Remember when this used to be yourNBA halftime show? Good times, right?
NBA halftimes used to be so simple: Rise drunkenly (but dramatically) out of your seat, shamble awkwardly to what you can only assume is the line for the Men's Room, wait in said line for 15-to-20 minutes, take a long (but gloriously satisfying) pee, wander out and to the nearest concession stand, wait in line for another 15-to-20 minutes to buy more beer and (if you're driving smart) a "beer sponge" (hotdog/slice of pizza/popcorn/whatever), then finally head back to your seat for (if you're lucky) the last two minutes of the game. It's called the American Dream. Look it up.

Now, for whatever reason, the NBA wants to keep you in your seat during halftime. Which was fine back in the wonderful days when they just hired teenage girls to dress up like prostitutes and gyrate on the court. But now...now we're forced to watch regular men dressing up as inflatable men and dancing for our "pleasure." We also get eye-flogged by dance teams comprised entirely of fat women and sexy septuagenarians. How did we go from hot cheerleaders to this? Who's responsible? Because I have a little treat for him that rhymes with "cramming his balls into a rototiller."

We all have a traumatic NBA halftime story. The following is mine. Read on at your own risk.

This goes a few years back. My college roommate and I dropped what was, at the time, big bucks for floor seats to a Bulls/Jazz game in Chicago (we were huge Stockton/Malone fans). Anyway, the halftime show was called Duo Design, a "strength and hand-balancing act from Warsaw, Poland." Basically, it's two topless guys in ass-hugging tights and gold body paint doing gymnastics -- slow, sweaty gymnastics -- off each other's bodies. Seriously.

Now, I'm not homophobic, but this was the probably the gayest thing I've ever seen, unless you count the time a buddy of mine accidentally brought a movie called Hung Wankenstein to a bachelor party we were going to (this is not a subject that is up for discussion, by the way). In fact, Duo Design is so gay that you can't even describe it without making it sound like gay porn. Think I'm kidding? Here is the completely unedited writeup of Duo Design from the Washington Post:

"Jaroslav Marchiniak and Dariusz Wronski...Oozing from one outrageously difficult position to the next, one man does a one-armed handstand on his partner's smooth skull. Or places his beveled bod at a perfect diagonal in space, with only one arm rooted like a Lego piece into the equally beveled bod splayed below him."

Seriously, I think that was an actual scene from Hung Wankenstein. Not that I watched it. Since misery loves company, why don't you watch what I saw. And if you don't claw your eyes out immediately afterward, you probably don't even have eyes.

Labels: Duo Design, halftime shows