I once wrote a story called "Guess who's coming to dinner?" for the Cav Daily. It was about a question The Bob loves to ask at dinner parties:

"If you could eat dinner with three people, dead or alive, excluding Jesus Christ and family members, who would you pick?"

I chose Bob Marley, the guy who invented the foam noodle and Rick Reilly.

What a difference two years and a little wisdom can make. I can't believe I chose Rick Reilly over the greatest sports writer on the planet.

Bill Simmons, a.k.a. the "Sports Guy," is that writer. I aspire to be him. While Gammons is more of an insider, and Scoop is hipper, and Reilly is more well-known/cute with his one-liners -- there's really not even much of a contest. Bill Simmons hits 'em UP. All of 'em.

Here is a little taste. And here is an excerpt from that taste. It's No. 11 on the 20 most fascinating subplots of the Eastern Conference Finals:

Scot Pollard making a late run at Sarunas Jasikevicius' title for "Best reactions on the bench by someone's who's not playing." He's taken a different route than Sarunas -- no fist pumping, no Cobra Kai imitations and no histrionics, but more of a grinning/nodding/slow-motion routine -- almost the way a stoner roommate would react if somebody showed up at 3 a.m. at his house with a pack of rolling papers, two jugs of Gatorade, a bag of Doritos, some Sour Patch Kids and the "Planet Earth" DVD set.

If you're not LOL'ing at this very moment, one or more of the following statements applies to you:

• You don't know who Scott Pollard is (in which case, here are two pictures that will help give you a sense of what Bill is talking about)

• You've never smoked weed
• You've never been around kids who smoked weed
• You have no sense of humor

Those are pretty much the only possible explanations for a non-LOL reaction to No. 11.

Rick Reilly, your star has faded. Bill Simmons, your's has not. It's practically blinding me these days; you are my idol.

A-W-R-Y

How do you pronounce that word?

I say "aww-ree." Certain liberal Northeasterner's I know pronounce it "uh-rye."

I think it's tomAEto, tomAHto. Let me know what you think.

Least favorite player in the NBA: Bruce Bowen.


Second least favorite player in the NBA: Manu Ginobli.

Third least favorite player in NBA: Tim Duncan.

Notice a common denominator?

They're all on the Spurs.

I hate the Spurs.

Just last night, as Phoenix was putting the finishing touches on their annual "Let's Let Bayless Down" playoff exit, I started bitching about that fact, for the umpteenth year in a row. Twerner, Ben and Sparky had to sit there and listen to the rant of hatred:

• I hate Bowen because of the "I don't have tattoos, therefore I can try and pull the 'Clearly I must be a hard nosed, happy to be in the NBA, lunch pail kinda guy'" wool over our eyes. What Bruce needs to realize is that no one outside of the Anderson Loop is buying it. I hate Bruce Bowen.
• I hate Duncan because he's like the kid in junior high who gets really good grades and yet still sits at the cool table at lunch -- the tattoo on his back is just like that kid getting a bowl cut in the mid-90's, or having really shaggy hair in present day. But when that smart-yet-somehow-in-the-cool-group kid, a.k.a. Tim Duncan, actually gets punished for doing something bad with his N-conduct friends, he can't believe he's has to do the time. Just look at his bug eyes at some point in the Utah series, and you will see it: Me?! A foul?! But...but...but... but I'm Tim Duncan! I'm really good at bank shots! I hate Tim Duncan, although not with as much passion as Bowen.
• I hate Ginobli because he's a SOCCER PLAYER. We shouldn't be surprised by his conduct on the court considering he is from Argentina, a country surpassed at last year's World Cup in Foreign Bitchometer points only by the dreaded Portuguese (I shudder as I write that) and Italian teams. The only moments when my American pride comes out are when I'm discussing foreign soccer players and foreign basketball players. They are either straight up feminine, or they're straight up actors. Maybe a little of both. But I HATE Ginobli.

Bill Simmons, it turns out, thinks exactly as I do.

"Another reason why the officiating stood out in that game: Have you ever seen more players utterly convinced that they've never committed a foul in their lives than the guys from this Spurs-Suns series? What an annoying bunch of whiners; it's like watching the 2006 World Cup with more whistles. If that's what we get for having "the most international NBA playoff series of all time," then screw it -- let's make rules that no team can have more than three foreign players so we don't have to watch these guys bitch and moan for two straight hours. For God's sake, Ginobili is at the point in his life where he could rear-end someone at a stoplight, then hop out of his car with his hands raised blaming the other driver for being in his way. Give it a rest, Manu. We're begging you."

Not that there's anything wrong with that...

But Roger Clemens definitely desires Andy Pettitte.

Corrections on my story about France:

From mon amie Élise, native of Magdalen Island, the "eepie" outpost of Québécois separatism:
"I cannot prevent myself from correcting the mistake. After you can make fun of my 'nationalism,' I assume. Cirque du soleil is QUÉBÉCOIS, not French."

And from Peter, my former boss at Stratfor, who knows more about everything than Ken from Jeopardy!:
"Two small items: Cirque is Canadian, and it is the Fifth Republic, not Third"

Facts, shmacts. I was just trying to show off what I look like in a Speedo.

