Meet Dorian Puddles, a man who believes in momentum. If the blackjack table runs hot, he runs hotter. If the cocktail waitress blinks twice, he decides it counts as fate. Last night he left the casino with the swagger of a newborn deer. He saluted a slot machine. He told a parking cone to keep its chin up. He also bumped that cone. Then a trash bin. The cone survived with dignity. The bin will need thoughts and prayers.

Dorian navigated home by talking to his GPS like it was a disappointed aunt. He whispered promises to change. He promised vegetables. He promised fewer selfies with roulette wheels. He parked with the precision of a toddler drawing a rectangle, which is to say he parked at an angle that insulted geometry and finally came to rest somewhere near his mailbox. He set an alarm for a time that never existed and face planted into his pillow like a man who just married gravity.

Sunrise brought a doorbell that rang with the confidence of a judge’s gavel. Dorian awoke mid snore and rolled off the bed with a noise that sounded like a raccoon falling down a laundry chute. He shuffled to the hallway wearing one sock and a bathrobe that had seen things. There stood two officers, polite and patient, like bouncers at a library.

Officer One asked if Dorian owned a car that looked like it had recently fought a recycling truck and lost on points. Officer Two held up a photo of a heroic traffic cone standing next to a very embarrassed trash bin. Dorian nodded with the slow wisdom of a garden statue. He said that his dreams had included a parade, several tubas, and a wheel that would not respect boundaries. The officers nodded back. They had also seen tubas in their time.

What followed was the gentlest wake up of his life. Dorian blinked, found his dignity under the coffee table, and offered the officers a breakfast of cold fries and two ketchup packets. They declined with grace. He grabbed the nearest pair of shoes, which were not a match, and gave an apology to the room, to the cone in spirit, and to the trash bin in particular.

As he sat in the back of the cruiser, Dorian had a sudden burst of clarity. Luck is not a personality. Naps are not alibis. Cones remember. He vowed to treat tomorrow like a tight corner with mirrors and brakes. He also vowed to buy flowers for a sanitation crew. The city deserves romance.

Court will sort the rest. The cone will get its day. The bin will get closure. Dorian will get a lesson that smells like coffee and humility. For now he sleeps upright, mouth open, still trying to dream his way back to even.

Bartholomew Buttercup was a man of simple pleasures. He enjoyed the smell of old books, the quiet dignity of cardigans, and the precise categorization of medieval manuscripts. His life was a monument to beige. That is, until last Tuesday, when he accidentally fat-fingered his entire retirement fund into an eight-leg parlay on the Uzbekistan Under-19 Girls' Badminton National Championship.

He thought he was buying a rare, first-edition copy of "The History of Wicker." Instead, thanks to a series of unfortunate pop-up ads and a misplaced decimal point, he now had $87,450 riding on a 17-year-old named Gulnara "The Hammer" Yusupova to not only win, but to do so with fewer than three shuttlecock stomps and a post-match handshake that lasted longer than 2.5 seconds.

Panic doesn't begin to describe the noise that escaped Bartholomew's throat. It was a sound usually reserved for discovering a raccoon has been living in your colon. He spent the next three hours frantically trying to find a working stream, finally landing on a grainy, pixelated feed that looked like it was being broadcast from a potato in a war zone. The commentary was entirely in Russian, occasionally interrupted by a man screaming about discount tractor parts.

For the next 90 minutes, Bartholomew Buttercup experienced a full-blown spiritual colonoscopy. He learned the rules of badminton through pure, uncut rectal clenching. He was screaming at his laptop. "WATCH THE DROP SHOT, SVETLANA, YOU COWARD!" he shrieked, as his cat stared at him, convinced its owner was having a stroke. The match was a seesaw of mediocrity, but leg by leg, the impossible parlay began to hit.

It all came down to the final leg: the handshake. Gulnara won. She approached the net, her face a mask of teenage indifference. Bartholomew was on his knees, sweating through his cardigan, whispering "Please, just hold on... just a little longer..." The handshake began. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. At 2.4 seconds, Svetlana tried to pull away, but Gulnara held on, perhaps noticing a piece of lint on her opponent's uniform. At 2.8 seconds, they finally let go. Bartholomew had won $2.1 million. He didn't celebrate. He just quietly vomited into his wastepaper basket, a changed man. He no longer cared about wicker. He was already researching the betting odds for the Kyrgyzstani Youth Archery Qualifiers. He was one of us now.

It’s that time of year again. The air is thick with humidity, desperation, and the smell of bullshit. Welcome to NFL training camp, the annual festival where every team is a Super Bowl contender, every rookie is the next Jerry Rice, and your bankroll is about to get lit on fire if you believe any of it.

