Tuesday, May 12, 2009

An Apology From Mark Cuban

In a rare piece of legitimate reporting, we here at Heveron Industries managed to hack Mark Cuban’s blackberry and download this important document — an apparent apology — right from the King Douche himself.

Note: For those of you blissfully unaware, Mark Cuban is the owner of the NBA team, The Dallas Mavericks. He is famous for writing the world’s most blindly self-centered, close-minded blog, being almost totally ignorant about how professional basketball works, yelling at refs even though he is not a coach/player/assistant, consistently displaying a total lack of any discernable sportsmanship, and wasting roughly 11 million dollars in luxury tax to have aged point guard Jason Kidd do his best coma impression for 82+ games a year. Oh, and he also punched a camera man for no reason and yelled obscenities at a player’s mom…on Mother’s Day weekend. A real class act. His apology is presented below.

“Dear To Whom it May Concern,

Hi, my name is Mark Cuban (but don’t worry, I’m not actually Cuban — since I didn’t come to this country on a piece of driftwood and I don’t work for minimum wage at a Denny’s kitchen in Miami. By the way, I’m a huge racist). In light of recent events, I thought it would be a good idea to let the world see into my thought process about why I act the way I do. Normally I would just say you should read my blog to see my thoughts written out, but we both know that my blog is far too one-sided and ignorantly written to actually be capable of conveying any real thoughts or emotions. Hell, if I posted something eloquent, sincere and balanced on there, people would probably assume it was someone else writing it, like a sort of April Fool’s gag or something that I had written up by a secretary. And then once I had that secretary explain what the word “eloquent” means, I’d fire her for even suggesting the idea in the first place. And of course all my secretaries are female, because I don’t think women are capable of any task more complex than doing laundry or taking dictation — unless you count getting pregnant and raising a family as a job (which I don’t. By the way, I’m a huge sexist).

So why am I the way I am? Why am I a bitter, ugly man with a chip on his shoulder as big as the trustfund that I didn’t have to work for? And what business do I have being involved in professional athletics of any sort? Well, as with most things, I suppose it all comes back to my childhood. As a perpetually out of shape white boy who only grew to 6’3”, I was never very good at sports growing up. I was mocked on and off the field, bullied in the locker room, made fun of in classes (mostly by my teachers), and just generally disliked for being such an unbelievable jerk. And I was often picked last for doucheball (a sport played exclusively by us rich kids who have never had the sense of what a hard day’s work is, or any sense of gratitude of values — it’s how we get so good at being douches in our adult lives). So naturally when all the odds said I’d never be able to play professional sports, and my grades were too low to do anything meaningful with my life, I decided that the best solution would be for me to do what rich people had been doing for years — just throw obscene amounts of money at something and yell at people to improve my self esteem. And that’s just what I did. Sure, everyone knows that despite all of that cash, I’m really little more than a glorified season ticketholder, but that doesn’t keep me from acting like I invented the F-ing NBA and the sport of basketball in general.

As far as my temper, well I’ve never really been clear on how basketball actually works, but I’ve found a pretty good trick that’s really helped me over the years. All you have to do is just watch your team’s coaches and players during the game, and when they get a little mad about something, then you get way, way madder! It sounds so simple, I’ll bet you can’t believe you hadn’t thought of it yourself. For instance, when our marquis player, Dirk Nowitzki (I think he’s from Mexico, because I think all foreign people come from Mexico. By the way, I’m still a huge racist), gets upset about a call, and maybe has an angry look on his face and expresses his anger to one of his teammates, then I know that’s my cue to go batsh*t crazy and start flipping out on everyone within earshot and arm’s reach. Everyone will be so caught off guard by how psycho you can act that they’ll never even realize it’s because you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and that you have absolutely no idea what’s going on. Of course that’s the subtler route, and might be hard for beginners. If you want an easier example, just wait till the end of the game. If you’re at the home court and your team wins, they always shoot off fireballs or confetti or something like that. So when the game ends, if they don’t shoot off anything, then that’s when you start screaming every swear word you can think of, and shoving everyone who’s anywhere near you (this included pregnant women, the elderly, other people’s mothers and below-the-line workers such as cameramen and concessions salesmen). And when you’re at road games, just do it vice versa. When those confetti cannons shoot off, that’s your cue to shoot off just as loudly.

