A friend and colleague of mine recently celebrated his 1000th post. He had this silly little idea to compile some of his friends together for a roast in his honor. Right about now, I have a feeling he’s regretting that decision.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… the roast of J-Dub. You might want to grab your earmuffs.
SportsChump: As part of marking the 1,000th post on Dubsism, a few fellow bloggers and fans thought it might not be a bad idea to honor the man behind Dubsism with an old-fashioned roast. Not the Dean Martin or Comedy Central type, we’re talking about shoving an apple in that fat fuckers’ mouth, tossing him on a spit and feeding 75% of Africa. But since there are laws against that sort of stuff, and even those kids Sally Struthers hasn’t eaten yet won’t eat meat that tastes of bourbon and despair. Not to mention, that whole cannibalism thing is only OK if you are a South American soccer team stranded in the Andes.
So, we went right back to the Dean Martin thing. We all broke out our tuxedos, or in J-Dubs’ case – his tarp with a bow-tie glued to it – and here we are. I guess we are supposed to be somehow honoring this degenerate by insulting him, but’s what’s our alternative? We really couldn’t find anybody who had anything positive to say about the son of a bitch. Even the people at ISIS think he’s bad for America.
My name is SportsChump, and I write a real sports blog. My blog has won awards, isn’t patently offensive, and is generally everything Dubsism is not. Despite all that, I’m here tonight to be your Master of Ceremonies. Because I lost a fucking bet, that’s why.
That’s the story for the rest of tonight’s dais, except for Ryan Meehan. He’s here as part of a community service obligation. Meehan is another blogger who writes interviews with a lot of comedians you’ve never heard of, and sometime collaborates with J-Dub creating content which is actually America’s best argument against the 1st Amendment. You are probably unfamiliar with Ryan Meehan and his website First Order Historians. And for that, you should be thankful. He’s mostly known for his “Seven Questions” series where he interviews a number of local comedians and wannabe television stars by asking them seven questions, one of which is whether they have any spare change.
I have just one question for Mr. Meehan. Who the fuck cares? You would think some of these comedians would rub their sense of humor off on the poor guy.
Mrs. J-Dub had the nerve to show up here tonight. Admitting you are married to J-Dub is like going to Boston wearing a t-shirt with the Tsarnaev brothers on it. I’d like to thank Mrs. J-Dub for allowing our roastee the liberty to express himself publicly, although we all know it’s because she likes to see him using the internet for something other than downloading midget tranny porn.
I look around this dais and see…well…nobody. It’s like nobody here ever heard of Evite. Or more likely, by looking J-Dub’s website, he hasn’t figured out how to use this thing they call the internet.
Dr. Milhouse is here tonight which is surprising that his wife let him out of her sight. Talk about finding a needle dick in a haystack, Dr. Milhouse married the only woman that would marry him, which is a good thing considering the last thing America needs is this guy trolling for pussy and impressing women nationwide with his extensive knowledge of all things unimportant. Milhouse is the very reason roofies were invented.
Our good doctor spent some time writing for Deadspin back in the day. That is, until he ran out of crayons. Now he’s onto contributing to far more successful websites, occasionally writing for SportsChump.net. He even brought his only reader along with him, which has officially doubled my traffic. I guess I should tell him clicking on the page from his own IP address 1,000 times a day doesn’t do anything for my numbers.
We also have the lovely Aniria Wilson here this evening, our walking, talking promotion for why it’s always wise to use birth control. I’ve seen Aniria on stage performing what she likes to call comedy. The concert hall was actually packed but that’s probably because she wrote “Gang-bang After The Show” on the back of all the tickets she handed out. No, but seriously, Aniria…when’s that gang-bang happening?
Remember back in the 1970’s when there was a seriously unfunny comedian called “The Unknown Comic?” The guy used to tell jokes so bad he had to wear a bag on his head. We have a blogger who would only participate on the terms his identity would not be revealed. Right now, every other asshole on this dais is kicking themselves for not thinking of that.
