthy. That was half my teenage existence. One big nervous, girthy sweatfest. Sounds as lovely as one might imagine.

As a chubby teenager, your life essentially becomes the script from the movie Angus. You get picked on a lot, you have to be quick with comebacks, and most importantly, you have to have a sense of humor. By the way, if you haven’t seen Angus, I highly recommend it. Whether you’ve ever been semi-obese or not is irrelevant. The flick itself is straight awesomeness.

Anyway, suffice it to say I was a target back then. Luckily, I had a good group of friends, I was a pretty decent athlete (in spite of my stature), and I developed the type of wit that would make most parents cringe. Which is really the one thing that stuck with me as I exited my “phase” and became more or less normal (loose definition of the term) by the time I was a sophomore in high school. I liked making people laugh. Laughter is an expression of happiness, and happiness (along with love) is what I believe makes life worth living. So to watch people become happy around me, well, that was satisfying, to say the least.

I’ve grown up now. At least on paper. The number next to my name keeps getting bigger, and I’m sure I get a little smarter, but mostly I’m still a kid where personality is concerned. I enjoy being that. We don’t have enough of that. When we’re kids, we have dreams and ambitions and innocence and hope and a desire to play. As soon as we reach adulthood, those things seem to go away. I don’t want that to happen to me or to anyone else. We can all still be kids at heart, even if we do occasionally get consumed by the real-world issues of our everyday lives.

Point is, I’m a goof, and I love being a goof. Which is why I want to thank all of you for the gift you’ve given me.

This time of year, we tend to reflect on the things that really to matter to us, and in many cases, we give each other gifts. The gift you’ve given me is simple, really, but it means the absolute world. You’ve granted me the opportunity to be a kid every single day, to goof off in front of the masses and, amazingly, have people respond to it in the most gratifying way of all, with laughter and happiness.

You see, when I decided to make my life pseudo-public three years ago, I never thought I’d pay witness to all the things I’ve paid witness to so far. You’ve responded to me, you’ve joined in this extended recess we’ve been enjoying together, you’ve given more back to me than I could ever give to you. The other day, someone asked me why I don’t try harder to get paid for my writing. I told her I didn’t have any desire to do that. I have a great job that pays me already. This is my hobby, and the benefits I get from this are far greater than anything money could ever buy. I like the autonomy of being free to do what I want, when I want for my audience. And while I’m not ever able to write as much as I would like — and lately, yes, you’ve probably noticed there has been even less writing than before — I’ve tried to focus the quality (i.e. goofiness, weirdness, grabassery, etc.) of the articles to be more meaningful than perhaps they used to be.

Beyond that, I’ll admit that all this writing is an outlet for me. I don’t know who I am yet. I’m still trying to figure my life out. Writing helps me do that, and there are quite a few times when I selfishly burden all of you with my life’s emotions. What I’ve discovered, though, is that most of you are just like me. We all have our own trials and tribulations, but at the end of the day we’re all people facing the same questions about who we are, what we’re doing, and where we’re going. Sports often reflect life, and I’ve tried to use every possible avenue in discussing sports to bring our lives to the forefront. I want there to be relevance and value in every story I tell. If I can’t do that as a writer, then there’s really no point in writing.

So to everyone who’s ever found any value, however fleeting, in who I am or what I’m writing about, in all the inherent goofiness and stupidity, all the moments of passionate exuberance and overzealousness, and all the borderline craziness, thank you. You can never be everything to everybody, but there’s always the opportunity to be something to somebody. That’s what all of you have been to me and I’m very grateful for that.

To those who celebrate Christmas on this day, as I do, I wish you a very merry Christmas. To those of you who celebrate any holiday this time of year, I hope you find happiness in being around your friends, family, and loved ones. The most important things in life are the ones we often tend to take for granted. This is the time of year to take note of that and reflect on it. Happy holidays.