Because each of these people check this blog daily:
Jared Carter–It’s my belief that the fate of the Kentucky basketball program rests on your massive, too quick to handle developing shoulders. While the half-full glass of optimism that is next season has already been emptied to make room for a stiff blend of pessimism and Kentucky Tavern, a vastly improved Carter could prove enormous in the big fella’s final two seasons. With Jasper and Meeks (and possibly Lucas among others), I feel the backcourt for success is in place. ASSUMING that we can land any sort of combo of Patterson, Nash, Hickson, or Randolph, we will finally possess the legit forward(s) so crucial in college basketball today. That’s where you come in JC. A 7-footer with aggression, skill, and the understanding of the Kentucky jersey would make this lineup a contender–no matter how offensive the offensive scheme may be. Now, if you could make this miraculous turnaround sometime next season, allowing Morris to slide into the 4-hole, than UK might just be able to win enough games to land a 5 seed in next year’s dance.
Sheray Thomas–Stop going to class. It’s an easy and painless way of freeing up an extra scholly for the likes of Bobby Perry’s cousin or a ball-boy. Lumburg would appreciate it.
Tubby–The incessant strain of the “fire Tubby” virus has nearly turned me into a full-fledged Tubby supporter. Nearly. I look at the fervor for which these radicals lambaste the man in charge; amazed at how their grip on reality is hanging out in a Starbucks somewhere with Alec Baldwin’s. Folks, everything has peaks and valleys. Have you ever seen a stock quote that looks like Rick Majerus’s heartbeat monitor after a Philly Cheesesteak Thickburger? Is everyday at the office the same or better than the day before? The economy, the price of oil, the Yankees, the Sopranos–nothing in sports, hell, in this life should be expected to be without it’s highs and lows. That being said, if Tubby fails to improve on last season this go around, and falls short on this potentially dazzling ’07 recruiting class, then it won’t be just the radicals calling for his head. One area in which I do side with the radicals is method of play. If a playbook were clothing, Tubby’s style would be a pair of acid washed jeans from the bargain bin at Stein Mart. Stubborn as you may be Tubby, you have to give recruits what they want. They are the building blocks for your foundation, and your uber-million dollar salary depends on them. Nix the predictable mush that is your half-court offense and let athletes be athletes. Promote confidence, for with confidence comes happiness, and with happiness comes dubyas. Until then, your harsh criticisms will become more warranted by the day, and you’ll be finding that giving the glare of death to the likes of Stephon Marbury is quite an arduous task.
Rich Brooks–Choose a QB soon, and stick with him. The gridiron Cats will be markedly improved in nearly all aspects next season and the bowl friendly schedule may just save your already deteriorated keister. However, UK will not win many games if they can’t get any production from the most important position on the field and dual QB systems just don’t work. It’s this or you’ll be finding it hard to make excuses from the Stonybrook Retirement Community.
Zidane–I feel you. Not because you were allegedly the victim of noxious slurs from the Italians, but from the supposed Texas Tornado so sadistically lain upon your boozum. I don’t care if it’s the World Cup Finals (believe me, I don’t) or the eulogy at your great aunt’s funeral, few feats of injure compare to the pain inflicted by a ta-ta (edit) twister, and immediate reltaliation is warranted. It’s one of those pains like a snowball to the ear or a rigid stub of the toe that just leaves you ashamed that it hurts as much as it does. Not to mention the resulting fury that stems from being the recipient of such a dainty attack. So I say way to go out oh heralded Frenchy for whom I’d only heard of before the World Cup because my roommate bought the Playstation game…for you proved that not all Parisians are Brodeaux-guzzling Nancies, and yet are still losers.