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Surely Waxes Brazilian Part III: Chip and Surely’s Legitimate Beef

This is part three in a four part series documenting my recent adventures in Brazil. Helluva time! Catch up with Part I and Part II before reading this sweet juicy peach! Zei Gezunt! 

Is this Arby’s located in Brazil or is it simply Rockville Pike? The correct answer gets a free curly fry on the tab of Yers Surely.

Part III: Chip and Surely’s Legitimate Beef

It was an unbearably humid morning just like the rest of them—February in Rio. The days had been like this for awhile now…business was good, but still, pushing Isabel’s cart up the steep, winding roads of the Morro da Babilônia favela, I could sense that something was off. I continue pushing the cart, up to where Isabel is standing at the top of a hilly mound; quickly, I brushed aside my ominous feelings, and stop to admire the curvaceous silhouette Isabel is cutting on a makeshift shack with peeling yellow paint. A small tidepool of sweat crept down the beautiful boob job I had gotten her just the other week as the Brazilian morning grew increasingly swampy.

Isabel was worth all the salt in the shaker! Living here her entire twenty-six years made Isabel not only street-wise but also endearing to everyone she greeted; a friend and trustworthy woman to the whole neighborhood, a brand of community cache no amount of money could buy. Chip’s business proposition that night had prompted Izzy to quit her library job and instead work for us…naturally, she still maintained her night shift at the City of Goddess, but at this point, it was just for some extra pocket change.

A weaker man might have wanted Isabel to quit that life but I prided myself on being a more enlightened individual. As my old friend Jeffrey Gildenhorn (RIP) once said, being a sex worker is a job just like any other. Reading up on the subject, I learned that workers like Isabel are far too often marginalized because of the broken way that our governments attempt to scandalize the occupation for political points with pearl-clutching constituents. Truly, if this world had any guts whatsoever, it’d realize that incorporating prostitution into the legal workforce would only increase communication between those in the industry and the people trying to stop slave-trafficking and other forms of heinous activity that ladies like Isabel sometimes run up against in their line of work. As Jeff said, cash for sex ain’t nuthin’ to sneeze at, unless, you know, that’s what gets yer dick off…and for me, it actually does, which is a pretty cool fetish, in my opinion. No judgment and no sneezeguards, is what I always say!

Jeffrey Gildenhorn was a Renaissance man ahead of his time in that the man both owned a diner AND ALSO advocated for the decriminalization and ultimate legalization of the sex worker industry in DC...in the early 1990s! A true visionary! RIP, my good friend.

Isabel was also now a sales associate for our latest business enterprise, Chip and Surely’s Legitimate “Beef”, a 501(c)(3) providing door-to-door food delivery services to the city’s minimally regulated outer boroughs. The whole shebang was paid for by the suckers at the UN in partnership with the International Olympic Committee, who were of the mind that feeding the country’s most at-risk citizens would be good for Rio’s image as the events approached.

Izzy was a great fit at CSLB; her wonderful customer relationships made her a natural pick to grace all of our company’s billboards and television commercials. Of course, I had hired my old photographer Trevor for these gigs. The guy had decided to stick it out in Brazil, and was doing good after a few recommendations with some of our business partners—and because of all the referrals, we didn’t have to pay him! As for Isabel, it cannot be overstated how good she was. Out of the 1,264 slums in and around the Rio de Janeiro, Isabel was Chip Rosenbaum’s top earner and the two of us became inseparable as we worked her old stomping grounds together, hand-in-hand. Still, she had her doubts.

“I don’t know what it is about this job,” said Isabel, having just made $25 selling a bag of grade D meat to a family of four, “but I feel like there’s something else I could be doing with my life. Surely, do you think I should go back to my job at the library? I know it’s less money, but it felt like I was making a difference.”

Isabel’s old job. Total snoozer.

For a moment I mulled this around in my head. The whole point of getting Izzy involved was to get her out of the library and onto the streets. There was more money to be made out here slinging hot beef than it was curled up inside the Biblioteca Nacional, collecting a steady, but below-average paycheck. A few more years of the illicit meat racket and the two of us could retire somewhere special, maybe even make it back to Rockville someday—of course, this would be after the statute of limitations on Ping’s child support runs out. On that day, I could see it all so clear. Me and Isabel, back in my North Bethesda duplex. I’d fit it up real nice with some quartz countertops and a tanning bed. We wouldn’t miss a beat. We’d be happy. Maybe raise a couple of children—maybe they’re even our children and not some random kids we see walking around Bethesda Row on Simchat Torah. Was it really so crazy?  

The Bethesda Bagels where I am no longer welcome. I still frequent the Dupont location.

“I dunno, Izzy,” I said, rolling a bucket of rancid tripe up an unpaved embankment. “I think Chip’s doing right by us. We’re making money. Way more than you were dewey decimalin’…more than I ever did selling ‘ticles to this place and that. Why change things? Besides, we’re in love, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are, Surely. I don’t know what I was thinking. I love you.”

“I love you too,” giving her a peck on the cheek.

“Come on Surely, this meat isn’t going to sell itself,” said Isabel, knocking on the next door. A woman opened up and Isabel started in with the usual spiel.

“Would you care for…some tripe?” I asked, not waiting for the answer before unloading some samples on her sweet lil kiddos.

While I was eating at Arby’s my pal Chip had been buying ‘em up left and right. Chip’s dad Leo had died and left him with the family fortune. Turns out, the old man was the silent partner behind J.Chow’s Chicken, Salad, and Ribs in the White Flint Mall food court, arguably the best restaurant in the entire shopping center, besides the Cheesecake Factory, of course.

The J.Chow’s establishment at White Flint Mall. RIP.

For twenty years, Chip was doing well as the franchise owner of 64% of the Arby’s Restaurants in the lower 48, that is until Michelle Obama’s Let’s Move campaign got underway. This initiative had an almost instant and deleterious effect on the fast food business, especially Arby’s which had at that time not yet launched its market sandwich line of healthier meal choices, such as the Carved Turkey on focaccia, a personal favorite of my son Ping, before he would hit the pool for afternoon swim practice.

To make matters worse, Chip had a supply problem…he had too much beef and nowhere to sell it. His restaurants were now doing a quarter of the big beefy business they had done in the golden years of the Clinton Administration, especially when the fat, philandering fuck machine himself would stroll into the Rockville Pike Arby’s every other week. Yes, Chip was in trouble, locked into a series of futures contracts with the cattlemen, he had an oversupply of product and also could not take advantage of falling meat prices; you didn’t want to get on the bad side of a cattleman, as anyone who has ever seen Lee Marvin’s Prime Cut can attest.

Prime Cut…thought-provoking flick about sellin’ meat.

Archibald’s: A DC Institution 

Adding to his business problems was an embargo on sales of American meat to Asia, which made offloading the product nearly impossible for Chip. But just as things were looking their worst, my friend happened to overhear a conversation at Archibald’s, a primo titty bar not a stone’s throw from the White House. This was a deep conversation between some powerful people, men obviously, who were high ranking officials in the Brazilian government, United Nations, and International Olympics Committee respectfully. Fat knockers in their faces, the men were in discussions as to a public relations problem. With the Rio Olympics rapidly approaching, increasing scrutiny was being paid to the country by the international community. 

Already, Brazil was being ridiculed for the thing. After all, said the UN official, how could the country’s leadership deem it appropriate to host an Olympic Games, to spend billions in public money for volleyball courts and golf courses, while upwards of a half a million children in Rio’s favelas met the World Health Organization’s definition of malnourishment?! At this, one of the Brazilian politicians laughed, “Sure they are poor children today,” he said, “but in two years, when you come for the Olympics...they will be the ones flashing a fake police badge to rob you at a ‘military checkpoint.’ You’ll come back to us, to the bullet caucus, and ask...why were you not tougher on the children...why did you not throw the children in a prison? But today is not that day...on this day, you wish for the children to have what, an order of curly fries...perhaps, a Big Montana?” 

Better lucky than good, thought Chip Rosenbaum, turning around to introduce himself. Almost overnight, my friend’s business woes became a venture of formidable opportune...selling American products to a bunch of Latin American fascists...a tale as old as time. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?

“Surely, aren’t you out of the sportswriting business? Chip asked. “I mean, these people are so corrupt, and no matter what you write, it’s 2016 man...literally no one cares. It’s just another blip on the rolling screen. Fuck man, ever since the Internet and that chucklehead Kornheiser yapping on ESPN...I mean...face it Surely, sportswriting is dead.”

Dad’s least favorite intern.

Chip had me on that. I was done writing. Even if there was no story, there was no one on the other end who would give the corruption story the respect it deserved.

And so, every morning for the past two years, Isabel and I have awoken in the same bed near dawn. I make us coffee as the two of us wait in silence for the large truck and the men. When the truck arrives, a burlap bag is placed over our heads and drives to an airstrip. The bags come off just as a large cargo plane touches down over the flora and fauna of the rain forest. Sometimes Chip is there but most days he’s nowhere to be found as Isabel and I are in charge of monitoring the unloading process. The plane emptied and the inventory accounted for, we’re blindfolded again, back to Rio, where the truckdriver takes us to the various drop zones. We continue to oversee the men, loading up all of the hot carts we own with curly fries and fresh-ish meats to sell throughout their respective territories. After that it’s around 9 am and time for breakfast…a nice spread at the small café down the road from our place…we take up our own cart a short time later.

Indeed, we were doing great things…not only in Brazil, but also back home, where I still could not return because of the whole extradition thing with Ping and Warren Wagglestein, Esq. Instead, we gave a bulk of our money to philanthropic causes back in Rockville and the DC suburbs. We started by making Chip’s brother Barry the head of our foundation, the Native Washingtonian Association. We had a lot of causes during this time, restoring the cafeteria at the Ring House was Chip’s pet project, as his mother was still there and he got a year’s rent free on account of the remodel. For me, it was two vanity projects. The first was the Danny Gatton Guitar School, a big honkin’ grant given to Montgomery College to teach inner city kids from Southern Rockville how to play smooth rockabilly. The second project was more ambitious. The NWA soup kitchen was created to mentor Washington’s next generation of soup masters. We endowed an entire school for the thing, out in Olney dedicated to the culinary arts of broth and balls. My hope…to one day recreate the BJ Pumpernickel’s establishment that Shirely Povich, Sr. had so dearly loved.

Danny fucking Gatton! (Image: © Clayton Call/Getty Images)

Even with NWA going great, I guess there’s a part of me that knew it couldn’t last. Chip and I were always getting into fights over petty stuff. Like when we ran out of imported meat from America and Ever had a burger made out of jaguar? All the Horsey Sauce in the world can’t do it justice. Believe me.

One day, I got fed up with it all.

“Chip, the product is getting worse. You can’t cut beef meat with jaguar and expect to get repeat customers.”

“They’re fuckin’ Brazilians, Surely. Besides, our profit margins have never been higher. What do you care?”

“We’re decimating the population of an endangered species.”

“We’re sourcing locally and reducing our carbon footprint. Isn’t that what you lib yahoos are all about these days?”

A Jaguar lookin’ regal on the Brazilian Fifty Dollar Bill. We fed their meat to people after the demand became too large for our supply chain of week-old beef comin’ from the United States. Members of the Social Christian party loved the idea back in 2016. Swell guys. 

I shrugged. At the end of the day, I was only a minority partner in the business. Chip was holding all the cards. And maybe he was even right about the thing. We were paying Arby’s for all this imported meat that had to travel thousands of miles to get here. That’s jet fuel and a pilot you have to pay for. If you just kill a jaguar, you only have to pay the hunter…and the reserve is only a hop, skip, and jump from downtown Rio. Besides, the kids were learning guitar in Bethesda. And more importantly, the soup was flowing out there in Olney.

Or was it? Even though I couldn’t get back to the States, I still managed to get updates from Chip’s brother from time to time. A few months after we opened the schools, Barry Rosenbaum came down to Brazil to meet with his brother. But first, he showed me a video of two of the kids at the guitar school.

“Classic Gatton,” I recognized, marveling at the young ingenues, soloing away on a pair of Fender Telecasters.

“And that’s not all,” said Barry, taking out a thing of Tupperware and placing it on the table. I recognized it instantly, matzoh ball soup straight outta the NWA kitchen. “Whaddya say, Surely…you got a stove?”

I jumped at the chance. All those months of tinkering, could it really be? Did we really perfect the BJ Pumpernickel’s recipe? Sure, Barry’s goons had paid off the previous owners for the world-famous recipe, but who’s to say if they gave us the real deal. With much anticipation, I lit the gas burner and set it to low, so that the icy block of soup would slowly revert to a beautiful, golden hue. I began to salivate.

Chip came in just then.

“Moment of truth, Surely,” he said. “What’re you waiting for?”

I ladled out the soup for the three of us.

“Gentlemen, I propose a toast,” I said. “To my old friend Chip, without whom, none of this would be possible.”

“Here! Here!” said Barry.

“Here goes nothin,” I said, diving in. Slowly I brought the spoon to my face. The broth was on point, thick but not too thick, and full of rich schmaltz…now for the balls…

“You backstabbing, lying, sack of shit,” I said, dropping the spoon.

“What?”

“Don’t play fucking coy with me, fuckface,” I said. I removed a pistol from my gray sweat shorts and pointed it at Barry Rosenbaum’s head.

“Surely, what the fuck?!”

“Both you and I know…these aren’t the Pumpernickel’s balls. “First the jaguar meat and now this…just what the hell kinda trick you think you’re trying to pull here, Chip?”

The look on Chip’s face faded from disbelief to that of a large grin. “Well, well, well,” he said, clapping his hands, “and here I thought you were nothing but muscle.”

So everything was a lie? In a moment it dawned on me.