You know things are getting boring when I start talking about French politics.

Hating France is like hating your grandmother's undeniably cute little dog because it barks at you and acts like a bad ass. You know it's not tough, you know it knows it's not tough, but you just can't stand the fact that little old Lucy pretends to be tough -- so you hate her, refuse to pet her, maybe even boycott the wine she produces.

But deep down, you can't deny that you really think Lucy is cute.

It's the same with France. You try to act like you hate "Amelie" and Cirque du Soleil, but you just can't stop eating those freedom fries every time you go to McDonald's. Plus,there's the beautiful country side, the awesome capital city, the beautiful girls who are très élégantes, the food, the public pools which, ostensibly for sanitation purposes, require men to wear speedo's (see below) ...

My time visiting France during my semester in Geneva back in 2004.

... and then there are the nicknames for the politicians there. How cool are they?

Sarko and Sego. It sounds like the Portuguese answer to the Klitschko brothers, or a sidekick duo on the next generation's version of "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles."

SAR-KO! SE-GO!

SE-GO! SAR-KO!

OÙ EST LE PEN? OÙ EST BAY-ROU?

I could do this all day, because I'm not doing much at the moment here in Houston. I read; I pet my dogs; I wait for my friends to get out of work. I need a job, basically.

It got so bad that the other night, I found myself watching C-SPAN for nearly 15 straight minutes. C-SPAN. I have gone from running with the bulls, reggae festivals and Belgrade Billy to sitting in my kitchen watching C-SPAN -- I admit it. But I also admit that that night, I actually found myself enjoying it.

It was 4 a.m., I had a handful of Girl Scout cookies in my mouth, and I was transfixed by the replay of the French presidential debate, complete with male and female English translators.

In this corner, coming from the far right, Jacques Chirac's former Apostle-turned-Judas, the French Tony "Yo, Blair," Mr. Nicolas Sarrrrr-KOHHHHHHHH-ZEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

And in this corner, coming from the far left, the Third Republic's M.I.L.F. of an answer to Angela Merkl, the much better looking, French version of Hillary Clinton, Sègolène Roy-ALLLLLLLLL!

Believe me when I say this: it was better than coming home and clicking to an episode of "Family Guy."

Presidential debates are typically stolid affairs -- everyone lies, everyone smiles for the cameras, some people forget Poland, others do not, but everyone does what people who want to be president do. Not in France. In France -- or at least when it's Sego, Sarko! Sarko, Sego! -- a televised presidential debate devolves into a "yuh huh" / "nah aww" contest.

It was phenomenal, especially funny because I could semi-understand the French that was barely audible in the background of the translation, and then I'd get to hear two boring translators attempt to role play Sego and Sarko in English. The passion of two French people arguing -- two French people who genuinely despise one another, to take it a step farther -- just wasn't very authentic with the filter attached.

Here is the rough translation, edited for memory loss:

Sarko: Blah blah blah, I am such a defender of retarded children, blah blah, they deserve this or that, blah blah.

Sego: Blah blah, this is scandalous, blah blah, you are immoral, you have changed your position on this while I never wavered, blah blah, j'aime les retardes, tu es fleep-floppair, I am woman, hear me roar, ROOOAAAARRRR, ROOOAAAARRRRR, ROOOAAARRRRRRRRR, finit.

Sarko: (smirking, learning from Bush, smirking) If you want to become president, you must keep your cool. You, Madame Royal, just lost your cool. You are therefore not fit to be president.

Sego: I did not lose my cool! I did not. I am very calm.

Sarko: Yes, you did lose your cool. If you want to be president, you must be calm in every situation.

Sego: No, I didn't. I was calm. I am calm. I just get passionate when there is injustice!

Sarko: (still smirking) Yes, you did.

Sego: NUH UH!

Sarko: Yuh huh.

Sego: Whatever!

Sarko: You are soooo not presidential material.

Sego: You are immoral.

Sarko: How dare you say that to me? I would never call you immoral, Madame Royal. If you want to be president, you cannot lose your cool.

Moderator: Well then, moving along, how about this question? (moderator attempts to change subject by posing a new question to Royal)

Sego: Yes, I will answer that question, but first, I must address Mr. Sarkozy's claims that I "lost my cool." I most certainly did not lose my cool. I am very calm.

Sarko: (smirk has never left; he knows she has lost not only her cool, but also the debate) No, you lost your cool.

Anyone else surprised Sarko took the title? Not me.

Two quotable quotes from my time back.

1) From Douglas, my I-think-he's-five-but-I-know-for-sure-that-he-is-really-young godson/cousin:

"Are you in school?"

"Not anymore."

"How come you're a kid but you're not in school?"

"I don't know Douglas, I ask myself that same question every day."

2) From The Bob, my dad, after I explained how stupid the English language is, since it's so impossible to pronounce the word "shift" in plural (think about it, it should be shiftes, just like it should be raftes, shaftes, etc. It is impossible to say "shifts" without struggling):

"I think you need to get a job so you don't have to worry about these issues."

Oh my Lord I am wasting away. Two more months before I feel productive again.

AND WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW THAT THE ROCKETS ARE OUT AND THE ASTROS SUCK??