That brings me to the Man of the Hour…J-Dub. Ya’ know, Rub a Dub Dubsism recently compared my writing to that of a Planned Parenthood brochure, but the real reason I was hanging out at the clinic was to see if it wasn’t too late to have him and his website aborted.
Perhaps you’ve seen his website which features a logo of him on an old 1970 Topps baseball card pitching… which is ironic as most of us know him to be a catcher.
Every so often he’ll crack on Florida, my current state of residence, most likely because they don’t have sunshine or indoor plumbing where he lives. What he fails to understand is that it takes ingenuity and chutzpah to walk into a fast food restaurant naked and drink directly from the soda fountain. He’s just upset because his wife has forbid him from taking his clothes off in front of her ever again.
The last time J-Dub visited Florida he was escorted out by the authorities. Too many people complained he was blocking their view of the sunset. Then there’s was the time they saw him laying on the beach. 23 members of Greenpeace blew their backs out trying to push him back into the water.
It’s perfectly understandable that J-Dub is a bit jealous of me. After all, he’s never won a single one of the contests I host over at the award-winning, dashing, and debonair SportsChump. Meanwhile I win every single one of his, including his latest March Madness haunt, which I guess goes to show you what kind of educated sports fans are reading his site. Like every high school report card he ever brought home, I still give him an E for effort.
When it comes to comparing our contest results, I am his daddy, always winning out. He is Cleveland’s Bill Belichick, I am New England’s. He is Don Zimmer, I am Pedro Martinez. He is Bruce Jenner’s penis. I am the decathlete’s newly coifed and perfumed vagina, giving all new meaning to the term “Wheaties Box.”
With that, there really can’t be a better segue to tonight’s first roaster, Mrs. J-Dub.
Mrs. J-Dub: It’s so lovely to be here (cough). I got excited to be part of what I thought was going to be a fancy affair like those roasts you see on TV. Then I realized “blogger” is synonymous with “cheap bastard.” Who the hell does a “roast” on-line? These assholes couldn’t even be bothered to do this in the real world where I could have at least used this as an excuse to get all dolled up! Instead, I’m writing this is an old pair of his boxer shorts and my favorite Washington Nationals t-shirt. The only thing accurate about that picture is the curlers. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.
At this point, I’m supposed to say something snarky about my husband’s “bloggy buddies,” or as I refer to them, “The On-Line, Self-Promoting, Circle Jerkers.” But, then I thought since I don’t even read their shit, why should I even bother? Oh wait, isn’t that what blogging is all about? Pumping out a bunch of self-serving bullshit nobody ever reads?
Anyway, we are all here to talk about my husband, the offensive sports blogger. I see there are those who liove his stuff, and those who hate it. Either way, at least you have the option as to whether or not you want to read it. Not me. Before any of that shit hits the web, I’ve already had to listen to this fucker spew yet another of his pointless rants before he gets behind his keyboard to share his “sports wisdom.” I’d love to “delete” his shit, but in the real world, that’s called first-degree murder.
Honestly, it is impressive to see how many people enjoy his stuff and getting to this milestone is awesome. His unique take on things and his creativity are two of his finer qualities, and his wit is a good deal of why I fell for the big lug in the first place.
Congratulations, babe, and remember I’ll always be there for you. And remember I’ll ways have a frying ban to brain you with.
SportsChump: Our next presenter to open his mouth and say nothing meaningful is Dr. Milhouse who I see brought his own bottle of Maple Whiskey to the show this evening. When my bar runs out of his special bottle, you can literally see the good doctor with a hammer and a chisel outside the nearest maple tree, trying to carve a whole into it to extract some booze… which I guess is better than what he usually does when he drills holes into inanimate objects.
Dr. Milhouse: It’s pretty well established decorum that if you ask a friend to do you a favor when they’re hammered, they’ll probably say yes. It takes a certain type of awful human being to hold them to it. I say this because that’s exactly what happened with the Chump. He got me five or six drinks in me and then asked me to chime in on a roast of a guy I’ve never met.