“This is the Hofberg’s matzoh soup,” I recognized, almost choking on the words. “Chip, how could you?”

“It’s better…it’s always been better. I mean, BJ Pumpernickel’s…are you fucking kidding me, Surely. Do you know BJ Pumpernickel was not even a real person? Now Abe Hofberg….shit, that was a soupmaster you could set your watch to.”

“You disgust me,” I said, cutting the inferior ball with the side of my spoon. “My father would be rolling over in his grave if he knew the kids at our soup school were learning the Hofberg’s recipe. For goddsakes, he’d rather them learn the Silver Diner matzoh ball than the shit they made over there.”

“The Silver Diner never made matzoh ball soup. It’s a figment of your fucking imagination.”

“They did too. In the spring of ’78…you had gone to some special basketball camp because you were a bigshot athlete…I stayed in Rockville and had a barback gig at the Bethesda Yacht Club. Every morning, I’d kick a new gurly outta bed and head over to Silver Diner for a cup of the stuff. It was the greatest summer of my life.”

This stuff is on par with Hofberg’s, if you ask me.

“The same summer you fucked Sherri Epstein, right Surely? My girlfriend. Hey, no hard feelings pal…I know you weren’t…Sherri told me all about it. Besides, even if you wanted Pumpernickel’s soup, you couldn’t get it…only Barry has the recipe, and it’s all the way back in Olney, where you can’t go because of you owe for your biological son. Face it, Surely, those kids are going to learn the Hofberg’s soup backwards and forwards…and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it…tell you what though, anytime you want a container of the stuff, I’ll have Barry bring it down for you whenever you want. Sound good?”

Smelling defeat, I lowered the gun from Chip’s brother’s temple. “From here on out, we’re not friends anymore…only partners.”

“Fine by me,” said Chip, ladling himself another round. “Not such a Mighty Mo now, are ya?”

I walk out and back to Isabel’s feeling worse than I had ever felt in my entire sixty-seven years. I had lost.

The next morning Isabel and I wake up for work. Same routine. The truck comes to our place and the two of us greet the two burlap bags that are placed over our heads. The truck starts up and starts to drive. Wrong direction. Gone are the sounds of the rainforest and the secret airstrip, with its black market planes and illicit cargo. Instead, we’re brought inside some kind of abandoned office building—through the blindfold, I make out the scant outlines of an old microfiche reader—we’re inside an old newsroom! Before I can break free and steal ancient office supplies, we’re ushered into a small enclosure with a familiar chemical smell I recognize must be the paper’s dark room. I can tell Isabel is scared but I tell her not to worry as the blindfolds come off.

“Surely…Povich…Jr.”

“Hello Trevor.”

 Stay tuned for Part IV of my amazing Amazonian adventure!

[surelypovichjr]

Death in North Bethesda

Dietle’s Bites the Big One!

Photograph by Flickr user Gloria.

It brings me great displeasure to have to report on a horrible tragedy that has befallen a once noble pillar of our ever-changing community. As many of you by now well know, the other week, the great Hank Dietle’s Roadside Tavern, the first watering hole in all of Montgomery County, the rowdiest in all of Rockville, the Mariana Trench of DC dives, the skeeviest of the skeevy, and yes, the under-the-table hand job mecca of MoCo, met an untimely end. A sad day for Rockville Pike and a sadder day for Yers Surely.

The local papers have seemed almost afraid to cover what should be an above-the-fold A1 story.  The few reports that have come out have been scant at best, a canard of an ill-fated cigarette flicked into a potted plant as the alleged culprit of the great blaze. But the overwhelming conflagration that engulfed my favorite watering hole shall never overwhelm the many memories I have of that ole pile a’bricks.

via Pete Piringer/MoCo Fire & Rescue

I realize that I am far from the only one among the grieving; Dietle’s has been properly eulogized by others in song and prose but it has taken me a fortnight to come to terms with its denouement. Indeed, the minyan of drunkards have already touched upon the things that made Dietle’s objectively great – the stoic, hard-nosed nature of the place, its delightfully meager offerings, a bag of Utz potato chips, salt and vinegar if you caught them on a good night, watching the Nighthawks play live after sellin’ em blow, drinking bad draft beer tasting of cold deer piss, but delicious nonetheless.

But these stories have been told already!

I wanna get a little bit more personal about what Hank Dietle’s meant to me. Ya see, Hank’s is where I got my first taste of the good life, back when I was a young kid with a shock of red hair with the pubes to boot!

A shot of Old Granddad, bought by my famous sportswriter dad, is what I remember. That and the bar flies, talking a lot of mishegas about that whole Watergate nonsense; I remember the token floozy, Susan Blumenthal, 38 and sunburnt, slathering aloe on her back after a weekend passed out on the Ocean City boardwalk; the alimony dodger, Mitchell Glick, looking paranoid from ‘ludes and a starving ex-wife; and wait, who’s that but the Head Hog himself, George Starke! Dad had invited Georgie-boy to Hanky D’s as he thought a bit of libation might get the great offensive lineman to loosen his lips. It took almost the entire night, and an under-the-table handjob from Suzie B. but sure enough dad was right and Starke spilled the beans on the debacle that was the Washington Redskins season. What dad had was gold, a fresh yarn of the power struggle between Sonny Jurgensen, fresh upstart Billy Kilmer, which had the Over-The-Hill Gang ’73 squad in an uproar. I’ll be damned if dad didn’t get his big, masterful scoop on the front page of the Washington Post, above the fold A1! Eat it Woodward.

I also met my first and third wife at Hank Dietle’s—same person, in case you were wondering. 

As for the future, it’s here that my biggest questions arise. As the great mystic once asked, is it better to burn out or to fade away? I guess it depends on the size of the fire.

I personally have very specific instructions for my own departure, a native Washingtonian’s viking funeral. As woman after woman has said “you’re dead to me”, it’s only natural that I’ve fully contemplated my own earthly dispatch. We’ll start things off with my expired corpse, which shall be placed in a seat on the red line train from Grosvenor, embarking north towards Shady Grove, which will allow me to pass through all of my favorite Rockville Pike establishments, most of them, like me, having closed for good. It’s when we pass the Silver Diner that the Walter Johnson High School band will take up their instruments, playing a big band rendition of the title song to an old Hal Ashby flick, a movie for which I have never received my proper screenwriting accreditation. Where was I when this idea came forth? At Dietle’s, of course! Hal was so drunk he got the title all wrong for a movie set in our nation’s capital--the hell if that wasn’t Randy Quaid is playing me in what shoulda been called The Last Dietle! A story for another day, dear readers.

The Last Detail/dir.Hal Ashby

As fire investigators close the case, I can’t help but wonder about whether there’s a good old-fashioned cover up. Like Watergate, only if it actually happened and wasn’t a complete fabrication. Perhaps there was foul play afoot?

“C’mon Surely, who would want to burn down a shithole like Dietle’s, charming as it may be?”

“To this I’d ask you to get up from your barstool and take a good gander across the street. Tell me, whaddya see?”

Wikimedia commons license

“Huh, what happened to the White Flint Shopping Mall, that beacon of 1980s consumerism rife with its marble avenues and Cheesecake Factory and Franklin Mints? What is set to replace it?”

Photo by horta5

“I dunno,” I reply, “could it be the future headquarters of a company owned by the richest man in the history of the world?”

“But Surely, if it was arson, don’t you think the paper of record, The Washington Post, that shining light of journalistic integrity, would print something about this kind of thing?”

“My friend, what if I were to tell you that the richest man in the history of the world, who wants to relocate 50,000 of his employees to a now demolished meadow across the street from Hank Dietle’s, is the very same man who owns your precious Washington Post?”

“But why, Surely? None of this makes any sense.”

“Don’t be naive. The guy’s gotta make room for 50,000 employees in an area already besotted with housing shortages and horrifying traffic. And so, perhaps the man burned Hank Dietle’s Roadside Tavern in a brilliant conflagration of orange cinder, all while receiving billions of dollars in tax breaks and blessings from Maryland’s most powerful politicians.”

“Well, those are some interesting points for sure, but I’m not a fire marshal. Wow Surely, maybe you have something there.”

“Thanks Suzie,” I reply.

To be fair, these are just rumors—gossip between old friends, reminiscing about stale beer, local rockabilly, Mitch Glickstein’s new wife, and of course, the frequent under-the-table hand jobs, the number of which, seem to dwindle and fade with each passing year. There’s other talk as well. Rumors of rebuilding. Who knows what will happen? Who cares? Certainly not the newspapers, nor the politicians, and most certainly not the large multi-national corporations and their rich owners. But who cares what I think, anyway? I’m just a sad old man in search of a new place to drink a cold piss beer and mourn all this area stands to lose if we are not careful. Every. Last. Detail.

Every. Last. Dietle.

[surelypovichjr]

Introducing a Special New Series from Surely Povich Jr.

In a few hours a great game of sport will take place between some of the finest athletes in the world. In the environs surrounding Washington, DC, friends and family and family will gather together in their homes to cheer on their favorite men of the gridiron, all while stuffing their fat faces with three-bean chili, eight onion dip, fried Milano cookies, and many other famous staples of the native Washingtonian table.

Typing in my duplex in North Bethesda, it’s days like this that remind me of my father, who I lost nearly twenty years previous. Ya see, football is the first memory I have from my childhood, when my bigshot sportswriter dad would take me out into the backyard to toss around the old pigskin. I swear, dad threw the best spiral in all of Bethesda. One time, I remember him making a wager with one of our neighbors that he could knock a kid clean off the Glen Echo Carousel from 50 yards away...did he win? I dunno, let’s just say the Lemley kid got taken to Sibley that day and leave it at that.

Other memories, dad taking my brother and me deep into the belly of Robert Fucking Kennedy Memorial Stadium for his newspaper assignments. It’s something you never forget. Dad was a true journalist, an objective and hungry man who never glorified the sports he covered. In many ways, the man was the epitome of the modern sportswriter--Shirley Povich was an icon.

And yet the man had his vices. Did he partake in the occasional drink or two? You bet, Chet! Did he like his women? Two redheads on the rocks, bartender! Cigars? Three stogies for me, myself, and I!--Shirley Povich has got a deadline to meet! Besides, this story of Sonny Jurgensen’s cleft penis ain’t gonna write itself without a heapin’ pile a’ tobacky!

A secret second family?...

Even with his eccentricities, dad still managed to be a very prolific individual. I always wondered about this. The guy could write for ten hours straight and then make a plate of bourbon and eggs that would knock your balls off. He’d then get a beep on his pager and bam! Straight back to The Post for one of his famous appointments.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been reading so much about hacks lately, which have been such a godsend. Thanks to lifehacking, I now know how to travel on an airplane in comfort (slippers!), shop efficiently at the Giant Food (Internet coupons!), and how to ace a job interview (don’t be racist when it matters!).

Yes, these shortcuts have been good for me these days. After all, I’m gettin’ up there in years and it wouldn’t hurt to make things a little easier on Yers Surely!

It was probably around the time an unshowered Slavic man gave me a job that it hit me like a ton of Hep C: I’ve lived a while here on G-d’s greenest, a sixty something year old man, to speak in exactitudes. I’m up to my fucking eyeballs in sagacious wisdom! Perhaps it’s high time to impart some of my own knowledge on the unwashed masses.

But am I qualified?

Well, I got a famous father for one and a lifetime of quotable koans from famous athletes to boot! Indeed, I have accumulated a multiplicity of knowledge to share with all of the young readers out there. Which is why I’m introducing a new reading series for today that I’m calling, Life Cues from Surely: Surely-Cues.

Today’s Surely-Cue: HOW TO VISIT YOUR CHILDHOOD HOME.

1. Call ahead

Find the current owner using The Internet. When you call, inform him or her that you would like to take a brief tour of the home in which you were raised. Make sure you say that this will not take more than four or five hours and that you are happy to accommodate them as their schedule permits. Tell them that this upcoming Wednesday, February 7th works great for you. If the current occupant seems a bit apprehensive, explain that you have a multitude of fond memories from the home. Go on to say that you have a family of your own now and would like them to see where their father spent his formative years.

2. Talk about your childhood

Describe these years fondly as the best of your life, that is, until dad frittered away the Povich family nest egg on some ill-conceived shoe company. The owner will likely be polite about this as you go on to say how the 1987 NBA Draft, and the #1 Pick’s untimely demise, prompted the family’s move to Washington’s outer boroughs, and the North Bethesda duplex in which you currently reside. Proceed to ask the current owner if he or she would like about 200,000 pairs of posthumously manufactured Air Bias. Naturally, they will ask you to please continue your very compelling childhood story. When you finish, the owner will say that he and his wife are heartbroken over your great tale of woe and would be honored to have you visit your former place of residence.

3. Assemble the rest of yer “family”

So this part is actually much easier than it sounds. Perhaps see if a peer or acquaintance has got a kid to lend for several hours. If he or she seems unsure about this, offer to pick the kid up in the Povich Family Volvo, as parents are busy and don’t have time in their hectic schedule to drive all the way out to where you live in North Bethesda. Does your friend or acquaintance have a significant other? They do?! Guess what my friend, you are set.

4. Arrive with the “family” at your childhood home

Congratulations, you have reached the place of your previous domicile. Take in the fresh city air and notice the renovations done to the houses surrounding your own, which still is beautiful and made of great red brick and looking spectacular in the cold winter sun. Open the gate and walk up to the front door. When the current owner greets you, ignore his surprise at how old you are compared to the rest of your seemingly very youthful family. Make a joke and introduce him to your nuclear unit. Casually mention that your son, “Caleb” is very hungry. When Caleb, (Jeffrey Levithan, in real life) says that he is not hungry, tell the owner that your son is just being polite and that really it would be best for his blood sugar, and really, for the structural integrity of the home, for him to have something from the Pepperidge Farm to sate him. The owner will nod at this and lead you inside his home. Nice work, you are inside the home!

