Grood.com

To whom it may concern:

Hi, my name is Doug Dixon. I’ve attended somewhere in the neighborhood of 125-150 Dodgers games since moving to Los Angeles in 2005 which translates, estimating conservatively, to just a shade below 30 games per season. I bleed blue, at least in a figurative way. Throughout those four and a half years I have amassed quite a collection of bobbleheads, seen in the picture I recently posted on Twitter (http://yfrog.com/ne1mqj). It’s quite the conversation starter and I feel it really ties my living room together.

I attended last Tuesday’s game against the Giants, now commonly referred to as the “Mattingly game.” As you know, it was also James Loney bobblehead night. You can probably guess that I was more than excited to pick up a Loney bobblehead or as I like to refer to as “Lil Loney.” Unfortunately, I opened the box for the bobblehead when I got home to discover, much to my horror, that Lil Loney’s leg had been broken in several places. As you can see in this photo I posted on Twitter (http://yfrog.com/3ujf2xj), it looks like Lil Loney might have taken a bit of a spill on his way to me.

Is there any way I could get a replacement for Lil Loney? It would mean a lot to me and my ball club which, as you can see in the team photo, is sorely lacking a quality first baseman. I am more than willing to cover the retail price and shipping for a replacement Lil Loney if need be.

Thank you for your consideration, and Go Blue!

All right, so i’ve been working on a few screenplays and shooting a webseries and this blog has obviously been the lowest of my priorities. Anywho, I’m still in the middle of that shiite so until then, follow me on twitter.

So, there I was this morning, sitting at my desk, staring at a blinking cursor, struggling with coming up with something to write about. Would I write about the series finale of Lost, a show I had not seen more than ten seconds of? The oil spill? The NBA Playoffs? Such decisions! You see? This is the madness which dictates my life.

I went home for lunch, dejected with myself and the travesty that I had become. I turned the corner of my street, asking myself over and over “What am I doing with my life?” Then I got to my apartment building and right in front, I saw this…

Sometimes, you wander the world trying to find inspiration. And sometimes, inspiration finds you. This here, ladies and gents, is the woman of my dreams. On paper, at least. She’s wearing high heels but she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty or show a little skin. And just in case you were wondering if what exactly is covering her arms, those are tattoos. Lots of them. All over her body, actually.

When LeBron and the Cavs were knocked out of the playoffs last week, a media firestorm erupted all centered about which team LeBron would be playing for next season. That was all the talk on ESPN as well as the countless sports blogs out there, and it’s still goin going on right now. My brother sent me a sarcastic text, “In case you haven’t heard, LeBron is a free agent.” It was funny, but it also sent a subtle chill down my spine. Here’s why.

A little over two weeks ago, the Denver Broncos selected college football golden boy and possible direct descendant of Jesus Christ, Tim Tebow, in the first round of the NFL Draft. Most quote unquote experts and analysts and my heroin dealer had picked him to get taken in the later in the rounds, citing his sluggish throwing mechanics and his devastating heroin addiction. ¹

Initially, I was happy for Tebow. Even though the press had forced Tebow down our throats for the past three years and I even contemplated suicide on several occasions to escape the pain of his overexposure, I was still pleased to see him go early. And then it hit me: If Tim Tebow goes on to have a successful NFL career, we are all fucked.

One of my eleven regular sexual partners just happens to be a pretty big Denver Broncos fan. She (I’m pretty sure she’s a she) watches every single one of their games, owns a healthy amount of memorabilia and has probably contemplated getting the Broncos logo tattooed somewhere on her body. Despite her Broncos fandom, which makes absolutely no fucking sense given that she has lived in Southern California her entire life, she has no idea who or what Tim Tebow is. Not being interested in college football in any tangible way, she has miraculously dodged that bullet. A big bullet indeed.

So, for the uninformed, who exactly is Tim Tebow? Well, let’s sum it up: 2 national titles and a Heisman Trophy. Additionally, he won pretty much every award that the NCAA can give to a player as well as setting a few dozen or so records, including being the only player in NCAA history to score 20 touchdowns rushing and 20 touchdowns passing in the same season.

Big deal, right? The guy can take a ball and run with it and/or throw with it. Plenty of people can do that. Michael Vick, hello? But it wasn’t just Tebow’s on-the-field exploits that got the media’s pants all in a bunch. When not prancing around the field like a dandy, Tebow would often be spotted in far away locales such as the Philippines doing missionary work. On top of that, he claims to still be a virgin and ends almost every interview with “God bless.”

Jesus Christ, this guy’s perfect. Of course, anyone who watched a single game of college football game between the 2007 and 2009 seasons knows this. And I don’t mean a Florida Gators game where he played, I mean practically any college football game during that time. If there’s one thing the media likes, it’s a feel-good story. And if there’s another thing the media likes, it’s not having to be creative. Announcers would not STFU about Tebow’s talents and accomplishments, constantly reminding the television audience of their own inadequacies. And we got annoyed.²

To sum it up: Tim Tebow became more Ned Flanders than even Ned Flanders. And that was just in college. Imagine if his success continues in the pro game. Because then, it won’t just be the media who will have their mouths set to auto-fellate. Not in the NFL, where money talks, where someone can endorse anything. It’s already starting. Tebow’s recently been named as the coverboy of NCAA ‘11 and his NFL jersey was the top selling pro jersey for the month of April. Not bad for someone who doesn’t even have a signed NFL contract.

Long story short, you better pray to the Gods that Tim Tebow tanks in the NFL.

At my last job, which ended roughly four years ago, they set us up with a Health Savings Account. The way it worked was a small percentage of my paycheck qould go towards it, and my employers would match the contribution, all tax free. Those proceeds would then be applied to any medical expense I have, whether it’s doctor visit copays or prescription meds.

So i got my last statement from them and noticed the balance had gotten down to around $11 and was getting lower with each month due to a $2.50 service charge. I called US Bank yesterday and in order to close the account, there is a $30 charge. Yes, I’m being charged $30 to close an account with $11 in it. Awesome.

It’s game six versus the Lakers and the Thunder tonight. I’ll be rooting for the Thunder but not because I have any loyalty to my home state. No, it’s because Kobe really, really bugs me and, as a result, I have grown to loathe the Lakers. It’s extreme. In fact, I’d root for a team made up of Hitler, Satan, a parking enforcement employee, Xerxes from 300 and the guy who stole my lunch in preschool if they were playing the Lakers.

It’s annoying how into the NBA Playoffs I get when I could care less about the regular season and the NBA as a whole, for that matter. I stopped caring about the NBA the day after Game six of the 1998 Finals when Jordan sank the game winning shot, the last one he’d take in a Bulls uniform. Then the Spurs started their reign, along with, ugh, Kobe.

It’s reassuring to know that Kobe is starting to show signs of age. He’s actually played more minutes than Jordan ever did in a Bulls uniform, remarkable since he’s only 31. It’s really only a matter of time before Kobe starts losing and LeBron actually wins a ring. Remember, kids: Every time Kobe scores, God kills a puppy.