Every single year, we get flooded with reports from some beat writer who’s been standing in 95-degree heat for six hours, watching guys in shorts run around cones. “He looks EXPLOSIVE!” they’ll tweet about some seventh-round running back who just broke a tackle against a guy who will be selling insurance in three weeks. This is the content equivalent of gas station dick pills. It promises power and performance but only delivers disappointment and a weird chemical aftertaste.

Let's talk about the “Camp MVP.” It’s always a 5’9” slot receiver with “deceptive speed” who catches everything thrown his way in non-contact drills. Fantasy football “gurus” start whispering his name. The team’s social media posts a slow-mo clip of him making a one-handed grab. You, the degenerate, see this and think you’ve found the ultimate sleeper. You draft him in the 12th round. What happens? He gets two targets all season and spends the rest of the time returning kicks for an average of four yards. You got played.

This whole circus is a trap designed to prey on your optimism. Sportsbooks love training camp hype. They’ll happily post player props for preseason games, knowing you’ll slam the over on some quarterback who "finally mastered the offense" and is about to play one series before handing it over to a human turnover machine. Betting on preseason based on camp reports is like marrying someone based on their Tinder profile—the reality is going to be ugly, disappointing, and financially ruinous.

So before you empty your savings on a preseason parlay or waste a fantasy pick on a glorified practice squad hero, remember what training camp really is: a marketing campaign. It’s for selling season tickets to the gullible and jerseys to the clueless. It is not a reliable indicator of future success. Save your money, temper your expectations, and wait for the games that actually matter. Or don’t. We know you won’t.

Every year we go through the same tired ritual. The leaves change color, the media starts gargling Jerry Jones’ nuts, and the Dallas Cowboys are crowned the team to beat. Then January hits and they collapse with the structural integrity of a wet paper bag in a hurricane.

People ask why the Cowboys always lose in the playoffs. It's the wrong question. You should be asking why anyone is surprised. This isn't a football team. It's a marketing firm that sells hope and disappointment as a subscription service. Jerry Jones isn't a general manager, he's a mummified crypt keeper who cares more about the stadium's naming rights than he does about winning a divisional-round game.

The whole operation is built on a foundation of mediocrity. They pay Dak Prescott a king's ransom to put up meaningless stats against the Giants in Week 4, only for him to shit his soul out onto the field when the lights get bright. The man plays quarterback like he’s trying to solve a Rubik's Cube in a washing machine during the spin cycle. He’s got the playoff poise of a freshman giving a book report on a book he didn't read.

And the penalties. My god, the penalties. The Cowboys collect yellow flags like they're Pokémon cards. A holding call to kill a promising drive? Check. A boneheaded personal foul to give the opponent a free first down? You bet your ass. They play with the discipline of a frat house during spring break.

Stop calling them America's Team. They're America's high-end timeshare. It looks great in the brochure, costs a fortune, and once a year you get to visit and realize it's a fucking miserable dump. They aren't a factory of sadness like the Browns. They're a factory of blue balls. They get you right to the edge and then leave you crying in your overpriced jersey.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but betting the Colorado Rockies at home is like trying to do math drunk and upside down. One minute you're up 4 to 1 and feeling invincible, next thing you know it's the bottom of the 9th, your pitcher’s ERA is getting waterboarded, and your parlay is dying in front of you like a fish on a sidewalk.

Coors Field isn’t a baseball stadium. It's a goddamn circus tent made of helium and broken dreams. Routine fly balls turn into intercontinental missiles. Grounders hop like they owe someone money. Nothing is safe. Everything is chaos. I watched a sac bunt turn into a two-run triple and started reevaluating every decision I’ve made since puberty.

And yet I did it again. Because of course I did. I saw that +150 home line and thought, "They’re due." You know who else was due? Me, for a complete emotional collapse in the seventh inning.

I should’ve taken that bet money and eaten it. At least then I’d feel full. Instead, I watched the bullpen turn into a middle school improv group—no plan, no control, just chaos and people crying.

Moral of the story? Never bet the Rockies at Coors. Or do. I’m not your dad. But if you do, bring a helmet and a priest.

It was supposed to be a peaceful Tuesday. Randall Duckhull, still seething from his run-in with the SBA, decided to unwind at a massage parlor off the I-5 that looked like a cross between a nail salon and a Mortal Kombat arena. He walked in with tension in his shoulders and left with enough stories to power a Netflix docuseries.

Things got weird fast. The moment Randall laid down, he heard shouting from the next room. Not your standard Yelp-worthy customer complaint. We're talking full-throated, rage-fueled erotica. “OPEN YOUR MOUTH, BITCH!” someone screamed, like they were auditioning for a UFC-themed porno.

From the other side came rhythmic smacking sounds, unmistakably ass-oriented. Every slap echoed through the drywall like a metronome of debauchery. Randall, trying to relax, found himself staring at the ceiling while someone’s cheeks were clearly getting the national anthem clapped out of them two doors down.