5. Go into the pantry

Exclaim: “This is where the magic happened!” and proceed to take a hot squat on the bag of Milano cookies the current owner has procured for young Caleb. Ring your fake family a taxi before driving the Volvo back to North Bethesda. Once inside, call dad’s now defunct beeper, the one he used for all his “appointments” and “it’s not important” and “tell you when you’re older” and “you can’t come” and “of course, mom knows about it!” and “can you keep a secret, Surely? I didn’t think so” and “$5,000 on the coin toss...yeah, gimme heads” and “I’m going to the Pepperidge Farm bread outlet for a package of those cookies you like” and “tails, goddammit!” and “shut up, Caleb...I mean Surely!” and “christ, why can’t you people be more like my illegitimate son, Caleb, who’s always happy to see me?” and “alright, I’m going to go hang out with my other family” and “Surely, it’s me Caleb, it’s about dad...” and “I’m so very happy to spend my last Superbowl™ on this planet with my real family and until now, my very secret family...I love you all.”

6. Get your fake family and secret family together for the big game in North Bethesda to enjoy a big pile of dad’s famous fried Milano cookies!

[surelypovichjr]

Surely Gets a Brazilian, Part 2: Waxing Poetic On My Big Olympics Scoop

Part 1 of my Brazilian adventure can be found here.

Part 2

A plane touches down at Galeão International Airport. Amongst its passengers a writer, a great writer, a man, naturally. But this man is not just any writer—no— this man is a sportswriter, sent south undercover of night on a mission of remarkable import—to bravely type up an Internet article about athletic events played by young people.  

Of course, the man had been an athlete in his salad days; a backup point guard at Charles W. Woodward High in Rockville, Maryland. No slouch on the hardcourt, the boy averaged nearly several points per game—he set the team record for highest three point shot percentage in a season, with a damn perfect 100% accuracy on one attempt, in the final thirty seconds of a junior year thrashing of Whitman High—a school record that stands to this day. (Editor’s Note: Charles Woodward High School closed in 1987. Today, the building operates as Tilden Middle School.)

That being said, it was clear that the boy simply wasn’t cut from the same athletic cloth as his contemporaries, like DeMatha’s Adrian Dantley or even his teammate and one-time bar mitzvah partner, Chip Rosenbaum; a slew of physical detractments inherited from the boy’s German ancestors had taken its toll on his portly frame.

Dantley’s DeMatha squad. Guess who they lost to that one time? Yers Surely!

Chip would often poke fun at his friend’s grotesquely wide Silesian ankles and thin birdlike arms, which were viewed as a sign of attractiveness amongst the aristocracy of the 19th century Holy Roman Empire. In fact, the boy was thrown out of the Adas Israel Hebrew School when he joked that no one in his family had lifted a weight since his great-great-great-great grandfather helped build the pyramids at Giza. Despite its bald-faced ludicrousness, the veracity of this statement has yet to be overturned. 

Even though Chip would ceaselessly lampoon him, the two remained good friends for a time, even if they did constantly compete, and argue, oh how they argued! Constantly! Most of the times it was about mundane shit but other times, it got heated—like the time the two debated for six hours about which joint made the best matzoh ball soup in the Washington area. Chip was a Hofberg’s guy while his friend couldn’t get enough of the Silver Diner’s delicious piping hot broth—Chip couldn’t understand how one’s mouth could take such punishment. To settle the matter, the two spent all day playing hooky from school, driving all throughout the Washington area, avoiding truancy officers and tasting soups. Their disagreement remained...the friendship was never the same after that.

A 1950s menu from Hofberg’s Kosher Delicatessen. JHSGW Collections, gift of Ann Hofberg Richards.

Still, despite his horrifying asthma, the boy possessed a certain intelligence that more than made up for his Transylvanian feet and congenital gout. The writer had always played basketball with a mental grip that sometimes escaped the Chip Rosenbaums of the world, and as the years wore on and the modicum of athletic prowess that he thinly grasped bid adieu to his flabby fat fuck body, the man found that he retained the capacity to understand the idiosyncracies of the game, to comment on that which he could no longer do, to criticize those that could still perform, to yell and bemoan the way in which Adrian Dantley couldn’t hit a free throw to save his whore mother’s life.

Knock knock?

Who’s there?

It’s me, sportswriting, and I’m here to tell you that you are a natural fit for this profession.

The man was pudgy now but actually still very attractive in a weird I wanna fuck that old guy kinda way. Oh, If only he could be twenty in his sixty-seven years old brain! Why, the great writer would show these world class Olympic athletes a thing or two, no question, Carl. He'd probably fuck their girlfriends too...like he did Chip Rosenbaum’s steady behind the Bethesda Hot Shoppes after the Danny Gatton show in ‘78...but of course he could still totally make women orgasm a lot, a no-brainer given his legendary girth. His dick works very well, I'm told. But that is a whole host of other great stories the well-endowed man, who is actually me, will one day tell, obviously some names will have to be changed— legal reasons—ongoing cold cases—but that's neither here nor there.

The Hot Shoppes where I made it with this hot redhead who went by the name of Sherri Epstein after a Danny Gatton show back in ‘78. Ask for the Mighty Mo—fantastic burger—also the nickname for my crank.

Deplaning onto the tarmac, the veteran reporter finds himself smack dab in the middle of Brazil, sent to Rio over two years before any other sportswriter. Six hundred days. Six hundred days for one lone wolf to mush out ahead of the pack, to befriend the slighted, to lift up the downtrodden, and maybe, lend a helping hand. Sledding through the airport, the man stops to buy a sandwich, an exotic one he's never tasted before. The talented writer takes a long slow bite of the sandwich, which has some kind of sauce whose flavor he cannot place, unfamiliar and unArbys-like on his undiscerning sportswriter palate. Discarding the unsatisfying meal, he goes outside, where a dog, a husky mix of some sort, saunters up to greet him. The man looks with some curiosity at the puppy, who is slow and confused in returning his gaze. With a gentle shrug the dog takes a whiz all over the man’s polyester slacks...six hundred days left to go...so much for a leg up, I guess.

In line at the taxi stand, the writer suck into my nostrils some of Brazil’s finest air. Immediately I find myself wholly reviled by the fetid stench that has taken root in my deepest olfactory senses.

“Smells like corruption,” says the man, wretching on a second lungful.

Sherri Epstein. 

Waiting for me outside is a prepubescent punker holding a can of my favorite ginger ale.

“We meet again,” says a tall boy with strawberry hair.

“Yeah, uh, who are you?” 

“I’m Trevor, your photographer...I bailed you out after the thing with your child support and your altercation with the North Bethesda Police Department.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. You have to understand, I get bailed out of jail quite a bit for altercations with the North Bethesda Police Department.”

“Really?”

“Obviously not, what the hell is wrong with you? I’m a model fuckin’ citizen,” I say, swigging the ginger ale.

“Soo, you do remember me then?”

“Honestly. No.”

“Okay, well, if you wanna just follow me,” he says opening the passenger door to his rental car. “Bill sent me your flight itinerary and told me to scoop you up so we can get started. Only got a couple years til this whole Olympics thing starts, hehe.”

The writer has been married enough times to know that this will be a terrible match. Best for us to just go our separate ways now. Call the service, explain yer still under the warranty, and they'll send the gal back to one of the countries with a -stan suffix, no questions asked. That's the ticket.

“I don't need you or your fancy camera,” he tells his lame photographer.

“This is an iPhone,” he says.

“And this middle finger is an I-hate-you. Make like an omelette and flip, ‘fore I get mad.”

“No one’s gonna tie me down,” says the writer, as Trevor gets back into his car and drives away. Bill’s heard the stories. The man thinks he can babysit a Povich. The penis wheels on that guy, muses the man, shaking my head.

With the chaperone gone, Surely Povich Jr. is ready to plunge taint deep into my Rio adventure.

My first stop is the library, natch, where Yers Surely spends upwards of an hour doin hardcore research on everything blue, yellow, and green the colors that are on the Brazilian flag, I soon find out. There's also a River whose naming rights have been purchased by one of the world's largest online book stores—might this be the connection I need to root out the corporate corruptions? Time will tell. 599 more days to get to the bottom of it.

The librarian’s name is Isabel, a meek and pretty girl in that traditional sort of way. Isabel seems like a very simple girl, shy, but helpful, unconfidently pursing her lips even though she says that she’s been working here for a few years now. I nod and look into Isabel’s hazel eyes, which are obscured by a pair of bifocals, reading glasses, necessary for perusing the many books that are held in this library. Isabel laughs in a way that I like but cannot put my finger on, lilting with a femininity that I myself do not possess. Her hair is the color of a box of blonde hair coloring, blond and yellow, cropped into a nest at the top of her head with a pencil. She also had great cans.

“Call me Izzy,” she says, pointing me towards several key books on South American corruption.

“Most of these are in Portuguese,” I say, drawing a frowny face on one of the covers.

“You will have to compensate the library for the damage to the book jacket,” says Izzy.

Content with my progress, I decide that it’s time to knock on back to my Airbnb to smoke a ferocious doob.

“Hasta la an hour or so,” I tell my librarian friend.

Home is a five story walk up near the Copacabana. My grand nephew, Mike Kemp had found the place on the World Wide Web. the proprietor Jorge couldn't be a nicer guy. The minute I checked in he was offering me all the good stuff, killer Amazonian Broccoli, Yayo de Janeiro, and also some kinda hallucinogen made from a poison dart frog--I could already tell that Jorge was really a top landlord, even if he was a talking dolphin now, which I thought was a very strange choice to make on his part.

Stoned on frog dust, I check email to find a missive from long-time ladyfriend Sun Xi, or rather, her lawyer, one Warren M. Wagglestein:

Dear Surely,

As you are well aware, you have been deficient in your payment of child care and support for Ms. Xi and her child, Ping Povich. You are in arrears for back payments in the amounts of $4,674.89, pretty much all payments since you received the results of your blood test.

Mr. Povich, I understand that you are a sportswriter in an ever-dwindling media landscape of diminishing returns for your quality reporting on great men of sport. Nonetheless, it is our legal obligation to inform you that all wages earned within the United States or for U.S. based employers will result in the immediate garnishment of your wages for purposes of covering these back payments.

In essence, I strongly advise you not to return to the North Bethesda area. Sun Xi and I are very happy together-- we are engaged to be married at the Pooks Hill Marriott this spring. Moreover, your son, Ping, has begun studies at Brandeis University. He no longer wishes to be a sportswriter like his father. You can imagine that his mother and I are merrily elated at his wise decision to become an athlete.Young Ping is quite the swimmer these days. Very impressive.

Stay in Brazil, Surely!

Warren

What a mockery Ping has made of the Povich name! A fucking athlete. Truly a disgrace.

The Grosvenor Market, which I am no longer banned from frequenting. Stone’s throw from both my duplex and the Pooks Hill Marriott. I threw a stone at it one time after my Milano’s were all melted. I got banned cuz of that.

Putting down Warren’s letter, I can't help but think to myself what Dad would do in a situation such as this one. I remember the time he recounted the occasion of his big story on Ty Cobb. Of course, Dad hated that racist Cobb but not as much as he loved the way that openly proud member of the Ku Klux Klan ran those bases.

“It’s always important to remain objective,” Dad said. “The story is bigger than how much I hate Ty Cobb for being racially insensitive and beating minorities within inches of their lives. It’s about the baseball and how he ran those bases dammit. That's the story that needs to be told. Not the assaults on minorities. Leave that fluff for the tabloids. You're a sportswriter, son. That's a sacred thing.”

Dad was right about this responsibility...Which is why I decided to stick it out around Brazil to see what happened with the Olympic Games. Besides, My prospects for earning pay stateside were pretty much scuttled. As such, I did what I knew dad would to pay for Ping’s tuition. Not pay for it at all and Wait for the little fucker to age out of being a dependent...textbook Povich move. It was just like Dad’s many different families and my 10 half-brothers who came to contest his will back in 1998. Now that's what I call a family reunion!

“Surely, yer a chip off the old block,” Dad would say, if he were still alive and not floating above me in an ethereal amphibian induced hallucination.

“Thanks, Dad,” I'd reply.

I just remembered that one of my half-brothers is named Caleb...wonder how he's doing.

Still tripping my crank off, I get a yellow taxi cab back to the library, as there’s a hardcore skin joint next door, whose books boobs I wanna check out.

The City of Goddess is a gold medal strip club nary a stone’s throw away from the Biblioteca Nacional; it’s also very close to one of the modern world's most horrifying slums, which in Portuguese-speak are exotically referred to as horrifying favelas.

Indeed, many of the sex workers employed by the City of Goddess hail from these highly impoverished locales, where the money they earn stripping for members of the Brazilian Parliament and International Olympics Committee, are passed down to their families and those neighbors in need.

“Mr. Povich, is that you?” asks a stripper, in nuthin’ but a 100 years of solitude themed g-string.

“Hey Isabel!” I exclaim, recognizing my helpful librarian.

I watch as Izzy sashays her way down the catwalk, admiring her provocative bikini bottom that features the tired hand of an aged farmhand white knuckling a banana. Is it suggestive of a boner, perhaps, but also, the plight of unfair labor practices in the Americas.

Frog I tripped balls on.

“So Surely, did you find someone to translate the book on Rio’s corrupt political class that I placed on your workstation, earlier today?”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t had the chance. Unless...”

“Meet me in the champagne room,” she replies.

