Little Happy Clouds

Study: White Men Cannot Jump

Los Angeles, CA -- A new study released today by The Institute of Sports Stereotypes has concluded that white men cannot jump, supporting the long held belief among those in the scientific community. This is startling news to the group of vocal supporters that insist on an alternative hypothesis that white men can and do jump, though for some as of yet unknown reason they mostly choose not to in public. This group, coined "Jumpers," has denounced the study as mere propaganda against the white basketball player.

"I'm still not buying it," says Pale Jumpers of America spokesman Chase Budinger. "We've seen time and time again these types of studies, and each time I go outside and perform a 360 dunk out of spite."

Despite the protests from Budinger's group and others just like it, the evidence in the report is damning. According to the study, an estimated 97% of white males cannot jump. That leaves deniers such as Budinger as outliers.

Reactions from the local players at Los Angeles' famous Venice courts finds mixed support for the findings.

"We've known for years that white dudes can't jump, " says Venice playground legend Sidney Deane. "The amount of money I've won off these cats trying to tell me they can dunk...man. Heck, I stopped even trying to throw alley-oops to my running mate Billy (Hoyle). Tired of watching that (expletive) sail over his stupid head."

We found Deane's two-on-two partner Hoyle, sitting on the bleachers with a colorful flippy ball cap on turned backwards.

"Yeah I heard about the study," says an incredulous Hoyle. "Don't mean nothing to me. I've dunked before, I'll dunk again. What, you don't believe me? I'll dunk it right now. Five hundred says I can dunk right now on this court."

Despite Hoyle's protests, the stigma will remain. The Institute says it will now move on to study the dunking ability of dogs first proposed by Air Bud, as well as ongoing research on young kids developing major league caliber pitching ability after breaking their arms.

Recently uncovered letters between onetime teammates Manute Bol and Mugsy Bogues show a contentious and fragile relationship.

Recently, Cleveland Indians radio announcer Harry Doyle and his colorman Monty sat down with Indian’s manager Lou Brown to talk about the surprising 1989 season. Here is the interview.


Harry Doyle: Lou Brown, best damn skipper in the bigs. Let's talk about that magical ride in '89. The Cleveland Indians, assembled like shit thrown at the wall and left for dead, go on an absolute tear and catch the those Yankee bastards. What was the spark, Lou?

Lou Brown: Well Harry, it was a few things. The vets we had were solid. Taylor, Harris, even that blowhard Dorn. And I knew we had a little something with some of our young guys. Couple a future All Stars in there I tell ya. Hayes, goddamn was he fast. Talked a lot, but he really set the table for our bats like Serrano. And Vaughn of course. Man that sonofabitch can deal.

Doyle: Let’s talk about Wild Thing. Cultural phenomenon, a local icon really. Healthy rap sheet to match, mostly parking tickets I'm sure. Can you explain it?

Brown: You know Harry, I just can’t say. Vaughn comes in to that damn song and people lose their shit. 'Aint seen nothing like it in forty damn years. Hell of cannon on him. That’s the only advice I ever gave him. “Just give ‘em the heater, Ricky.”

Doyle: Throws a heater in a wife beater, right Monty? Anyway, Lou, how about the big fella Serrano? Big bat, scary motherfucker too.

Brown: You’re telling me. Came into my office after a game and asked for the next day off from practice. Asked him what for, tells me he needs to purify his bats in a tub of sheep’s blood or some horseshit. I said you learn to hit a curveball and I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do.

Doyle: Hope nobody brought the family dog to the clubhouse. He had a thing with Harris right?

Brown: Well, I try to stay out of the guys’ business. But those two really got after it and effed up my clubhouse. Jesus this. Jobu that. Just shut your holes and play some ball. But Harris was our rock. That old sack of shit was throwin’ the lord’s junk or something. Helped get us to the dance.

Doyle: What about Jake Taylor. You pulled him off the scrap heap, knees like jello, looked like it was time to put him out to pasture. But he stays in one piece and has an All Star season. What gives? He juicing?

Brown: (Laughing) Taylor? Juice? Only juice he takes has vodka in it. But Jake sure did come through for us. Team leader, tough S.O.B. too. Really helped Vaughn come along. He’ll be in my seat someday.

Doyle: Well Lou, thanks for chewing it with us. I don’t care what they say about ya, you’re one hell of a guy. Right, Monty?

Monty: …

Doyle: Exactly.

ACT I
SCENE I

The scene opens with Walter White driving his late model Pontiac Aztec frantically through the streets of Albuquerque, NM. His face is in an obvious state of distress, and he is sweating profusely. He violently swerves down a well manicured street, stopping suddenly as he pulls into the driveway of Jesse Pinkman's home. Rushing inside the house, he confronts Jesse who is napping on his futon.

A lady walks into a bar with her goose. The bartender comes up to her and says, ''Why did you have to bring the pig in with you?''

The lady answered, ''Excuse me, I think this is a goose.''

The bartender replies, ''Excuse me, I was talking to the goose.''

Another dazed patron forces the bar door open and slogs out into the blustery and unforgiving Buffalo freeze, a gust of air rushes in. Nobody blinks. The remaining crew at Upstate Jack's Tavern holds their heads in their beers, and their hearts in their fists.

Its another January evening, and another Super Bowl loss. That makes four in a row, but who's counting.

These men have gathered here for four season's running to rejoice and share in one of sport's great gifts. That rare championship bond that generations pass down, where tall tales become stories, and stories become legends. They have talked excitedly about what it will be like when it finally happens, because surely God has no sense of humor this cruel. This is their year, they say, this is the one.

Wide right, was a fluke, they claim, Norwood a martyr. The Redskins got lucky, the Cowboys the same. And yet again all the talk of overcoming this curse and healing this town has come crumbling down, now rusting away at what little hope remains for that triumphant moment.

Buffalo is a tough town, everyone knows that. But even tough guys have their limit. The remaining few at Upstate Jack's are reconciling their emotions over stunned silence, the alcohol only making it worse. Finally, another rises and puts on his coat to leave. He breaks the silence, his words a jarring interruption.

"Well," he says as he opens the door, "At least Thurman didn't lose his fucking helmet this time."

For never again will there be another like Sabo!

And with that I exited the bathroom and charged down the hallway, my pink skirt flailing as I ran. You see, children's kilts were awful hard to come by in our small little town.

Hope springs eternal of course, with Stafford and Calvin leading a new path. But the ghost of Scott Mitchell lurks from behind, waiting to pounce.

And on the ground a broken man, the one they call Harden.

Blauser stood up from is chair, limped over to Mickey and whispered gently in his ear. "You've seen the bulge," he said softly. "It's Beck's cup."


RIP Rod 1968-2007