That brings me to another popular question I’d like to address. The question I get all the time is, “why — out of the league’s 32 teams — are you the only owner who feels the need to sit courtside and act like a megadouche instead of sitting up in the owner’s box on the club level that’s reserved for exactly that sort of thing, where you’d at least be able to keep your childish antics out of the public eye?” And the simple answer is, I’m not allowed. Like all rich people, I don’t have any idea where my money actually comes from, or where it goes, so I have a bunch of people I pay to tell me those things. And the one condition that all those people stipulated in their contracts was that they be allowed to watch the games in the owner’s box, without me there. I think it’s because they probably just want some time together to talk about how much they like me, how great of an owner/boss I am, and how much they like it when I explode into a violent rage for no reason and fire them. I didn’t have the heart to deny them that special time together, so I fired the person who suggested it and then let the rest of them sit in the owner’s box without me. It’s probably more appropriate that they sit there anyway, since they know way more about what it takes to run an NBA team than I do — although I do get to take some credit for some decisions…after all, whose idea was it to make a massively-uninformed trade and spend 11 million in luxury tax PLUS the cost of his contract for 35-year-old point guard Jason Kidd? That’s right, baby, it was all this guy — Mark Cuban. In fact, I still remember the day after that trade, as I was listening-in to all my employees’ conversations with the Watergate-style phone taps and bugged offices that I’ve implemented over the years, I heard all of them saying that the trade was ‘Pure Cuban’ or ‘exactly the kind of move you’d only see Mark Cuban make’ or ‘like some sort of sick joke that only that nimrod from the front office would push for.’ I never did look up what ‘nimrod’ means, but I’m pretty sure it’s Icelandic for ‘wise chief who makes wise decisions and slays many seals. With wisdom.’

Anyways, I guess I’m gonna mosey on to the NBA commissioner’s office and bitch about a legitimate non-call for a couple hours, rather than explaining to my team and coaches what exactly a hard/intentional foul is, because that’s the only solution I can come up with.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot this was supposed to be an apology letter.

You’re sorry.

There, now it’s all apologized up. Man, I bet even more people love me now.

Happy Tuesday and go Mavs (also, if anyone can tell me what ‘Mavs’ is short for, I’d be really thankful. So thankful that I might not even fire you on the spot for making eye contact),
Mark Elizabeth Cuban"

"And just to show that I still respect Mother's Day, here's a picture of me and my mother (Mrs. Cuban) from Mother's Day Brunch on Sunday. See? We still care about each other. Now you know that Mark Cuban loves his mom almost as much as his drinking problem."

Friday, May 1, 2009

Today’s Top Ten Twilight Teachings

I have read the entire Twilight series. I even saw the movie. In theaters. For the most part, I chalked these activities up to the duties of being an elder brother to my high-school-aged sister, however I’ve since realized that Twilight and its subsequent books have valuable lessons to teach all of us, not just the Pattison-crazed teenagers. Since most of you are dense and unenlightened, I will spell out these important teachings for you now…because like I just mentioned, you are too slow-witted to figure them out on your own (I had to say it again because you probably forgot why I was telling in the first place — that’s how moronic you are).

On an unrelated note, I just read someplace that belittling other people improves your self-esteem and helps you lose weight — all while putting on valuable muscle, so I’m trying that out. At least I think that’s what it said. I only read at a third-grade level, so I’m not really sure. But I digress (anyone know what that word means?!).

Today’s Top Ten Twilight Teachings (and every day’s — I don’t think this will be an ongoing thing, I just wanted to add to the alliteration by throwing “today’s” in front).

1) You are only as young as you feel. And look. Subsequently, you are only bound by rules and laws that apply to however old you feel/look. For example, I used to think it was illegal to date 17-year-olds if you were older than 18. However, thanks to Twilight, I now know that it’s NOT illegal to date 17-year-olds as long as you look 17 or act 17 or are in high school! Even if you’re 18! Even if you’re 20! Even if you’re an undead creature with no soul pushing 90-something! It’s all good in the hood as long as you still resemble that picture on your temp driver’s license.

2) Immortals are sharp dressers. It’s a rule that the older you get, the better dresser you are, and the cooler you become in general. Observe our society: whom do we turn to when we need to know the next hot fashion trend or a when we need a guide to this season’s “in” look? The elderly, duh! So it stands to reason that if someone lived for centuries ad nauseam, that they would just endlessly adapt to current trends and fashions and gadgets — just like all octogenarians do as they age. Whoops, I lost track of time, I need to run to the local senior citizen center so I can get a sneak peak at 2010’s hot looks.

3) Vampires love baseball. Well not baseball in general, just the Cubs. Mostly because frozen-in-time vampires from the 1800’s are the only people still around who remember the last time the Cubs won a world series.