“Sounds good Izzy. Are we gonna talk sex stuff. Maybe negotiate a price for services?”

“We can talk about that...or we can talk about...other stuff,” she says, grinding on my slacks, finally dry from all the dog urine that had accumulated earlier in the day. “For instance, in Rio, the poor and marginalized are never too far away from those places where millions of dollars in public money are being spent to build a volleyball stadium.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You're a reporter aren't you?

“One of the best!”

“Doing an exposé on corruption before the Olympic Games?

“I believe so!”

“So write that down.”

“That’s a good idea, Izzy. Say do you know where the guy with all the skirt steak went? He was just here a minute ago and, well, I guess maybe he’ll be in the VIP area.”

Sure enough, he is in the VIP area, where I bear witness to a schmorgasbord of greased palms. All around me are good looking men, the bourgeois upper-class of Rio mixed with the seedy underbelly of the city’s criminal classes, blended together in pursuit of big tits and the best all you can eat buffet this side of the equator.

“Be careful who you talk to, Surely. These are some heavy hitters,” says Izzy, cozying up to a table of men to pour them a bottle of expensive vodka. One of the men in the party seems to know my librarian friend better than the rest, and after a moment of whispering in her ear, he seems receptive to an introduction.

“Mr. Povich, Isabel has told me so much about you,” says a man, dressed dapper in pants that aren’t soaked in urine.

“Do I know you?”

“It’s been years Surely, but indeed we do.

My mind is clouded from jet lag and the psychotropic poison of brazil’s most endangered frog, but still somewhere in my deepest recesses I slowly look past the man’s impeccable tan. That smile. The chai necklace...

“I knew it was you...I recognized those East German ankles from across the club. It’s me, Chip Rosenbaum!”

“Holy shit!” I say, recognizing my old friend. “Chip, what the hell are ya doin’ here?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute.”

“Well...you look great,” I tell him, “and I just gotta say, I'm truly sorry about that thing years back.”

“With Sherri Epstein?”

“Nah, with the soup. Though, I gotta be honest...I still maintain that Silver Diner had the best matzoh ball soup in the entire area at the time.”

“Surely, they never made matzoh ball soup at the Silver Diner...only chicken noodle.”

“Nah, I think you’re mistaken there. They made a wonderful broth. Way better than that shit they served Hofberg’s...not sure why you liked it but hey, that’s your journey, I guess.”

“Surely, that was never what I was mad abou...I...anyway, it’s water under the bridge...or rather, premature ejaculation with Sherri Epstein behind the Hot Shoppes, right?”

“Oh, I don't think that's what happened. I think I made it with her in the family Volvo and that we orgasmed together to completion a whole bunch, no? Anyway, let's let bygones be bygones, eh Chip?”

“Whatever you say, Surely,” says Chip, giving me a clap on the back. “Rest assured, as sure as you jizzed your slacks with Sherri Epstein behind the Hot Shoppes, I forgive you...and I also have your story. But first, a business proposition.”

Imagine this but in bikini form. You get the picture.

I wet my beak with a conga line of coke Chip had procured seemingly out of nowhere. Chip went on to ask me to go into business with him instead of penning a potentially inflammatory story about Rio’s underbelly of vice and crime. I had to admit, like the patented scoop shot that beat Springbrook High at the buzzer back in December ‘76, Chip Rosenbaum had just made one of his classic great points.“It’s a boring story,” I admitted. 

At this, Chip seemed very happy. He showed his joy by handing me several 50 real bank notes with an endangered jaguar printed on the back. I gladly took the money and spent it four and a half seconds later, foisting it affectionately into the garmented string of a nearby sex worker. I don’t think it was a bribe.

“So, Chippy-boy. What’s this big business proposition you got in mind?” “Tell me Surely, what do you know about...American Respectable Burger Yeasayers?”

“You mean...Arbyyyyy’s?...?”

[surelypovichjr]

Star Spangled Surely: A Very Povich Protest

Pictured: A Group of People Who Have Conflated Two Non-Related Issues. ​Photo Credit - Jason Roth - USA Today Sports

As with all things in our culture it seems that sports have become locked in the gravitational pull of our current political milieu. In no sport is this more apparent than football, where a group of players have taken to kneeling during the national anthem so as to protest police brutality. And so, with my beloved Washington Redskins slated to play on Monday night, I spent a good portion of the day running errands around Bethesda, from time to time muttering under my breath about what might occur during the anthem. 

Of course, like any athletic event, I would need an array of snacks at my disposal, which is why I found myself puttering down the aisles of Grosvenor Market, trying to find the latest Sell By Date on a thing of Entenmenn’s chocolate chip cookies, dad’s favorite pregame snack. After that, I got into the Povich family Volvo, and headed up Rockville Pike so as to place a wager with my local bookmaker, Noah, who operates out of the local Panera Bread, where he takes my bets. He also makes the soup.

“$200 on the hometown team,” I told him, endorsing over an Israel Bond from Alex Sternburgh, age 12.

“Surely, is this legit?” asked Noah, pretending to fetch a loaf of Italian Asiago in the back storage room. 

“You betcha, kid.”

Horrible gambling debts to Noah aside, I couldn’t help but contain my excitement for everything the game would entail—even the folks eating Noah’s broccoli cheddar had an angle on it.

“I hope there won’t be any KaeperDICKs on the field tonight,” said a man wearing a Rehoboth Beach sweatshirt, between bites of his Chicken Pesto Panini.

“Just you watch. One of those [Yiddish swear word for a black person] will sit,” said his friend, another septuagenarian, whose dead wife I remember banging back in my cocaine days, circa 2011.

Unfortunately, I was not at all surprised at the disgraceful discourse held by these racist old men. Indeed, it seems as if our entire nation has forgotten the long history of political protest by athletes who, like Colin Kaepernick, knew that their unique positions as role models placed them in a prominent spotlight to openly discuss grave injustices with the world around them. I recall Tommie Smith and John Carlos raising a fist for black power at the Olympics back in ’68, or how about when Muhammad Ali spoke out against Vietnam, and who could forget that one time, a beautiful moment really, when the great Charles Barkley stood up against the idea of being a role model in a unique position to openly discuss grave injustices with the world around him?

Suffice to say, history will be kind to Colin Kaepernick, who continues to be unceremoniously blackballed across the league, despite the fact that Brandon Weeden still sniffs the field. And just as Muhammad Ali was denigrated at as a draft dodger only to be celebrated as a brave man, so too will Mr. Kaepernick be vindicated in the decades to come for his noble, non-violent protest against police brutality. As a 67 year old white man, I’m proud to say that I side with this impressive young man.

This brings me to the pregame rituals held before Monday night’s football contest. As the music began and the flag unfurled on my television screen, I decided that it would not be beneficial for me to kneel on my shag carpet. No. Just as Kaep has his own form of personal protest, so too would I devise my own method of peaceful remonstration, all in the comfort of my North Bethesda duplex. Slowly, I took a bite of Entenmann’s and thought about what dad might do if he were here today. How would he show solidarity? Somewhere from deep within the dark recesses of my brain, a feeling welled up and an idea came to the fore. I had it! And so, as the anthem played and the flag waived, I, Surely Povich Jr., of sound mind and body, yanked off my boner to completion before the lady could finish the dumb flag song.

Oh yeah, and fuck the police.

- Surely Povich Jr.

[surelypovichjr]

5778: New Year but the Same Old Surely

They call Rosh Hashanah the head of the year, but I’m not a greedy man. I’ll take an OTPHJ.

L’Shana Tova,

Allow me to begin with an offer of apology for having yet to self-publish  the second chapter of my great Brazilian adventure. That story will have to be postponed for the moment as I have been experiencing a minor issue with my neighbors here in North Bethesda. It seems as though several members of the community have engaged me in a dispute that, I am sad to say, now occupies the preponderance of my time. Even the world wide web, with all its disgusting wonders, has failed to provide sufficient solace, as local residents continue to flood my inbox—lodging a complaint this, calling the police that, it’s all a bit melodramatic if you ask me…you install one above-ground Pai Gow table on the front lawn of your duplex and suddenly yer James Cagney!  

Mr. Povich, the gambling has to stop now that school’s back in session – sincerely, a deeply disturbed mother of four.  

I’ve told u people many a time: a man’s parcel of land is his and his alone to do with as he sees fit. Besides, we don’t even play that much—only Tuesday and Thursday nights so as to coincide with when the neighborhood kids are away at the Hebrew School down the block. – S.P.Jr.

Will someone tell this degenerate to stop gambling on the lawn? - Larry Klein, CPA

Larry, you are by far the worst accountant that I have ever employed and I am glad that my money is now being managed by a much smarter person—myself! At any rate, I’m fairly certain that a man can do what he wants on his property. You know what a man is, right? It’s not whatever’s staring back at you when you look in the mirror, I can tell you that. Peace, Dork. S.P.Jr.

Surely, while I understand the substance of your previous emails over these past few months, I wanted to point out several things that I think may enlighten you as to why the community is greatly upset by your most recent actions. First, the problem with your previous gambling den wasn’t that it was “underground” that made it the problem; it was that it was an illegal gambling den placing bets amongst other improprieties, as you and I well know. For godsakes, half the Walter Johnson swim team lost their NCAA eligibility.

I’m sure that you are well aware that there are other options not far afield—a casino has opened in Prince George’s County and I will gladly pay for your taxicab to and fro. At any rate, the Pai Gow table must go or legal consequences are sure to follow.

And so, Surely, as a father of two boys, as a resident of the community, and as your personal attorney, I am imploring you on this public listserv to stop gambling in front of your home.

Sincerely,

Mark Sternburgh, Esq.

The Pai Gow table shall stay on the front lawn of my North Bethesda duplex so long as I remain on G-d’s greenest! - Regards, S.P. Jr.

Deal me in, Mr. Povich! – Alex Sternburgh, Age 12

While I felt kinda bad watching the Sternburgh boy blow his bar mitzvah money on Pai Gow and Camel Lights, a part of me couldn’t help but think that this was also now my money, which actually made me feel a whole lot better about the situation. I also thought that there might be some kind of lesson to be had in all of this—a maxim of truth for a precocious young man—in the casino business, the duplex always wins.Thanks for the Israel Bonds, kiddo.

Until next time. Shalom.

-S.P. Jr.

[surelypovichjr]

Surely Gets a Brazilian: Waxing Poetic on my Big South American Scoop - Part 1

Greetings loyal readers,

Been awhile since I got a little peach out to the Povich Posse so I figure what the hell, why not?

It all started a few years back, when a little birdie told me to see my way down to Brazil, South America. According to my friend, the vast infrastructure demands of the Olympic Games had embroiled the country in unprecedented levels of corruption. Apparently, Brazil wasn't exactly cut out for the whole hosting gig. I guess not all of us can be Bill Crystal.

Two great actors.

Of course, before I could even think about going, I knew would need some money to get down there, perhaps from a super successful magazine publication. And yea, I know what yer thinkin dear reader but gotta remember that this was all wayyy back in the day—a time when magazines were rolling in validated parking and expense accounts an’ free toner--this was roughly two and a half years ago.

“Surely, the pay ain’t great,” said my potential editor, “but you are a Povich, not unlike your father, a brave man who encountered great hardship all for the highest calling, which is of course, writing short blurbs about athletic contests for a living.”

I laughed at this as I knew it to be true.

“Dad even had the scars to prove it, I said. old man lost half a nut practice catching for Walt Johnson back in ‘24.”

Some say this incident with the Big Train is why the Povich men are such odd ducks—velcro shoe people, ham radio enthusiasts, a preference of cobblers to pies, fast food dumpster divers, occasional arsonists—you get it, yer garden variety of harmless weirdos. But it’s like I always tell my journalism students at Montgomery College-Shady Grove Campus, what the hell does Doc Knolmeyer know, anyhow? Bupkis is what! The man couldn't doctor his way out of a horrible housefire an Arby's bag full of delicious curly fries.

Harvard on the Pike. Better than Harvard!

“Wow! Walter Johnson. “That's an amazing story, Surely! And exactly why I believe you are a great fit for this assignment.”

Bill was a good man, the editor for a reputable Internet content aggregator that he himself had named after a great American sportswriter. I liked the guy immensely, even if he had hijacked my idea--a direct mail newsletter entitled Povichville that woulda discussed sports and the athletes who play them in an informative kinda pretentious-like way.

“William my boy, let me get this straight,” I said, undoing a thing of Horsey Sauce.“If I have it right, you want me to go down to Rio and soak up the sun with some broads alls while doin some of the greatest, classiest journalism the world has ever seen—is that it?”

“That's right, Surely,” said the famous Boston writer guy. “Now I got a great photographer, Trevor, who’s already down there waiting for you.”

I make a face but to no avail as Bill seems pretty deadset on the idea. I don’t like photographers—never have—seems I’m always babysitting these fresh-faced shutterbugs, who always have a way of getting between me and the story, slowing down to take a photo of this thing or that; always trying to marginalize the written word; always using the dark room when I wanna pound the pineapple. But this Brazilian story...how could I say no?

Immediately, I envisioned myself livin it up down in South America, probably wearing something made of linen--it’s all so clear, Surely Povich Jr, 67 years young and cuttin a rug alongside the bronze Brazilian populace; just look at me, hangin out at the Copacabana, drinkin caparinhas at sunset amongst boob-y blondes with fake bags of fun; and hey there if that isn't me again, wakin’ up in a burned down building, in nuthin but a banana hammock and a half eaten bowl of feijoada, and boy, wow getta load of what's become of that famous sportswriter’s disowned son, smoking angel dust with Rio’s most murdery biker gang--ya know, the usual Surely hijinks the great American papers of yesteryear paid me top dollar to bring through the door.