And that’s when his masseuse entered. Her name was “Jessica,” but her name tag said “Kumiko.” Randall didn’t ask questions. She poured lavender oil on his back like she was basting a Thanksgiving turkey and whispered, “You’ve got knots in places I didn’t even know existed.” Randall responded, “You have no idea what the SBA’s done to me.”

Midway through the session, Randall tried to explain his business losses, but she just kept nodding and muttering “very bad” while digging her elbow into his kidney. Meanwhile, the room next door hit an aggressive second act—now involving what sounded like a folding chair, two male voices, and someone yelling “DO THE EAGLE!”

By the time it ended, Randall felt like he’d been part of a therapy session, a war crime, and a karaoke party at the same time. He walked out dripping in oil, confused, sore in new places, and spiritually reborn. “Best forty bucks I’ve ever spent,” he told the receptionist, who just slid a banana across the counter and winked.

Duckhull may not have gotten justice from the SBA, but he definitely got his chakras realigned. One awkward moan and suspicious slap at a time.

It finally happened. LeBron James, four-time MVP, all-time scoring leader, and part-time tequila investor, has officially enrolled in the NBA's brand-new Senior Discount Program. He becomes the first player in league history to request a halftime applesauce break and get approved.

At 40, LeBron is still putting up stats that make rookies cry into their Gatorade. But the knees are crunchier. The warmups take longer. The headband is now just to hold in the ibuprofen. Sources close to the team say he recently mistook Rui Hachimura for his physical therapist and asked him to stretch his hamstrings.

The Lakers training staff has started keeping a recliner by the bench. The team plays classical music during timeouts just to calm his joints. LeBron’s locker now includes a heating pad, knee braces, and a commemorative plaque that reads You’ve Outlived Every Other Draft Pick From 2003.

When asked if retirement is on the table, LeBron shook his head slowly and said he’ll keep going until he can pass the ball to Bronny, then Bronny’s son, then maybe someone named Bronathan. He also said he’ll consider retiring once they bring back the short shorts and the two-handed set shot.

Coaches say his leadership is invaluable. Players say he smells like cocoa butter and wisdom. Fans still scream his name, although now it's usually followed by a question like How is he still playing and Did he just ask the ref where he parked?

For now, LeBron remains eternal. He might need a nap between quarters. He might bring reading glasses to film study. But he still sees the court better than anyone and dunks like arthritis is just a rumor.

Father Time is undefeated, but LeBron is definitely running out the shot clock.

Randall Duckhull tried to keep his business alive during the worst economic collapse in modern history. What did the SBA give him? A nonstop barrage of copy-paste emails, mindless form rejections, and the same request for the same documents about 34 times. You’d think they were trying to recreate Groundhog Day, but with W2s and bank statements.

This man poured everything he had into staying afloat. Meanwhile, the fraudsters were thriving. Fake businesses, stolen identities, and scammers with burner phones got funded within days. But Randall? Nothing. Nada. Just stress, overdraft fees, and phone calls that led to some desk jockey watching Wheel of Fortune while pretending to give a shit.

Let’s talk incompetence. Randall once faxed his documents in the morning, uploaded them in the afternoon, and then emailed them again by dinnertime because each department claimed they never received them. You’d have better luck sending your paperwork by pigeon. Blind pigeon.

The whole process was a sick joke. The SBA spent more time “reviewing” than the IRS does on audit day. They killed real businesses with red tape while they handed out free money to anyone with an Instagram hustle. Randall lost his livelihood because a desk monkey couldn't figure out how to open a PDF.

So here’s your reminder. When they say they’re here to help, double check your wallet. Then call Randall and ask him what that help looked like. Spoiler alert, it looked a whole lot like getting kicked in the balls by a bureaucratic donkey.

Back in 2007, NBA referee Tim Donaghy got caught doing what most degenerates only dream about. Fixing games from the inside. Not only was he reffing games, he was betting on them, tipping off his crew of cronies, and blowing that whistle like it was printing money. Forget integrity of the game. This guy turned his ref uniform into a casino loyalty card.

Donaghy worked nearly 800 games. Nobody batted an eye until the FBI showed up and asked why every game he reffed was hitting the over by halftime. He made up to $200,000 a year on bets while collecting a paycheck from the league. That’s like working security at a bank while robbing it blind every other Thursday.

When it all came crashing down, he served 15 months in prison. Then, like any good heel, he joined pro wrestling under the nickname “The Crooked Ref.” Absolute legend behavior. Degeneracy hall-of-fame stuff.

Now fast-forward to 2025. Watch an NFL game for 10 minutes. You'll see more flags than a UN summit. Holding on every drive. Phantom roughing the passer. Illegal contact because a defender had the nerve to breathe near a wideout. These aren’t penalties, they’re point spreads in action.

