Thursday, June 30, 2011

Jagr n'at

JagrWatch Unfiltered

Alright, so we're still waiting for that freakin jag (some things never change) Jagr -- pronounced "Ya-gur," by the way -- to make up his mind where he goes to play next year. Do I want him back? Of course, but we have some competition along the way, including Detroit, Montreal, and evidently Russia.

Chuck's Verdict: Jagr probably only wanted to leave Russia in the first place because he's knee-deep in gambling debt and an over-sized grunt named Igor is hunting him down with a bloody crowbar as we speak. The minimal distance from the Consol Energy Center to the Rivers Casino definitely gives the Pens a chance at re-signing the man, the myth, the mullet -- especially if we can get him an all-inclusive parking pass and free trips to the buffet. His gambling, though, is a dangerous double-edged sword, so ultimately I see Jagr doubling-down on whether the guy in front of him on his next flight orders the steak or chicken and after finding out it was vegetarian, Jagr will be stuck playing professional hockey in Belarus until his next check clears or Petr Svoboda fronts him some money that will be lost in a dice game at the flight gate.

Update (6:20 p.m.): Given continued stalling by Peter Svoboda (Jagr's agent, for yinz ignorant jags), it's all but assured that Jagr will shock everyone by announcing that he'll choose which team he will sign with during a one-hour special called, "The Choice," executive produced by LeBron James. ESPN, completely disinterested in anything hockey, will pass on the rights, and instead it will be aired on Versus at Eddie Olczyk's house because the studio was booked for a junior high dance recital that day. To the dozens of people watching the broadcast, Jagr will then announce that he will join the Huntsville Havoc of the Semi-Pro Hockey League for his own river gambling boat due to the team's connections to former rapist Billy Tibbetts. Spread the word.

Buccos' Exciting Push for Mediocrity Unfiltered

The Pirates, despite all odds, have somehow managed so far to piece together one of baseball's most suspenseful .500 seasons to date, undoubtedly luring in the city so that it may continue another painful barrage of underwhelming baseball. The two heroes of the season to this point are closer Joel Hanrahan and new manager Clint Hurdle, who gets his daily exercise by walking to the pitching mound 43 times every single game to either replace the pitcher or ask him idle questions regarding student loans and favorite cooking recipes.

Chuck's Verdict: The Pirates will continue to play acceptable baseball until Satan comes for Charlie Morton's soul and Jose Veras throws an errant knife, meant for the rotating wheel that selects the Pirates starting catcher on a nightly basis, that slices Joel Hanrahan on his throwing elbow and hits Clint Hurdle in the hamstring, giving the Pirates an all-star caliber Disabled List and effectively derailing their season.

Til next time, jags. Thanks for reading.

Welcome to Sports Unfiltered; Like 'Rome Is Burning' Without Having to Put Up wit Jim Fuckin Rome

Hey yinz,

Chuck K here. Welcome to the first rendition of "Sports Unfiltered," featuring me, Chuck Kowalski. Keep checkin in when yinz want the best insight and analysis that Pittsburgh's got to offer.

Alright, so I guarantee some jag out there is already thinkin: Why should we listen to you? What do you know? So, first, stupid fuckin question... but seeing as I got 20 more minutes til the pizza guy shows up I'll answer it, anyway.

As a stay-at-home professional with no excessive expenses -- including a significant other, child(ren), senile parents, or medical coverage -- you can rest assured that my time and resources are spent watching the world of sports and having a hasty, alcohol-influenced opinion on it. My premier cable package, endless supply of Iron City, and keen eye for sports trends and outcomes makes me an invaluable source to the sports-writer and gambling community. Go ahead and ask Dino down in Bloomfield; I ain't had a single bone forcibly broken yet.

Besides, who else are yinz gonna turn to for sports analysis? Let's run down the list of possibilities.

Tim Benz: Acts and wishes he was Mark Madden. Unfortunately, he's about half the man, in both physical size and actual ability. Complementing his wanna-be snoozefest of a morning show is an occasional sports column found only in the internet's most vacuous seas of garbage, i.e., its proper home. On top of being completely uninformative, they don't even go as far as being mildly controversial or meaningful. Much like me after I ever attempt to run, the process of inane regurgitation takes over. If that wasn't enough, his writing style is so basic and boring that an illiterate fifth-grader who accidentally put some ink in his mouth could drool something better.

(Speaking of) Mark Madden: Knowledgeable enough, but legally questionable, limiting his ability to advertise cheap Pittsburgh-related merchandise and give betting tips online (unlike me). Constant intake of foodstuffs also renders him hard to make out. What's worse, he still projects that same overdone "tough guy" style that his listeners painfully try to emulate. I ain't a doctor (though, for the right money, I could get a degree as one), but I suspect this is some sort of defense mechanism he developed after a strange semi-sexual encounter with Eric Bischoff when Madden worked for WCW.

Tecmo at Pittsburgh Sports and Mini-Ponies: Guy's got the best mini-pony and sports amalgam blog around. Also created those sweet football games for the Nintendo and SNES, where Barry Sanders actually runs faster than light. He is your only other reputable respite in this otherwise barren collection of sports jags. 

Ron Cook:  1) Writing -- Go to, and click on Sports. Read a column of his a see how far you get. If yinz made it this far into my blog, then you clearly have a better taste for writing that anything Cook does. 2) Radio -- Spending years as a semi-capable sports columnist for a newspaper does not impart you with the skills to moderate a sports radio talk show or entertain anybody. Yeah, he doesn't fall into that machismo schtick, but that's because it would require a personality.

Joe Starkey: Bitches and moans about hitting in hockey, which makes him a pussy by default. If he meant that David Steckel should get pistol-whipped for apparently being so clueless that he doesn't pay attention to where's skating, then I'm all for it. But I'm pretty sure he means, "Hey, I can't stand on a pair of skates, so let me lobby for turning hockey into a glorified synchronized ice show."

Rob Rossi: Ok, so I fucked up by accidentally switching Rossi and Starkey. I don't got any beef with Rossi... yet.

Seriously, there's more, but my pizza's here. More beer-fueled thoughts on Jagr and the Buccos comin soon jags.