Indeed the job was a no-brainer at the time, as I had just discovered that my domestic partner, Sun Xi had rekindled a relationship with her ex-husband, my former bankruptcy attorney, Mr. Warren Wagglestein. I figured it all out when I looked at the settings on my NordicTrack…resistance level 13…who am I, Sixten Jernberg? 

After a confrontation that got me banned from the Grosvenor Market, the three of us got around to settling our differences; we are adults after all. Matter fact, Warren was very happy when I told him about the sportswriting gig.

“Surely, the last few months have been hard, no doubt. But this sounds like a fantastic opportunity for you.”

“You know, Warren,” I said, “you may have stolen my Sunny after I stole her from you and ruined your beautiful marriage, but, rubber hits the road, I’m thinkin’ maybe you’re not such a bad guy.”

“I’m not the bad guy, Surely,” agreed Warren.

Though my personal life was more hectic than ever, I still had a contract offer for a swell assignment. I didn’t wanna overplay my hand just yet, which meant that for purposes of negotiating my per diem, I had to make it look like I didn’t need the job at all. Savvy as a cat, I paused to make it seem as though, I dunno, maybe I was still very skeptical about the whole thing. “I dunno, maybe I'm still very skeptical about the whole thing,” I said, playing it fucking smooth as fuck. Again, i paused for effect but also to eat, reaching out for another handful of Arby's delicious curly fries all washed down with an equally delicious gulp from my jamocha malted milkshake, also from the Arby's establishment out on Rockville Pike.

“Surely, what's it gonna be? I can't just sit here in this back alley all day long and watch you pick delicious Arby's curly fries out of the dumpster behind the Ring House. I'm a sportswriter. I’ve got things to do. Busy things!”

The Motherfucking Ring House

“Bill, I gotta admit, it’s the story I was born to tell, and by tell I mean, to publish on the Internet for an audience so niche that I may as well not write it at all--now what's my per diem?”

Ah, the per diem. Dad’s first lesson in professional sportswriting: always let the fellers butter yer challah, he’d tell me. In Shirley Povich Sr.’s case that meant a heaping bowl of BJ Pumpernickel’s world famous matzoh ball soup. I remember the Post interns would play rochambeau on who would make the drive out to Olney, Maryland for Dad’s pre-deadline meal. Indeed, I have many memories of the times near boiling hot liquid would seep out from the establishment’s famously leaky containers, the sight of starched Dockers ruined, the ginger white arms of a young Tony Kornheiser, badly burned. Alas, Dad never wrote another word after BJ Pump’s closed its doors—the Silver Diner’s inferior balls—my personal favorite—would simply not suffice—Dad did not care for my favorite balls.

The Pickle Bar at BJ Pumpernickel’s...not pictured, Dad eatin’ matzoh ball soup out of a trough. Also not pictured, a sneezeguard—highly overrated in my opinion.

After talkin to Bill, I drive the Povich family Volvo over to my duplex, only to find a bunch of people from the county sheriff’s office waiting there. Turns out, that big shot attorney Warren Wagglestein got the whole property annexed out from under me—and just because I never paid child support for Sunny’s ungrateful progeny Ping!

Some random dude pays my bail and I return to North Bethesda, where I sneak into the duplex using the key hidden inside the Mondale ‘84 bird feeder. 

Sunny and Warren are nowhere to be found, probably popping champagne upcounty, at my former attorney’s opulent townhome in North Potomac.

Home sweet home...but still...what about Rio? Should I go? 

I jumped in the shower and thought it all over. The story was classic A1, top of the fold type stuff, with a picture and everything. It was then that I decided that maybe I should ruffle some feathers of my own, like only a true Povich could.

I jumped out of the shower—I was done thinking it over.

Two hours later I find myself in an aisle seat on a flight outta John Foster Dulles International Airport.

"ONWARD TO RIO!” I SCREAM AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS.

I apologize to the flight attendant, but still find it difficult to control my excitement. I get the sense that this will be my greatest adventure yet. A grand foray into the unknown, yes, but also a new beginning from all that had tied me to my North Bethesda digs.*

Brazil, here we come.

Click here for Part II of Surely’s Great Brazilian Adventure!

*Should add that I also kinda made s'mores outta Doctor Knolmeyer’s house...so yeah, probably not the worst idea in the world for me to leave the country. He’s fine btw

The greatest politician who ever lived. What can I say, I’m a real Mondale-head. #stillwithhim

[surelypovichjr]

A Visit to Tenementos De Sterling

Dad loved going to LA. Ever since we were boys, Maury and I would leave Bethesda and make our storied trip to the land of sunshine and movie stars, or as my brother Maury called it, ‘the land of skanks with bottom of the barrel self-esteem.’ Dad called those girls ‘actresses,’ but that’s a story for another day folks. And besides, this story is about our old family friend, Donald Sterling, and deserves the appropriate gravitas of a Povich.

This is a very special story because with all the latest ongoings and banishment and what not, I thought it was only important to chime in with a little peach of my own. In 1995, Surely Povich and the rest of our family lost Donald Sterling as a friend—and it all started with a trip to his apartment complex—Tenementos De Sterling. ​​​​​​

*****

Some people call the apartments owned by Donald Sterling “decrepit slums”…but to others, those cockroach-infested shitholes are a little place they like to call home. Donald would take us there every time we’d visit him in LA. The apartment units were a source of great pride to him. As Don would always say, a man without land is nothing, and a man with nothing is no better than some Chinaman. Donald was a great orator—he sure had a way with words.

I had always looked up to Donny because of the bond we shared over weird sex stuff. I have fond memories of a very special Passover dinner back in Bethesda, where Donny explained to me what a rimjob was. I never forgot that night—the afikomen was a complete afterthought.

Butt I digress. The last time we visited Donny’s slum apartments we had a grand old time. I remember Donny had a bizarre ‘no blacks allowed’ sign by his apartments that made me feel really ill at ease. It was equally disconcerting to see two young boys running in circles on a desolate jungle gym that had a rat poison sign over it.

“Donny that doesn’t seem safe,” I told him matter-of-factly.

“Ah hell, Surely you big fucking softy, the ‘Rat Poison’ sign is only decorative. I would never pay for a real exterminator.”

I shrugged and realized that Donny was the pro; he owned a major sports franchise and I owned a condo in North Bethesda. So what did I know? Dad agreed as did Maury. I felt like a schmuck.

It was then that Donny clarified his stance on race, telling us he’d been banging half of the building, which was filled with African-American gals! Clearly, Donny’s signage was something of a misnomer. He didn't hate black people at all—cause he loved fucking them! Donald Sterling was really complex, but sometimes, so is life.

*****

On a basketball court there is right and there is wrong. Basketball is poetry floating in motion, as young men grace the court like trapeze artists ever-so-gently- flowing and rising and caprioling to the basket. But life is not like that. Dad told me that at an early age, and I always look back on my times with Donny and what that trip to his apartment complex taught me about pain, sadness, and utter confusion. Donald Sterling’s apartment complex did not have a basketball court. Basketball is so much better than life.

Our journey through Tenementos de Sterling continues. As we pass through the apartment complex, Donny leads us to his own personal whorehouse inside the building. Maury wastes no time, that devil, and before I can blink he’s getting one mean OTPHJ from a beautiful Thai girl.

"You see Surely, that’s how it’s done," said Don, chugging his Brandy. "You’ve got a lot to learn from your brother."

I remember Dad nodding at this.

On our way back to the Memorial Arena for the Clippers practice, a storefront catches Donny’s eye. Before you can blink, Donald Sterling, business mogul, is out of the car.

"Donny, what’re you doin?" I ask him, eager to get to the stadium.

"Shut up Surely! This is business!"

Well I’ll be damned if Donald Sterling didn’t walk into that dry cleaners and buy it right there on the spot. The name of that establishment: WHITES ONLY. Two weeks later and the man has revolutionized the whole industry! The first dry cleaners in all of Korea-Town to only do business with white people. Bill Gates, who? Steve Jobs? Never heard of ‘em. Don was a true entrepreneur if there ever was one! But like most trailblazers, the man was ahead of his time. *****

Back at the Los Angeles Memorial Arena, Dad’s standing on the pristine Los Angeles hardwood, wolfing down an egg salad sandwich and an entire glass jar of spicy pickles straight from Canter’s over on Fairfax. Meanwhile, Donald Sterling is marching around the court like he’s General Patton. Donny is mad.

The subject of Mr. Sterling’s ire is rookie sensation Brent Barry. Brent, a lanky kid from California, was showing off his dunking abilities. I watch in reverie as Brent spins past Malik Sealy, crosses Rodney Rodgers, and throws down an impressive two-handed slam—a real piece of hoops heaven.

It’s at this point that Sterling really loses it. He grabs dad’s jar of Canter’s spicy pickles and begins launching them at Barry’s head. At first he hits head coach, Bill Fitch, that poor bastard. Fitch doesn’t even make a sound, completely used to Sterling’s antics by now, and continues coaching as if nothing had happened. When a maniacal Sterling lets another gherkin go, it’s bulls-eye—the little fucker hits Barry right in the forehead.

“What the fuck, was that a pickle?”

“Damn right it was, ya sonuvabitch, I am not paying your ass to prance around in the lane like that.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Sterling, I am just trying to get easy baskets.”

“Easy baskets?!?!” This time around, Sterling approaches Brent and begins to beat him over the head with another dill-flavored treat.

“Let me tell you something boy, you belong behind the 3 point line!” Donny lectures. “You take 3s! It’s unbecoming of a Caucasian man to think he’s going to dunk.”

“What?!?”

“I pay you to shoot!” fumed Brent’s employer. “Fitch, why did we draft this cracker?”

“To shoot sir.”

“Goddamn right!” snaps Don. “I swear I will never draft another honky again! A million bucks for a white guy—ya gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!!”

According to Clipper lore, Sterling had to be rushed to the hospital when he learned that Barry had entered and WON the dunking competition the following season. It was reported by a very good Povich source that at the next open practice Sterling carted a tanning machine onto the parquet and forced Barry to undress—poor Brent spent the remainder of practice in a tanning bed.

“You don’t wanna be a honky ya sonuvabitch, well, I’ll make you black!” barked Sterling.

Donny sure was old school. He believed in a culture, a system, pure game with movement and men, tall powerful men who knew their place. He thought the team was his factory with clear and movable parts. However his antics did rub Dad the wrong way and after that we swore to never see old Donald again. Dad could not stand public humiliations and felt that limiting young athletes was insulting to the game of basketball. And there was nothing more important than preserving the game’s beauty and purity and sanctity and what not.

I have not seen or spoken to Donald Sterling since that fateful day with Brent Barry. Was he a disgusting, virulent racist? Probably. But the man took me in, he showed me what rimjobs were—life is complicated.

[surelypovichjr]

A Very Surely Christmas

I didn’t grow up celebrating Christmas. As Vice-President of Adas Israel, my father had an unabashed hatred for the holiday season. Every Christmas Eve, he’d be one of a handful of Jews left at the Post, typing away about the Redskins while all the gentile writers went home to sing bullshit carols and eat ham. The next day he’d sit in the den as our neighbors frolicked around their illuminated houses and Christmas trees and kissed their blonde wives next to the wreath on the front door; watching their kids play in the snow. At this point, the great Shirley Povich would scoff and say “Goddamn goyim!” under his Scotch laced breath.

Maybe that’s why I love Christmas so much. While Maury went off to Hollywood and talk show greatness, I became obsessed with finding the best shikses DC had to offer. Back in my day, I’d head down to the Holton Arms School and camp out each December. Young Surely was on the prowl. I’d find the sluttiest shikse in the entire school and slash her tires. When she came out to drive her car, I’d call AAA. I’d give her a lift home and on the way back make it with her in the backseat of the Povich family Volvo. That’s the way it’s done! But that was ages ago. I’M AN OLD MAN! and after a while it’s time to face mortality--my days of chasing high school skirt are over—it’s not 2009 anymore.

Even still, Christmas remains something of a sacred day for me. In the past few years I’ve enjoyed a traditional Jewish Christmas of Chinese food and a day at the cinema. This year was a bit different, however, as my brother Maury and his wife, Connie are on a cruise leaving yours Surely to fend for his lonesome.

Luckily, I had a backup plan this year. I managed to convince my trusty maid Sun Xi to come over and prepare a delicious Szechuan meal for me. She even brought along her son, Sing, who hasn’t really spoken to me since our trip to FedEx last month (boy the Redskins sure were a lump of coal this year, eh?). I was furious with the kid, who left stains all over the backseat of the Isuzu. The best auto interior man on Rockville Pike said he’d never seen anything like it.

"Chip off the old block," I’d said at the time.

Though I’m not sure as to whether Sing Xi is my actual son, I’m still mighty proud of him. He just got into Georgetown on a full-ride piano scholarship. The kid’s a regular Schroeder, I tell ya! In the spirit of the holidays I bought him some gifts that he can enjoy in his first year of college, WHICH I AM NOT PAYING FOR!

Sun Xi gets out her wok and begins to make her famous Kung Pao while me and her son prepare the traditional Povich family egg nog. As I microwave the milk and stir in the whiskey, Sing takes out his rolling papers and begins to craft a fat one.

"Use this," I say, producing the secret ingredient.

Sing obliges and sprinkles a quarter teaspoon of nutmeg into the holiday joint and me and him take gulps of whiskey milk while alternating tokes on the enormous doob.

By now we’re totally baked and thank Christ Sun Xi is done with the cooking as we all sit down to partake in her Christmas lunch feast. The spread is really something to behold and I swear that Sing’s mom is the greatest cook this side of Shanghai!

"I need an egg roll," I declare, excusing myself from the table.

