The FlyMaster has some serious beef building up in his bottomless gut of hate. What's with every celebrity going into rehab? Is this country becoming a nation of quiters? Just today former sportscaster and all-around weak excuse for a broadcaster, Pat O'Brien, checked himself into rehab for the second time. If you recall, Pat's first stint came after he got himself hopped up on some whiskey and monkey dust and then called some harlot and talked about hers and his anatomy licking sessions. First of all, that's just dumb. Second of all, if you're dumb enough to tape yourself fondling little Pat while talking to some cougar on the phone, admit it and face the consequences. Don't blame the Colombian love talc. The problem is you, homie!
Earlier this month, Mike Vick got moved to a rehab facility for marijuana users. What the hell is that? Are we supposed to applaud people who blame the problems on substances instead of blaming themselves? Everyone sends well wishes to Lindsay Lohan and Eva Mendes for checking themselves in for help. Help is overrated, big time. Note to all ridiculous celebutards...if you need help call the FlyMaster. The FlyMaster will show up at your fake Tony Montana party and beat you with a velvet mallet until you pass out. Then, he'll proceed to tie you up in front of a mirror and say, "who's the problem, you or Jim Beam, because Jim Beam ain't messing up...you are." Tough love, suckers.
Seems to the FlyMaster that rehab is a code word for getting some publicity, which brings me back to Mr. Pat O'Brien. Pat, yes I'm talking to you. Pat, you once rocked the sidelines at the Boston Garden and Los Angeles Forum during the 1980s NBA Championship Series. You were pretty informative and moderately entertaining, especially when compared to Celtic homer, Tommy Heinsohn. Then, you got high on yourself. Next thing, you leave sports for the chantilly lace world of celebrity gossip. That was your decision, brother. Now, you sit alone at home on a Thursday afternoon with all the shades drawn, thinking as the sweat drips down your cheetah print thong onto your laz-y-boy chair. Calling cougars, leaving messages, hoping for some kind of kinship, you grasp at straws. Pat, look at yourself. Tommy Heinsohn won't even return your messages because you're such a snivelling (and sniffling) buffoon. Don't cop out and go to rehab where some borne-again new age sycophant gently massages your ego back into shape. No man, face your mistakes and say, "I messed up, and I probably will again, but damn that was a fun phone call." We'll have more respect for you...well actually we won't, but for the sake of the argument we'll say we will.
By the way, my friends, the FlyMaster is checking into rehab so that I can increase the readership of the Daily Buzz. Sure, your buddy the FlyMaster is addicted to sports, talking trash, self-hate, random acts of kindness, tomatoes, sparkling water, the occasional hippie cigarette, vintage Chryslers, long walks on short piers, Miles Davis records, incessant belittling of hipsters and emo kids, and a myriad of other behaviors, but that's not stopping the FlyMaster. No buddy, fallibility is the source of power. Don't ever quit, America!
FlyMaster Signing Off...For Now!