“Oh sure, why not? What could possibly go wrong?” Well, this. This is exactly what could go wrong.
I mean, with the Chump, we have a guy who begs random companies to send him free things for the sake of “honest reviews from the Average Joe.” Guess what, Sonic…I didn’t even try your chicken wings. I just scribbled down a review to have the creepy bartender leave me alone so I could watch the football game in peace. A guy who finally realized hockey was a thing, and proceeds to try and teach everyone he knows about the two facts he learned off the Wikipedia Topic of the Day page. But don’t worry–when the Lightning romp through the playoffs, he’ll be there with a retro jersey, with Jablonski misspelled on the back with a wrong number, telling everyone he called it, and he was the only believer in the building.
But enough about God’s Gift to Opportunists. On to our guest of honor. So I spend some time going through J-Dub’s archive. The more I look through it, the more I realize…this guy’s awful. Two or three sentences, Google image search a semi-related photo, call it done. Most of it isn’t even funny. Of course, I realized about ten seconds after that, I made an entire blogging career out of doing the exact same thing–so, ya know, glass houses. Except for one thing–if you’re going to do a Doppelganger bit on Frank Kaminsky, and you don’t talk about Don Flamenco from Mike Tyson’s Punch Out, you’re just leaving chips on the table.
So I could sit here and poke fun at the Bad MS Paint, or the fact that the entire website is filled with columns that look like sidebar ads on the Game Show Network, or that once you sit and go through one of his marathon lists posts, you can tell when he stopped giving a shit and just started typing nonsense like a Master’s student on their thesis’ 15th draft.
But instead, I’m choosing to focus on the positive. For instance, to my knowledge, J-Dub has never killed a hooker. And if he has, clearly, he did it well enough to get away with it. Additionally, I’m 93.45% sure his wife actually exists and is not a figment of his imagination, like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. And assuming she does exist, I’m at least 98.34% sure she’s never owned a penis. And that remainder is based on the off chance that J-Dub has one of his own that she’s willing to take ownership of.
I spent a long time combing through his articles to try and pinpoint exactly how he manages to combine being boring with being an asshole so well. Then I read the “About Me” page and saw he was an engineer. Go figure. A career that is based upon the ability to be as socially ill-functioning as possible, and he becomes a sports blogger. Nice use of irony, Alanis.
However, credit where it’s due, 1,000 posts is an incredible milestone for anyone–let alone the sports equivalent of monkeys at a typewriter trying for Shakespeare and ending up with the Unabomber’s manifesto. I mean, it could be worse. You could live in Indian–oh…wait, he does? God, so many things just started making sense.
Congratulations, J-Dub. Here’s to 1,000 more…until the Chump convinces you to write for his new sports blog “Get in the Glory Hole.”
SportsChump: What can I say about the lovely Aniria Wilson that hasn’t already been written in the restroom walls of the local swingers clubs? No, let’s give it up for Aniria. She’s getting married soon. I guess her fiancée has never heard the old expression about buying the cow and getting the milk for free. Aniria is our resident stand-up comedienne. I guess her husband-to-be has no desire to ever laugh again. Ladies and gentlemen, even though you’ve all probably already had her, I give you Aniria Wilson.
Aniria Wilson: Chump, I see why you got into the softer side of sports writing, you cannot read numbers. It’s “5 Questions with a comedian”, not 7. Only 5. Either you can’t count or this is just a bad habit of exaggerating when girls asked how big you are? It actually did used to be called “7 Questions With”, but just like a girl experimenting on a Friday night with her boyfriend, 5 seemed better to take in that 7.
J-Dub! The man we are here for, the men of men. Or should I say the man for men? I read a piece by him about hats. The article was about how our nation does not know how to wear hats…Yes, I know, compelling and riveting… what stood out was that almost all the pictures in that article were of Justin Bieber in a different style of hat. The obsession is clear and I “bielieb” the article was just an excuse to stay up late cruising the internet for pictures of Justin…in a dark room, with the shades down, Jergen’s bottle not far away.