"But we were talking about the blood test!" Sing fervently protests. "Besides, Mom didn’t make any egg rolls."

"Oh yeah, an egg roll is what I call it when your mother handles my crank and gives me an OTPHJ, got me? Anyways, when me and your mom get back we’ll go to the movies and open gifts just like I promised, okay?"

"You’re a sad, pathetic man!" screams Sing.

"Quiet, I have neighbors. Relax Sing, we’ll be back before you know it," I assure him.

Despite Sing trying to kick down my bedroom door, Sun and I still manage to have a grand jolly time. We emerge twenty minutes later to a catatonic Sing, playing a Bach fugue over and over again on my untuned piano.

"Surely, he’s your son. The least you can do is take him to the movies. I have to go run some errands. Take him to that new Lord of the Rings movie. by the time you’re done, I’ll have another delicious meal ready for you both."

"Now who wants to go to the movies?!" I exclaim.

After much prodding and another nutmeg joint to the dome, Sing finally acquiesces.

"Grab the presents," I tell him, pointing to the gifts by the door.

"Where are they going?" Sing asks.

"Charity for kids," I answer.

"That’s very nice of you," he admits.

"Maybe I’m not such a bad father after all."

"No. You are."

The two of us pile into my Isuzu and head to our next destination to spread our holiday cheer.

* * *

Good Guys has been a neighborhood institution in Glover Park for the past fifty years and I’ve been coming here for just as long. Adas is right down the street! Why, after I chanted my Haftarah, dad took me straight to Good Guys. I became a man that day in more ways than one! I BONED A CHICK!

As a tradition every year my favorite skin bar throws an annual holiday drive to benefit the little ones. Toys for Tits is the event of the holiday season and a charity that is near and dear to my heart. I really cherish it! It’s my way of giving back to the community as each toy in my sack goes to the lucky girl or boy whose whore-mom I’ve made it with in the back room of Good Guys over the past year…provided that they’ve been nice and not naughty little assholes to their stripper-whore mothers.

"Hey Surely," says Tatiana, a red headed bimbette I am more than familiar with in the biblical sense.

"Hey baby. Here’s a Star Wars for your boy," I say, fishing a gift out of my bag.

"Thanks Shurl," she says.

"No problem!"

I look over at Sing and the kid is speechless as Destiny approaches, her Grand Tetons exposed in their glorious wonder.

"Go on, give her a toy," I urge, stuffing his hand in the sack.

"Thanks Surely Claus!" says Destiny.

"Don’t thank me," I say. "Thank my boy Sing…and thank him properly if you know what I mean."

"Ooo, I do," she winks. Slowly, she grabs Sing Xi with her left hand, wedging the Tickle-Me-Elmo into her G-String as the two of them head towards the Champagne Room.

My possiby illegitimate son emerges twenty minutes later. He looks no worse for wear, barely managing to conceal the satisfied smirk Destiny left on his face. Sing can now truly appreciate the miracle that is Christmas and giving back through Toys for Tits—SHE PLAYED WITH HIS PECKER!

"So how was it, my boy!? You roast your chestnuts, eh?"

"What are you talking about?" asks a perplexed Sing.

"I’m just breaking balls, kid. That’s just what I call it when you tittyfuck a girl between Thanksgiving and Martin Luther King Day!

"I thought we were going to see a movie," he says as we bid the ladies adieu.

"Suit yourself," I answer, content to spread more Yuletide joy!

* * *

We get back into the car and set off again. At an apartment complex near my home, I park the car and get out. We head into the lobby and down the stairs before reaching a small corridor. I knock on one of the doors and tell Sing to shut the fuck up if he knows what’s good for him.

A man opens the slot in the door and asks for a password.

"Riggins," I whisper correctly.

The burly man opens the door and I pay both mine and Sing’s fee. The basement apartment is large and sprawling with many siderooms. After perusing the menu I lead Sing to the third door on the right and the two of us step into a crowded room, slinking into the third row just as the projector turns on.

"This is not Desolation of Smaug!" Sing whisper-yells.

"Save it, will ya?" I say, unbuckling the top button of my jeans.

"You said we were going to see The Hobbit."

"It’s starting! Shushes another patron.

I can tell the kid is a bit disappointed so I suggest that we go home and open his gifts. He agrees and after the film, the two of us drive home. As for me, The Lord Of The Cock Rings was a dynamite flick! I give it two circumcised Surely boners up!

***

After the stag film the two of us return to my NoBeth duplex. Sing’s mom isn’t home yet so the two of us send back a few more Povich egg nogs and pass out on my futon. When we wake up, the apartment is in full swing! While we snoozed, Sun Xi decorated the house in tinsel and all kinds of beautiful ornaments. She stands in the kitchen over a giant hot pot and serves us her famous noodle dish at the table. What a woman!

"Open this," I whisper.

"What is it?" asks Sing, examining the card.

"For school next year," I explain. "It’s a punchcard for the clinic at Georgetown Hospital. There’s nine checks already. Thanks to me, your next checkup is on the house!"

Sing’s next gift is a real doozy and he guesses before he unwraps the thing that it’s a 36-pack of lambskins. The kid’s real bright in that way!

The last gift is the most important though and at first Sing is perplexed at the small yellow Post-It that merely says “IOU” on it.

"What is this for?" Sing asks.

"It’s for a blood test," I tell him, trying but failing not to break down in tears.

Sing looks down in puzzlement, cradling my gesture of good faith. For a while, he doesn’t say anything and lights another nutmeg joint, inhaling deeply in silence.

"Merry Christmas, Sing," I say, still choked up from it all.

My purported son continues to toke on his holiday fatty. We’ll know the results in three weeks but no matter the results at least I won’t have to pay for college.

"Good grief," Sing finally manages.

Family. Togetherness. Kung Pao. Strippers. Love. OTPHJs. Smoking nutmeg. Toys for Tits. Stag films. Paternity tests. It was the best Christmas I’ve ever had.

[surelypovichjr]

Crappy Channukah: Embarrassment at FedEx

A lot of people have asked me lately why I haven’t penned a sweet little ‘ticle. The simple answer is that no story has grabbed my fancy. Ya see folks, I come from sportswriting royalty. I have high standards for my column—I wouldn’t write about just any old mishegas. So while old Surely could have written somethin’ sweet, the peach would be rotten before it even fell off the tree if you catch my drift. This is a trait I’ve inherited from my father, Shirley Povich. Like myself, dad could only write stories that spoke to his soul. To not do so would be like a death sentence to him and in many ways this was true. Back in dad’s day if you wrote a shitty column they’d send u to Korea. And not the nice place where Dennis Rodman hangs out either, I’m talking about M*A*S*H Korea. A great show but a terrible war. Seriously folks! Speaking of horrible tragedies that make me wanna jerk-off relentlessly, I had the opportunity to watch this Redskins team Monday night and it wasnt purdy. I tell ya, this team is two pieces of bread short of a shit sandwich. I mean, what are we gonna do with this team right here, eh? “It’s an abomination—a travesty. This entire team is an unwanted turd…flush it twice,” said my Oriental housekeeper, after the game. It pains me to say that I can’t help but agree with Sun-Xi. Indeed, the stench surrounding this team brings to mind the great Wootton Parkway Tuberculosis outbreak of 1996. Which brings me to last night, when my almighty ‘Skins took on the assbags from San Francisco. But we have to rewind the VCR a little bit to give you an idea of what game day is like as a member of sportswriting’s first family. For a Povich like me, game day is like a religious experience. In order, the two holiest places for a Povich are FedEx Field and Adas Israel.

The day begins at 4:45 in the AM. I have my Activia and then get to work in the kitchen on my famous seven layer dip, the staple centerpiece of Surely’s Tits-Up Tailgate. The recipe is a beaut and a true original—your first layer is pretty standard fare, a big bag of North Bethesda Marching Powder spread across a Redskins helmet shaped serving platter. Next up…a few more grams of coke…the third layer, a bit cliche, is more cocaine. Fourth layer: coke, Fifth: blow, Sixth: dash of snortsky…the seventh and topmost layer…a generous dollop of lowfat sour cream. This ingredient is key. It takes the edge off in a big way…DO NOT SKIMP ON THE SOUR CREAM! After the dip is made, I go upstairs and get dressed. In my closet sits the vintage Billy Kilmer jersey and Zubaz pants I’ve worn to every home game since 1991. I add a winter cap because it’s cold out and find some hand warmers to stuff in my pockets before venturing outside around 5:30 to the beat up Buick Regal owned by my tailgate partner extraordinaire…Sun Xi’s 18 year old, Sing. The kid is happy today as he just got into one of the Ivys, don’t ask me, I forget which one, on a full ride piano scholarship. “Hit this!” Sing demands, proferring the one-r I bought him for Hannukah. I toke up as my possibly illegitimate son takes off down Wisconsin and turns onto the Beltway. There is nary a car at this hour as we make our way towards FedEx. Sing Xi’s Buick rolls into the Green Lot around 6:30 am. “T-minus fourteen-and-a-half hours ‘til kickoff!” I exclaim, to a vacant lot. Sing does not reply and opens the trunk to fish out his charcoal grill. We eat sausage sandwiches before relaxing on a pair of trashbags we stuff with leaves from the forest behind the stadium. After a four hour nap, we grab Sing’s grass and hot box the port-a-johns adjacent to the Buick. It’s 2 pm and we’re stoned as hell when Sing starts talking about this girl Molly. I say I can’t wait to meet her and Sing laughs in the way that Maury laughs after a bottle of Mad Dog. Maybe I can get on lil’ brother’s show…do a paternity test and find out if it really is true. He has the eyes of a Povich, I can tell ya that much. Nah! As it turns out, Molly is not a woman at all but in fact a pill that Sing gives me that makes me feel real dandy. “I feel 45 years old again!” I exclaim licking the sides of the port-a-john. The main tailgaters get into the lot around 5 pm. It’s at this point that I am jonesing pretty hardcore for the seven layer dip. I only usually make it to the fourth layer but goddammit today is a new day! Sing’s already picked himself out a cute little birdie and like the Povich he may or may not be, is already in the back of the Buick, balls-deep in some 38 year-old paralegal from Gaithersburg. What a prodigy! “Is that you Surely?” asks a man. I turn around and see a familiar face—none other than Chief Justice of the Supreme Court John Roberts. “Ay, Johnny-boy!” I exclaim, greeting my old friend with a giant bearhug. “Good to see you,” says John. “I haven’t seen you at a tailgate in a few weeks. I was starting to get worried.” “I’m fine,” I assure him. “I’m starvin’. You bring food?” “Of course! Of course!” he says. “How bout you? Did you make the dip?!” I don’t answer him and instead reach into the front passenger seat and pull up the tinfoil covering Povich’s patented seven layer shitshow. Sing berates me for interrupting but I don’t give a shit and hand him two lambskins. “I hate you!” Sing screams from the back of the car. “This dip is the only thing in the world that makes this team palatable,” says the most powerful Judge in the United States. “What a parking lot Danny-boy has constructed out here in Raljon, eh?” I ask, rubbing a bit between my gums. It’s around this time that some Niners fans begin coming out of the woodwork and a bunch of them start bein real salty to us, particularly Judge Roberts. Some Pelosi staffer shoots off at the mouth about Citizen’s United and how great tempeh is when Roberts drops his crab cake sandwich and lets him have it right in the gut. Sing gets out of the car and jumps into the scrum and it ends up being a real San Francisco beatdown. This guy will be back in Nancy’s office on Tuesday with a black eye and a whole lotta regret. After the beating, the three of us play some beer pong and cornhole as Sing does another rail. We’ve made it to the seventh layer! Incredible! I smoke some more of Sing’s grass (way more potent than back in my day) and head inside. Anyways, onto the game. I refer to FedEx Field as football’s Mecca. I sit in section 436 for free, of course, as Mr. Snyder has been generous enough to grant the Povich family free season tickets for as long as we live. In my section, I’m treated like a king. A real Povich. Sportswriting royalty. I get free reign there and am great at leading all of the chants, the fight song especially.

I should also add that I’ve made it with just about all the broads that come in and out of section 436 but today, the row above me is full of StubHub people and by the end of the first quarter, I’m going at it with some Niners’ fan’s wife in the third stall of the Men’s Bathroom. Life is good. We get back from the humpfest and I get into it with the husband for a little bit. I buy him a beer and he seems to calm down after the Niners go up double digits. From what I recall, the game got pretty depressing after that. Full discretion, I pretty much just blacked the fuck out after the first quarter, mostly because of the cocaine. That’s why you always need a designated driver who’s a little less fucked up than you are. Thanks again Sing! I owe ya big time! The ‘Skins are done for the year at three and eight and as we approach the holidays, we must reflect on the season; after all, with a healthy RG3 this team was supposed to be SuperBowl bound. But what will happen next year? Will Coach Shanahan be retained? Will Robert Griffin improve after a lackluster sophomore season? And what of the Redskins name? Will it be changed? Am I Sing Xi’s true father? Honestly, who the fuck knows. I’M AN OLD MAN! I don’t have many more seasons left to go. All I know is that I am a Povich and will support this team to the bitter end. Hannukah is around the corner. After so many seasons, I have come to embrace the randomness of success in this league. The NFL is one big dreidel spin and this year has been a real Shin. Let’s hope for a Gimel next year. It’s our turn.

[surelypovichjr]

To Daniel Snyder on Yom Kippur

As the greatest sportswriter in the history of this sleepy little swamp-town, my father loved the Washington Redskins more than anything in the entire world, except for maybe his stupid typewriter, and his cigars of course. Everybody and their Jewish mother knew that Dad could write about the ‘Skins until his fingers just about fell right off. And towards the end, they actually did!