4) Vampires aren’t affected by girls on their periods. Even intrinsic, demonic bloodlust has its limits. …Yeah, I even grossed myself out on that one, so I’m just gonna go ahead and stop that one there.

5) Vampires can’t ever be seen in the sunlight because it would blow their cover. Unless they need to plan an impromptu trip to Phoenix in the spring just to get away from it all. All vampires look like they're covered with a million tiny diamonds that glisten and flicker and shine when they're exposed to direct sunlight, so the only time they're allowed someplace sunny is when they just really, really need to go to Phoenix for a few days. Or if they're attending an outdoor Bette Midler concert, since most of her fans would be covered in sparkly sequins anyway, and they'd fit right in.

6) Stephanie Meyer isn’t a very good writer. Good come-up-with-a-story-person, but not really much for prose. Next time, pay a ghostwriter. Or an editor who will cut out about 450 pages’ worth of “he’s so dreamy, he can’t possibly love me…even though he says he does. Oh, I'm so insecure!” inner-monologues over the course of the series.

7) Vampires are anorexic and/or bulimic. Eating disorders are real and serious, not just some imaginary teen fiction fare like Italian vampire regimes and the swine flu. All through Twilight, we see that the vampires don’t let themselves eat human food, just so they can maintain the ridiculous standards of vampire attractiveness forced upon them by the liberal vampire media and its unhealthily-pale, malnourished and sickly models. And when they do eat, they just puke the human food back up later. Not cool. My personal philosophy is that everyone should eat what they want, when they want, as often as they want. If you’re worried about getting out of shape because of it, just go exercise a reasonable amount. I thought vampires would’ve figured out something that simple by now.

8) Vampires can only spend money on gifts. Over the centuries, the Cullen family has accumulated a vast amount of wealth and untold treasures. But just like their curse of not being able to wear any clothing that isn’t a shade of white/gray, vampires can only spend their money on gifts for each other, or other people. For instance there’s a car this one girl vampire really, really wants for most of the books, but instead of tapping into her family’s vast riches and buying it for herself like an adult, she’s forced to wait until one of her adopted siblings buys it for her. Mo’ money, mo’ problems. Even in vampire world.

9) It’s totally cool to sneak into a random girl’s bedroom and watch her sleep all night — as long as you don’t get caught and you can’t read her thoughts. I always thought this was a felony, but it turns out it’s actually just a really good way to get to know your crush. Personally I prefer social-network stalking (have you updated your facebook or twitter or blog or linkedin in the past sixty seconds? I have!), but Twilight taught me that if you have a crush on someone and you really like them, then it’s much quicker to watch them sleep at night. All night. Every night. Just imagine how much you’ll have to talk about when you finally get introduced! It’s more informative than an eharmony profile, and way less expensive!

10) The best way to handle a rough breakup is to fall into a coma, or to pursue near-suicidal hobbies. Nothing says “hey young female readers who are still trying to figure out how to cope with life, this is the example you should follow” more than having your female lead completely go mental after her first real breakup. The specific way to carry out this technique — known as the “Meyer Method” in most psychiatric wards across the country — is to first dive headfirst into a sort of living coma where you neglect all your family, friends and loved ones and basically just shut out the entire world while you cling desperately to the shattered remains of a high school relationship that lasted less than a year. You’ll know you’re doing step one properly when you can’t remember entire chunks of your life, food has no taste, the world has no colors, and you go for months on end without smiling or engaging in a full conversation with another human. The second part of this can’t-miss reconciliation technique is to regularly put yourself in any and all life-threatening situations you can think of, in the hopes that you can have an imaginary conversation with your ex-boyfriend for a few fleeting moments as the byproduct of your broken and shattered psyche. This is particularly effective if you’re a somewhat frail and uncoordinated teenage girl, as it’s easier to create potentially deadly situations out of everyday circumstances. Base jumping, Russian roulette, unprotected sex with someone carrying the AIDS virus — anything goes as long as it results in your battered mind producing some sham interaction with your former high school fling.

Welp, that's all the knowledge I'm legally allowed to share with you at this point — and I'll tell you what, if there's one thing I can't call Stephanie Meyer out for, it's being long-winded. Because good Lord, I certainly take the cake on that one.

Ok kids, the Heat are up by 31, forcing the second most interesting game seven of the first round of NBA playoffs, so I’ma run to the gym and share my vast knowledge of teen vampire drama and pointless NBA stats with all the women who are about to shut me down. It should be a good night.

Peace, love, and rock!

"Well you certainly don't FEEL 17 when I hold you like this. You feel more like 19 or 20. That probably makes it ok."