I hate to burst your bubble J-Dub, but my daughter is a reformed Bieber fan who read a lot about him and she tells me his shoe size is only a 7 ½. If only he played hockey.
J-Dub says he doesn’t use hashtags, hates them, and still uses CompuServe for accessing porn. By the looks of that baseball card picture he also refuses to learn how to use Photoshop. Something that at his age with his looks is a must.
So raise your glasses in honor of J-Dub! Here’s to listening to records, fixing the tracking on a VHS tape, and still wearing an Air Supply shirt in a size Medium while women yell out “The Spanx goes on the INSIDE of your shirt!” Cheers to J-Dub!
SportsChump: So, our next roaster would prefer to keep his identity a secret, and for so many good reasons. He doesn’t want to be identified with this group. He’s got more bill collectors looking for him than Warren Sapp. And there are several paternity suits floating around out which suggest he should have bagged his “little head.” So, here he is…The Unknown Blogger.
The Unknown Blogger: Pay attention, kids. Shit like this is what happens when you don’t do your homework. 50 more SAT points, and I could have gone to college, made something of myself, and been miles away from this crap. Instead, I end up bagging groceries, and that’s how I got the idea for this bit. Thank God I’m as old as J-Dub, otherwise I’d have suffocated myself trying to do this with those fucking plastic bags.
That’s another thing. If J-Dub’s parents hadn’t been so responsible, we wouldn’t have to live through this. I mean really. You couldn’t give the kid one goddamn dry-cleaning bag and let nature take it course? Instead, we all have to live through 1,000 posts of his bullshit because he comes form the one black family in the 1970’s which actually had two parents and a mother who didn’t abort him with a coat-hanger.
Quit your groaning. You want something to groan about? Go read this asshole’s blog. That’s why we are here, isn’t it? This cocksucker’s pumped out 1,000 bits of verbal rectal cancer, and yet I’m the one who wears a bag on his head. Welcome to Barack Obama’s America.
I’m not the only one who went back through his archives. Read the parody of “Apocalypse Now” he did using football coaches from the SEC. People think there’s no money in blogging, but that didn’t come from anything but first-class, pure, uncut “Iron Triangle” smack.
You can take this two ways. Either this guy is main-lining his blog money, or he actually understands how to make money in an obscure sports way. That would explain this…
What can’t be explained is this fat fuck’s fascination with Kyle Orton. If you don’t know, Orton was a mediocre NFL quarterback who J-Dub called the “greatest athlete in the history of ever.” The only reason that happened is because Orton and J-Dub are two of the greatest drunks in the history of ever.
So, I’ve seen a ton of fat jokes here. That means you shouldn’t be surprised this lard-ass would put together an all-time baseball team of fellow lard-asses.
And let’s not forget…this motherfucker actually paid homage to us bag-wearers.
SportsChump: Now for the part of the show I know I’m going to regret, I’d like to turn the program over to a man who not only needs no introduction, but shouldn’t really get one, because he’s got outstanding warrants in more states than he has toes. That’s right, his name is Ryan Meehan, and he’s wanted in seven states.
Ryan Meehan: Like SportsChump said, my name is Ryan Meehan. I’m here because Larry the Cable Guy, Bill Engvall, and Jeff Foxworthy were unable to participate in this blessed event. It’s not that they are busy with other projects. It’s just that they aren’t that fucking funny and this isn’t going to be that type of roast.
Another difference between this roast and those others is that we weren’t able to comprise a big list of D-list celebrities to take part in tonight’s festivities. So if you are looking for a bunch of “Martha Stewart getting titty-fucked” jokes, you need to pull up a rerun of the Bieber roast over on Comedy Central. Here, we’ve got real problems to deal with. The only thing more difficult than getting people to participate in a roast of J-Dub would be the “Man of the Hour” actually seeing his own dick.