Pops especially loved the Redskins teams of the early ‘70s, when he would write sweet little juicy ripe peaches about Head Coach George Allen and the group that came to be known as The Over-The-Hill Gang. In those days, Dad and George would go out for long nights, big benders that left my father with a hangover the size of the Pentagon! I remember Yom Kippur in 1972, when the Povich and Allen children were dropped off at our Oriental babysitter’s house with nuthin’ but a dreidel and a sack of nickels. It was me and Maury of course, and also the Allen progeny, future Redskins GM Brucie and his brother, future governor of Virginia Georgie Allen Jr.—a quartet of boys that would change this town forever.

I wouldn’t learn until later what transpired that night—turns out the old codgers blew off services and went to a key party, a pretty popular shindig back in those days—screwed each other’s brains out until the cows came home. Dad was real progressive in that way. The man took his love for the home team to a level unprecedented in sportswriting history. His passion for the Redskins sold millions of newspapers for The Washington Post, giving it dignity and credence at a time when the Watergate scandal had it mired in criticism.

Maybe that’s why Dad’s favorite holiday was Yom Kippur. The day after the Povich-Allen orgy and many Days of Atonement thereafter, my father would park himself in the first pew of Adas Israel and wait for all the other bigshots to pay their respect to the great man. It also gave him an excuse to fast. You see, my mother’s cooking was absolute dogshit and it was the one time of year that Pops had a legitimate excuse not to eat her overcooked brisket and soggy carrots. Anyone who knew Dad could tell you that the man preferred the Post cafeteria over anything served up in Casa de la Povich. For all my years I never saw him eat anything but Salisbury Steak. Vegetables were for “The Reds” as he put it.

Many Washingtonians had a great deal to atone for this Yom Kippur. I personally had very little. Well, I suppose the young birdie I met through the web…I tell ya she looked like Meryl Streep from Out of Africa in her profile picture, bathing Rwandans by the dozen and smiling broadly. I took her to Hank Dietle’s and she talked about how lame it was compared to her favorite dive bar in Columbia Heights. I pretended to agree with her even though Hank’s is the best. Well, turns out I played my cards right. We went back to my duplex, played a game of mancala, and humped. Ethel screwed like a beaut and I never called her again. But that’s my journey. Anyways, where was I? Yom Kippur! Right! I can never remember what day it is. At my age when you try and fast I end up slow and weak. I’M AN OLD MAN! I tell ya I was so feeble this morning I could barely reach down to pick up the papers, which I only pick up every three days or so from the overstuffed mailbox of my NorBeth duplex.

Needless to say, Friday’s op-ed page nearly gave me a third heart attack. I had to take a Bayer when I saw what the editorial board had printed, asking Redskins owner Daniel Snyder to change the name of his business and asking Washingtonians to accept that their favorite team must alter its allegedly racist nickname. One month after it was bought by that forest ranger guy and they go and print this schlock! Dad would roll over in his grave. What a pile of phooey!

Dad’s former employer has become the latest in a long line of publications that have begun to incite hatred of the Redskins name. I can speak personally when I say that such words are incredibly hurtful to fans of the Redskins. Now more than ever, people have taken to denigrating the team as having the worst nickname in sports. It pains me to say that over the years such painful criticism has taken its toll on the fanbase—many have become alcoholics, degenerate gamblers, and ticket scalpers—others spend the majority of their pittance of income supporting the organization, some writing and photographing members of their favorite team for little to no pay in return. We are a dedicated tribe.

There’s a guy I know at Hank’s—his name’s Mark Frankel and he’s a quarter Cherokee—tells us his tribal name is Mark PleaseDontChangeThisName. Good guy. We watch all the games together and sometimes he even comes over my NoBeth duplex. We sing the fight song together! He does rain dances after every ‘Skins touchdown! So I call him up the other day, asking about the article:

“Hey Chief Markie-boy, whaddya think of Dan Snyder?”

The Indian man pauses. “No man cares more deeply for the plight of the American Indian than Daniel Snyder,” he solemnly declared. “Furthermore I have great pride in the Redskins name.”

That’s all the proof I need to hear folks! Straight from the mouth of Mark Frankel—a real red-blooded Indian man. I mean, do these schmegegges at WaPo not realize what Mr. Snyder and the Redskins name represents? This team represents the underdog; Native Americans who were outmanned and outgunned by white Europeans fought for their rights to survive on this land. It is with that mission statement that the Redskins name must also persevere, to let the other NFL teams know that we will fight until the bitter end with bows and arrows and rocks and sticks. It’s not the name dummies, it’s the symbol. Besides, aren’t all of us non-goyim, Redskins in some way?

Therefore, it is with much disappointment when I say that I will no longer besmirch this webpage with the name of DC’s most widely distributed newspaper. I shall never utter it’s name ever again or deign to read its compelling little ‘ticles. Consider this the cancellation of my subscription to the once great paper my father built from scratch with his own eight fingers. And to the editorial board of this town’s largest newspaper, I’d say you had a great deal of atoning to do this Yom Kippur—you owe this team, its fans, and its owner a big fat apology! And to Daniel Snyder—a true member of the tribe—I hope you had an easy fast. YOU DESERVE IT! GO REDSKINS!

[surelypovichjr]

When Men Were Men: A Fine Cuban Cigar with Surely, Excerpt #2

As many of you know, I am writing my memoir, tentatively titled: “When Men Were Men: A Fine Cuban Cigar with Surely.” The memoir has gripped my entire life—every fiber of my essence for the past ten years. No time for kids, or relationships of any kind: just banging! I carry pen, pad, lambskin rubber, and of course my handy Escher sketch pad everywhere I go. That’s the way a real journalist does it, and the only way pops lived.

Today’s excerpt comes from the mid-80s, when I had a giant hard-on for Pat Ewing. What a star I tell ya! A few weeks ago Pat celebrated his 51st birthday and boy did it get me thinking about his college days at Georgetown. Helluva player, and a helluva guy! And to think, he wasn’t even a citizen at the time!

Pat was the real deal definition of the American dream. That’s why whenever anyone says anything negative about immigrants or some shit like that, I always tell ‘em about Pat Ewing’s unbelievable Jamaican work ethic and Kingston book-smarts. I’m also sure to mention Sun-Xi, my Oriental maid. What a beautiful gal, folds my sheets real great, and cooks a mean Sichuan dinner! What a doll that Sun-Xi. Where was I, oh yeah, Patrick Ewing was a dominating force in the 1980s, leading Georgetown to a National Title in ‘84. This excerpt is dedicated to Betsy and Rivkah, the 2 gals I was boning that year (Betsy became my wife, er, former wife) and of course, Pat Ewing!

Patrick Ewing and the Start of a Fashion Trend!

“Eh, Johnnyboi, eh, rudeboi, eh, wasssgoing on, wat’s happenin?” I said, offering coach a sip of my Fuzzy Navel.

“For the last fucking time Surely, I’m not Jamaican, I am from DC goddammit, now get the fuck out of the locker room!”

John Thompson was a surly man at times, but he never bothered me. It was 1983 and I was convinced that my Hoyas were going to win the National Championship. Why was I sure? Because it was the 80s babe, and everything was comin’ up Povich, including my crank! I was drinking like a fish, dating two sweet little birdies, and then there was Pat Ewing, the cherry on top of my Surely Sundae.

Pat Ewing was the second coming of Bill Russell. There, I said it. Bill. Fucking. Russell. The difference was Pat was doing it against way tougher competition. The man was amazing to watch. His post-game was a revelation, and I loved watching his midrange jumper, but the most beautiful thing about em’ was the D. Pat was murdering guys out there, swatting balls away, and pushing people around.

Pat was also a very mature man, a wise student of the game. I remember being rushed to Sibley after the game against Providence. Now the doctor said it was probably the 8ball I did off a toilet seat in Martin’s Tavern but I swear to pops it was that good-for-nothing-sore-loser-Greaseball-schmuck , Rick Pitino who gave me my first heart attack, questioning Pat’s intelligence and academic prowess before the big game. Those accusations literally made me sick to my stomach—my heart wrenched as I knew Pat well. The man could quote Socrates, read Bill Shakespeare, and dunk on Olajuwon in the big game all in a day’s work. That’s how special he was. I was so enamored by the 7 footer that I would do my best to sneak in to the Hoya locker room every chance I had.

“Eh Pat, I got a special delivery for yah,” I’d say and sneak him a fifth of Appleton Rum (only the best for Pat), a pack of lambskin rubbers for the whores at GW, and an 1/8 of the stickiest herb I could find. I did this every week and I was very judicious about it. I would drive to my man Moshe in Pikesville, bless his heart. I remember at the time he was a touring roadie with the Squigtones; good band. He also spent a lot of time on a Kibbutz specializing in butter up in Israel, before returning to G-d’s gift to man, The State of Maryland. He was a true peach of a man and dad loved him and his special chocolate butter to death. Dad and I would eat his butter by the spoonfuls after smoking a few doobs. Of course Dad never inhaled, he just loved chocolate!

When I was bangin Rivkah up in Glover Park (she temped at Good Guys), I’d have her whip up a batch of her finest Jerk Chicken and bring it straight to Coach Thompson.

"Boy, I told your cracker-ass I ain’t fuckin Jamaican," said the legendary coach. "If your daddy wasnt the greatest sportswriter who’s ever lived, I’d put these Allen Edmonds up yer dumbass!"

"No sweat it mon," I would reply.

After a bottle of Kingston’s finest, I’d break out the herb. But Pat would never partake in the Ganja.

"What yah doin, mon?" I’d ask, scarfing down the rest of Rachel’s chicken. "Just a little hit off the doobie. C’mon Pat it’ll help the nerves boi! Less finnicky!" I said in my Jamaican patois. Keep in mind, every Jew in DC had adopted the Jamaican accent. Pat was a real game changer in that way. And Coach Thompson too!

But Pat wouldn’t budge. Unlike yours Surely, Pat’s mind was too strong to be corrupted by dope. He’d shake his head, and say you’re crazy Surely! Pat would then quote a long passage from Kant or Nietzsche or some mishegas, while I drank another bottle of Jamaican Rum all to my lonesome.

As an aside, there was nothing more glorious than showing up hammered to a Hoya game. I’d wobble after every jumper made and yell Ewwwwiiiinnng as loud as my lungs would let me and then bark like a dog; a true Hoya! I would then be escorted out of the arena, but I never cared much, mostly because Lenny, the guard, knew me and in exchange for some of Moshe’s finest I could watch the rest of the game from the locker room.

So one day I sneak into the locker room only to find that Pat is really distraught. The 7 footer is pacing around quoting Bill Shakespeare, and talking some gibberish philosophy. I can’t comprehend any of it!

"Pat mon! take dis fer yer nerves! What would da Bob Marley do?" I ask him, extending a joint into his large palm. "Less finnicky, i swears it to dah grave mon!"

So I hand Ewing the doobie and for the first time, Pat relents. He stops with all the Kierkegaard bullshit and we have a tremendous time. We talk about Star Wars, girls, the merits of lambskins, and surprisingly, the purpose of bubblegum for about 2 hours. At this point, I remind Pat that it’s almost game time and he needs to warm up. As he’s leaving, he puts on his jersey over his grey t-shirt forgetting to take it off. Just as he’s about to correct his sartorial blunder, I yell, no, Pat, keep it on, you’re fly! He does, and a collegiate fashion trend is born. Pat is always credited for starting it, but if you ask him off the record, he’ll always mention me and Moshe’s special herb. Pat scored 25 and grabbed 18 boards that night against Villanova; a dream of a game! All because of that undershirt. Just call me Surely Hilfinger!

******** Thanks for readin’ mon! For my next excerpt I plan to get personal and tell you about some of the women in my life. Here’s a nice little toke for ya: “Rivkah was a peach, beaut, as good as a new Chevy Bel Air and sturdy as an old Buick. You know the old school kinds that drop back and open up from the top. Like a convertible job. What I am getting at was that Rivkah was very open, inviting even, and would let me ramble on about Pat Ewing every time I saw her. I would tell her, eh Rivkah you see Pat Ewing drop 24 and 14 on Syracuse, and she would smile, and give me one mean OTPHJ. What a peach, I tell ya. I think it’s because we met in summer camp. Dad sent me to one of them Jew socialist places in the Catskills. We painted worker murals, swam, and learned to neck. It was a glorious time to come of age. And through it all was Rivkah, understanding my body and spirit better than anyone else, and my love for large and much more athletic men than myself. She would always say:

“Surely, you may be small, you may smoke too much, do too much blow, have a tiny pecker, but I still love you. “ And let me tell ya she sure as hell meant it.”

[surelypovichjr]

Brooke Shields husband lookin' real dapper here. Handsome guy. Me and him once did an 8Ball before the Legg Mason Classic at Woodmont Country Club. Nice place! Dad was a member. Anyway I'll be damned if Andre didn't go out and win the whole tourney that day! Played a real peach of a match! And he was loaded to boot!!! Talk about a rebel, my friend!

[surelypovichjr]

Kornheiser was like a son to dad. Maury and I didn’t like that none too much. Still, this ripe little peach brings a tear to my eyeball. What a year! Lets hope 2013 is just as sweet. l'shana tova! Super Bowl baby.

[surelypovichjr]

An Ode to The Washington Post

Hank Dietle’s is my kind of bar. Back in the day, dad would take Maury and me to Hanky D’s every Friday to play pool against some of Rockville’s best sharks. We’d kill a few pitchers and play and he’d just sit in one of the booths smoking a cigar and writing what would become his Sunday column. No one would bother him at Hank’s. It was great.