OK, so, making fat jokes is easy. So is making it with Mrs. J-Dub. Let me tell you how starved for attention that fucking woman is. Eric Garner was choked to death by members of the NYPD last year, and several NBA players wore shirts which displayed his supposed his last words. “I Can’t Breathe.” Things have gotten even worse for the Garner family as Mrs. J-Dub is now suing the Garner estate for copyright infringement. She uses “I Can’t Breathe” every night J-Dub’s fat ass tries to mount her after he’s downed enough bourbon to float a tugboat.
J-Dub is well-known in the sports blogging community for declaring himself to be an “educated black man.” This means he often takes on the “race” subject in sports that other bloggers are afraid of. That’s funny because J-Dub is less black than Reginald Vel Johnson, the father/cop on “Family Matters.” J-Dub can’t even be “Cosby” black, because he would take all the tranquilizers himself.
J-Dub is damn near fifty years old and has no children of his own. That’s a good thing for America as a whole. I don’t have any kids of my own either, but if I did and I needed a babysitter I’d feel more comfortable leaving them at Eric Clapton’s apartment while he had all of the windows open than drop them off at J-Dub’s house. Then again, they might be pretty safe there. Even though he’s a Penn State guy, there’s no shot of him raping your kids because he’s completely incapable of bending at the waist. The funniest part is that J-Dub and SportsChump were born on exactly the same day, and while J-Dub hasn’t seen his own dick since Bill Clinton carried his own golf clubs, Chump’s junk has seen more ass than a thermometer at a county hospital.
J-Dub lives in Indiana, which is a great place to live for a guy whose waistline is longer than the timing belt in a Greyhound bus engine. Indiana is a place where people make reservations at Old Country Buffet. That’s important because that’s where J-Dub needs to go to see people who take up more table space than he does. More importantly, Indiana is a state which has come under fire recently for passing a law which allows businesses to turn away customers based on whether or not the business owner believes that person might be gay. I have a way to fix this: You simply round up all of the gay men in the state and show them a photograph of J-Dub with his shirt off. All of those men would be so horrified they’d start eating more pussy than cervical cancer.
When I read his pieces, I question J-Dub’s mental state. I read Dubsism and think “Man, I’ve met some GermanWings airline pilots that have more of their shit together.”
SportsChump: Thank you, Ryan Seacrest. Oh wait…At least Seacrest has a fucking job. Now, for the part of the night you’ve all been waiting for. This is the part where our Man of the Hour gets his rebuttal, that is if he hasn’t passed out yet. Ladies and Gentlemen….I give you a man who is such a pain in the ass he’s available in ointment and suppository…the one, the only…J-Dub.
J-Dub: Looking out at the faces in this room tonight, I haven’t seen so many pricks near so many assholes since the last Ava Devine gang-bang. Not to mention, I’ve seen prettier faces on cash. You people got a lot of nerve talking to me the way you have tonight. I’m amazed any of you even have nerves left.
There ‘s been a lot of talk about how much I drink. That’s awesome considering SportsChump is a bartender at an Irish pub, Meehan is straight-up Irish, and I happen to know “The Unknown Blogger” happens to be Canadian. Not to mention, people around Mrs. J-Dub still want to know where she got that “perfume” that smells just like Fireball and Jose Cuervo.
Speaking of Mrs. J-Dub, I’d like to thank her for being here tonight. I’m so glad she could pry herself away from reruns of the “Walking Dead.” Do you know what the difference is between Mrs. J-Dub and a zombie at 7 a.m.? Coffee. You know, every time I look at Mrs. J-Dub, I can’t help but think that had Indiana not wasted all it’s time fucking around with gay marriage, they could have saved me from the single-biggest mistake of my life.
I want it noted for the record that I never drank before I got married. Do you know why? Because I’m old enough to remember when heroin was still cheap.
Then, there’s this Dr. Milhouse guy. I can’t figure out if he’s the Chump’s “doctor” at the county free clinic, or if he’s one of those guys with a Ph. D. in some useless shit like art history. You know, the guy who will lecture you about some shit in the third world you couldn’t care less about while he’s got you in his 25-year old Buick because you decided to Uber your way to the airport.