Even though dad is gone, I’m still a regular fixture at Hank’s. I usually get there around 3 pm. Its a helluva a place and incredibly convenient for my choice of lifestyle. Why just yesterday I was sweet-talkin’ a cute little birdie when the news came down that would change the rest of my day. Needless to say, Little Surely (that’s what I call my crank!) did not end up rounding the bases.

"Come on, Sandy baby. My North Bethesda duplex is right down the street. Lets kill this pitcher and get out of here! Whaddya say?"

"Not today, Big Surely, (that’s what Sandy calls my crank!) Didnt you hear? They just sold the paper!"

And thats when the wind turned out of my sails. I did not have an erection anymore that’s for sure. Even the prospect of an OTPHJ from a former Justice of the Supreme Court wasnt doing anything for me. The news had hit Hank D’s like a fuckin’ haymaker. Little Surely would remain in park for the rest of the day.

It’s been a few hours since The Washington Post, venerable hometown paper, the place my father made his bones on, was sold to a very wealthy man named Jeff Bezos. At Hank’s, the crowd turned my way and began to make inquiries. Sandy said something about my father rolling over in his grave and I nod even though I had him cremated cause i had a good urn guy. (Maury still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.)

Anyways, I'm told that Jeffy is a big so and so. I’m told he owns the Amazon,which is a good thing in this day and age. Newspapers are losing steam due to a lack of paper sources. Thats why this move makes complete and total sense to this son of a world-class paperman. It’s all about vertical integration these days! Swapping spit with Mr. Bezos gives us a major advantage on those jerks up in New York, who despite getting their paper from local trees, have to pay premium NY prices. These are after all NY trees you know!

Still I’m not sure I trust this Portuguese guy as far as I can throw him, which is not very far cause I’M AN OLD MAN! The bottom line is this Bezos guy isnt from Washington. He’s no Redskins fan, that’s sure as heck. He’s never driven down Rockville Pike, never hunted for bargain deals at the local Marshall’s, I doubt he’s ever even been to a People’s!

Speaking of People’s I want to tell a quick story from the Povich family vault. It was 1997 and dad was really on his last legs. Even still, the old fart was a horny man. I mean, he’s a Povich for godsakkes. According to family lore, our ancestors’ neighbors’ back in the old country called our family the Potent Poviches. (Cause we loved to screw.)

And Dad was no different. One day, he calls me up and tells me he’s outside my duplex. I walk out and it’s him, Maury, and his two friends, none other than Ben Bradlee and Donald Graham, the now former owner of the world’s greatest newspaper. apparently they’d just come from People’s Drugs where dad had just picked up his Viagra. Let me tell you there wasn’t a pair of khakis that wasn’t popping through with a throbbing schmekele. Anyway, dad says get in and I do and he starts the family Volvo, ranting about this schtup-pal he has up in Calvert County and how for twenty bucks a pop she’ll make it with the four of us.

"Whatever you say, dad!" I chime in, the little blue pill now beginning to take effect.

So we get out there and long story short there’s an incident. Now it’s 3 am and we’re in a Hechingers’ and Donald Graham’s trying to find an ergonomic shovel that won’t be too much for his back. And here I am, holding the lye and Maury, dad, and Benny Boy got themselves these big bags of mulch.

Dad’s getting tired now and I drive the four of us to Calvert Cliffs State Park, where we dispose of the dead rotting deer carcass. Meanwhile, Ben Bradlee gets a belt sander and scratches off the serial number to the family Volvo while Donny-boy takes a yellow pages and places it on the gas and before you can say “booeymongers" the car’s flying off a cliff and sinking to the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay!

"Look down," says Don.

I obey the great newspaperman and begin to laugh hysterically. Little Surely is still raging hard. Don too and the Povich boys' cranks to boot! Only Bradlee was flaccid. Dad never let him hear the end of it.

I drive us back to Rockville and Hank Dietle’s to blow off some steam. And damned if the second we get there, Don isn’t asking the barkeep for the phone, calling up his editor, and barking at her to scrum up a story about pollution to the Bay. The next week there was the article, a real peach, accompanied by a picture of the family Volvo, newly excavated, beat to hell, and covered in barnacles.

Dad died a year later and I brought the urn that held my father to the place he had worked for over 60 years. And even though Don didn’t give me permission, I’d like to think he didn’t mind too much when I scattered his ashes across the newsroom.

That night, I get a call from Don and I'm scared cause I think he’s about to ream me out. Apparently, Kornheiser was all upset that Dad’s ashes froze his keyboard and ruined his column on his fear of flying. Don assures me that he doesnt give a shit about Tony. Instead, he changes subjects. He tells me that the article about the bay turned into an extended series of columns about pollution and environmental issues on the Chesapeake. In fact, the writer ended up winning a Pulitzer Prize! Talk about turning a bad situation into something to be proud of. That’s Donald Graham. The greatest newspaper owner I’ve ever seen.

Thank you Don. You ran a great paper. You dig a mean ditch. The Washington Post will need your help and that of its famous alums if it’s going to survive. Let’s hope this Brazilian guy knows how to use a shovel. Hey Jeff, first beer’s on me!

[surelypovichjr]

“When Men Were Men: A fine Cuban Cigar with Surely," an excerpt.

Many of you know that I am writing my memoir, tentatively titled: "When Men Were Men: A fine Cuban Cigar with Surely." The memoir has gripped my life and every fiber of my essence for the past ten years. I carry pen, a pad and my handy Escher sketch pad everywhere I go. That's the way a real journalist does it, and the only way my pops lived. Of course, pops also carried a fine Johnny Walker Black, and a Cuban, but I am a 21st century man, so I stick with Ciroc. Ciroc and a side of plum tomatoes. Tomatoes I take for the Lycopene, which im told helps prevent the cancer. I'M AN OLD MAN! As a journalist I never stop thinking or searching for the truth, or analyzing every minute of a situation, or even manufacturing a story or a situation because that's what real journalists do! Writing this memoir is no different, I am on my fifth tome, and boy, ain't it just a dandy of a story. A REAL PEACH! This is a baseball story about a different game, a pure game, a simple time. I am submitting this story today because I watched the Yankees battle the Dodgers last night, and it made me sick to my stomach. Interleague play is a cancer; an attack on the purity of the game. If you ask me baseball needs some of these tomatoes I'm wolfin' down right now. But enough negativity, for your reading pleasure, an excerpt:

Tommy Lasorda and the Meaning of Love:

 I remember getting hammered with my dad, and walking on the field of Dodger Stadium, chatting up Tommy Lasorda and a few of his lady friends. Tommy was still coaching third at the time, and he really loved taking girls from the stands and getting an OTPHJ in the grass behind 3B. He would make this joke about it, but I'd always forget it. I'd say, enough with the innuendos Tommy, are you screwing or not?

And he'd just laugh and hit my face gently with his hand and say: "you're alright kid, you're alright, this game is mighty beautiful, you gotta relish every moment. Every moment in this game is pure." Tommy was sure poetic, and I always wondered why he didn't write more.

So anyway we get to the field and Tommy and three blonds are doing rails in the dugout using a mirror one of these broads brought. Blow, as many of you know, was a big thing in the 70s and 80s, and if you're like me, it still is!  So we're doing blow, and telling great stories of stoic and heroic men pitching, and playing great defense.[1] Tommy was real loquacious, and could go on and on about Pee Wee Reese or Maury Willis' tenacity and the sheer will they had to persevere and take the legs out from that motherfucker playing 2B. Those guys were fearless Tommy would always say, they'd get hammered, take a few bennys, some 'ludes, and play the perfect game!

“And they'd always have perfect broads too! You think these girls are nice, Surely? Take a look at some of the girls Sandy was pulling or Roy Campanella, man those were classy broads" 

"You didn't even have to be a celeb like Joey D., you could always find a perfectly great gal in the stands. I kid you not, I'd have the bat boy scout 'em out and sure enough there's a broad waitin fer me in the parking lot with a bag of groceries. Believe it or not in the same night, a great gal would make you dinner, do your laundry and probably give you one unbelievable OTPHJ in the kitchen while making you eggs in the morning. Now that's a beautiful woman kid, that's a woman you fall in love with." 

Tommy was sure as hell right about that, and Dad would nod, tip his hat and tell me to listen to the great man. After doing my 3rd rail, I was really yakked and Cindy, one of those blonds, invited me into the team hot tub. Things got a little dicey in there, and then we screwed. I was already a man for about 9 years, but Cindy made me feel whole.[2] I remember asking Cindy if she'd do my laundry and cook me dinner and do all the things Tommy said made women great. Unfortunately my questions really soured ol’ Cindy. Cindy went on some crazy Feminist rant about rights and suffrage, and shaving. I was so confused I told Cindy, "listen lady you're from the Valley, we're in Dodger Stadium, let’s have some fun."  But Cindy wasn't having any of it.

I never saw Cindy again, but I sure as hell was in love with her. Such a juicy little peach she was! To this day every time I enter a clubhouse and see the team's hot tub, I get all misty-eyed thinking about Cindy. It used to give me a stiffy but I'm an old man now and I really have to pick my spots erection-wise. But, hey, that's life.

*******

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my memoir, I am in talks with Simon and Schuster, thanks for reading! 

  [1] My dad, of course, would only drink a fine single malt whiskey and smoke cigars.  Dad never judged the behavior of other men, however, lewd or otherwise.

  [2] Rabbi Hersch was an excellent teacher, and I nailed the Torah portion. Dad was real proud, and we smoked a fine cigar afterwards and got wings at titty bar. Maury joined too, and somehow that devil got a beej in the family Volvo! 

[surelypovichjr]

Braun D'oh!-PE

As a Jewish baseball player, Ryan Braun has often lived in the shadow of his idols. From the moment he took the league by storm in 2006, comparisons were immediately drawn to the sport's greatest Jewish hitters, including Sid Gordon, Shawn Greene, and of course, Hank Greenberg, with whom Braun shares a nickname. Therefore, it is interesting to see the recent turn of events with regards to Braun, who has gone from "Hebrew Hammer" to bashed nail. Since his suspension several days ago stemming from his alleged involvement with the Biogenesis steroids laboratory, various colleagues of mine have even speculated that the pressure of being the great Jewish savior had gotten to Braun. To me this is all mishegas! Though there was most assuredly pressure on the young Brewers' slugger, it did not come through Mr. Braun comparing himself to Jewish athletes of yore. In fact, the pressure hit much closer to home. For not even the great Sandy Koufax could hold a candle to Braun's true rival, Ryan's first cousin, Dr. Sheldon Leftkowitz M.D. Dr. Sheldon Leftkowitz is a 28 year old graduate of Stanford Med and a pediatric cardiologist at Cedars Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. Whereas Braun is a career .312 hitter, Shelley has been batting 1.000 for years now. In fact, since the beginning of the MLB season in April, Dr. Leftkowitz has successfully performed 118 out of 118 surgeries on small children, 68 of which were done in emergency situations with infants under two years of age suffering from extreme heart complications.  Indeed Braun's cousin has been quickly vaunted into the highly selective community of Beverly Hills' finest doctors. This all came to its culmination last month, when the budding surgical superstar's face landed on the cover of Rodeo Drive Magazine's Best Doctors of 2013 Issue.  "Dr. Leftkowitz is an incredible surgeon," said one doctor who refused to be named for this story. When asked about his colleagues cousin the unnamed source replied. "Oh, Shelly never mentioned his cousin. He plays baseball? Huh. That's cute I guess." It's been thirty-six hours since her son was suspended for the remainder of the 2013 season when Sheila Braun invites me inside her suburban LA home for a cup of coffee.  "I apologize, all I have right now is the Keurig. Is hazelnut okay?"  "It's fine," I grumble. "Look at that punim!" says Sheila Braun, pointing to her nephew's magazine, framed between her son Ryan's High School Honor Roll certificate and his 2011 MVP Trophy.  "The two were always competing against each other, academically mostly. Ryan and my nephew got straight As all throughout high school, that is until AP Chemistry," she grins, her cheeks growing flush with embarrassment. "Ryan got a B and of course Shelly. Mr. Brilliant Surgeon, gets an A. He was elected class valedictorian the next day. I don't think Ryan ever got over that." "There's always med school," says Sheila. "It's never too late, I told him that. UC Irvine has a post-baccalaureate program and after that he can take the MCATs." I want to ask her more but she's still talking on one of those spectacular Jewish Guilt rants that the Povich family knows too well. It reminds me of the time Maury got an OTPHJ from the goyim girl across the street. Mom sure gave him an earful. But Sheila continues her drone: "I call him Rye, like the bread. I told him you know Rye, your cousin Sheldon is one of the greatest surgeons in Beverly Hills. He has his own office in that hospital. Do you have an office? No! You have a locker, Ryan. A locker for Chrissakes! Have you grown up at all since high school? I mean, what kind of a man has a locker!? How are you going to find a nice girl if all you have is a locker!? Your cousin Sheldon has an office and look at what a success he is with his beautiful wife and two brilliant children. When are you going to give me grandchildren, Rye?" After my Jewish guilt trip to his mother's house, the story of Ryan Braun's fall from grace becomes clearer still when I finally sit down with Dr. Leftkowitz in the office his Aunt Sheila referenced a few hours ago. The office is not nearly prestigious as I'd imagined, littered with medical reference books and errant papers. Once seated, I ask Shelly many things, mostly about Ryan's childhood and where the renowned cardiologist thinks his cousin will land in the pantheon of great Jewish athletes. Still, there's something off about our encounter. Dr. Leftkowitz seems somewhat perturbed by it all. Finaliy I bring up my conversation with his Aunt Sheila and the now infamous academic decathlon that ended with Dr. Leftkowitz's triumph in AP Chemistry. "You wanna know something," says Shelly, his voice growing quiet. "I cheated on that exam."