I have no idea who Aniria Wilson is, but she proves the Chump is a man of the people. Who else would bring to such an event a maid from the Motel 6 where he takes all his closing-time hook-ups? OK, so maybe that’s not fair, but she bagged on me for the Bieber thing while conveniently missing that was another of those goddamn collaborations with Meehan which I will never live down. Like it’s my fault Bieber represents about 85% of what’s fucked up in this country; the other 15% is in this room right now.
If you want to see something funny, just head to Aniria’s website. The first sentence will have you pissing your pants.
“The Funny Diva Show is an all-female comedy show presented by Vixen Comedy.”
“All-female comedy.” That’s right up there with “McDonald’s: Your Home of Haute Cuisine.” Seriously…do you really want comedy from a bunch of people who were “inspired” by the likes of Paula Poundstone?
Aniria, if you want to get some female comedy talent, go get the women filing paternity suits against “The Unknown Blogger.” What’s funnier than suing a guy who made like $800 last year? What the fuck do they think they’re going to get? His prized collection of bags from every supermarket in America?
You can always tell when Ryan Meehan is in the building. You can smell the Ambien and shame from here. Reginald Vel Johnson? Nobody, and I mean nobody remembers who the fuck Reginald Vel Johnson was. He’s so unknown now he’s probably next week’s episode of Seven Questions. Why the fuck have I never been featured on Seven Questions? Oh that’s right…because I’m funny and I fucking exist.
Who the hell is Meehan to be making jokes about batshit crazy airline pilots? His psychotic ass has been on a “No-Fly List” since the Wright Brothers. Not to mention, you can take the most rock-solid pilot, marry him to Mrs. J-Dub, and in no time he’ll be at Universal Studios wanting the buy the “Back to the Future” DeLorean so he can join the Japanese Air Force in 1944.
Not to mention, the Irish have a long history of terrorism. Remember all that shit in Northern Ireland a few years back? It was all about Protestants who couldn’t get along with Catholics and vice versa. They just weren’t the smartest terrorists. It was common to find some Catholic bishop’s car with a potato wired to the battery while some Protestant terrorist was chewing on a lump of plastic explosive for lunch.
I’d like to thank Meehan for being this roast’s version of Jeff Ross. By that, I don’t mean the guy who wrote all the jokes. I mean the guy who clearly has nothing else to do but show up at roasts. Right now, there’s a retirement party being held at a VFW in the Quad Cities which has funny jokes being told because Meehan is here tonight.
Lastly, I’d like to thank SportsChump for taking time out from his one-cock crusade to spread chlamydia as far across Florida as possible to be our Master of Ceremonies tonight. Parents across America should know that when the send their daughters (and a few properly man-scaped sons) to Florida on spring break, they’re going to come home with genitalia that has more speed-bumps than a strip-mall parking lot. Don’t even try to tell me that isn’t true. Like many prodigious scorers, the Chump is more than willing to swing from both sides of the plate.
Oh, allow me to correct you on one thing, Mr. Chump. I have won one of your contests, and do you remember what you sent me for that? A nude photo of Tim Tebow, which you had obviously already “enjoyed,” if you know what I mean.
You all can mark off an acre of the fattest part of my ass to kiss.
Seriously, I’m actually honored that all of you took time to participate tonight. For those of you whom I’ve worked with in the past, it is the blogosphere which brought us together, and those have been some of the most productive relationships I have ever been a part of. For those of you who were recruited to this event, I’m not sure what kind of incriminating photos of you exist; they must be pretty good to bring you here. Either way, I’m glad you could be part of this as well.
As for Mrs. J-Dub, I’d like to remind you we live in Indiana, where once we get home you’re going to get the best reminder we live in a state where it’s still legal for me to punch you in the face.
SportsChump: Well, that brings this to a wrap…a wrap tighter that the fourteen burritos J-Dub’s going to pick up on the way home. In all seriousness, I find Dubsism to be among the most entertaining, thought-provoking, envelope-pushing websites online. After mine, of course.