Call it speculation, but it smells familiar. Maybe Donaghy was the first to get caught, but he sure as hell won’t be the last. Especially now that sports betting is legal in more states than weed. You really think every ref out there is clean? When some of these zebras are tossing flags like confetti while smiling into the camera? Please.

If you're watching a tight game and the ref looks a little too nervous during the two-minute warning, maybe it's not the pressure. Maybe he just slammed the under at William Hill and knows he's one field goal away from losing rent money.

Tim Donaghy didn’t invent crooked officiating. He just got sloppy with it. Keep your eyes open. Because if you think the fix is never in, you’re not watching closely enough.

You know you're a Cleveland Browns fan when your favorite part of the season is the draft — not because you trust the front office, but because it’s the last time you’ll feel hope before the annual 4–13 faceplant.

Let’s be honest, the Browns have built a legacy. Not of winning. Not of championships. But of stunning incompetence so impressive, it belongs in a Hall of Shame.

This team has never won a Super Bowl. Never. Like, not even once by accident. The Jaguars have existed for a shorter time and still feel more relevant. Hell, the Lions are looking down at Cleveland like, “Damn, y’all okay over there?”

Let’s talk about their branding. Their mascot is… a color. A freaking color. “Brown.” Who thought that was a good idea? Their helmet is literally just a brownish-orange blob. No logo, no flair, just pure depression wrapped in a chin strap. It looks like someone gave up halfway through designing a real football team and said, “Nah, this’ll do.”

The uniforms? Oh, baby. If UPS delivered sadness instead of packages, they’d be wearing these exact same jerseys. And those stripes? Are those supposed to intimidate someone, or are we just recycling Halloween decorations now?

But the real comedy starts in the front office. Every year, they make draft picks like they’ve been doing shots of Fireball since noon. Johnny Manziel? Classic. Baker Mayfield? A taller Johnny Manziel with more commercials. Deshaun Watson? Let’s just pretend that one never happened. The Browns are like a bad Tinder date — always promising, always disastrous, and you leave wondering how the hell you got there.

And the fans, bless them. They’ve endured it all. From 0–16 to the Helmet Fumble to whatever the hell that was last season. Half of them wear paper bags over their heads, and honestly, it’s an upgrade. You can’t be disappointed if you can’t see.

The most iconic moment in recent Browns history was when a fan screamed, “I’m tired of being 5–11!” on local TV, and it somehow became a rallying cry. That was like ten years ago. They've since upgraded to 7–10 mediocrity, but the spirit remains the same.

Look, Browns fans are some of the most loyal in the league, which is code for “deeply traumatized and refusing to give up.” And honestly? I respect that. I don’t understand it, but I respect it.

Cleveland, you deserve better. But until then, thank you for giving the rest of the NFL a punchline that never gets old.

Justin Tucker is known for a lot of things. The golden leg. The operatic voice. The clean-cut, God-fearing family man image that could sell minivans to Amish people. But today, he added another chapter to the Tucker legacy, and this one came wrapped in a towel with lavender oil and enough shame to fill a Ravens team bus.

According to multiple horrified spa patrons, Tucker allegedly strutted into the Shady Orchid Massage Boutique like he was walking out to kick a game-winner. He refused the robe, asked if they had a cold plunge filled with Gatorade, and requested “extra finish” on his sports massage. Nobody knew what that meant until about 17 minutes later when a scream echoed from the back room followed by a therapist sprinting past the aromatherapy diffusers like she’d seen Lucifer in cleats.

Sources say the incident involved coconut oil, a laminated headshot of Harbaugh, and a playlist that included Barry White, Creed, and Tucker’s own opera recordings. The aftermath required three industrial-strength cleaning crews and a priest. Tucker, meanwhile, emerged from the spa looking rejuvenated, smug, and ready to kick a 65-yarder straight through the pearly gates of hell.

When asked for comment, Tucker reportedly said, “Tell them it was a performance. Greatness demands release.” The NFL has not responded, but insiders believe the league will issue a strongly worded letter and maybe a scented candle.

Stay tuned as Balls Deep International continues its coverage of the NFL’s most chaotic offseason since Brett Favre figured out what a camera phone was.

The Boston Red Sox just committed organizational seppuku. Rafael Devers, their franchise cornerstone, their poster boy, their last real shot at relevance, is now a San Francisco Giant. And in return? A party-sized bag of Lay’s Original.

The Giants just finessed their way into a World Series. Devers is gonna hit 45 bombs with a smile on his face while Red Sox fans cry into their clam chowder and rewatch 2004 highlights like it’s therapy. This is theft on a level that should get Posey indicted in Massachusetts.

And don't even get me started on the Red Sox front office. They just sent an All-Star to the West Coast like they were mailing back an Amazon return. No prospects. No MLB talent. Just sodium and regret.

The Giants are winning it all. Devers is going yard nightly. Fenway is on suicide watch. Boston hasn’t seen a collapse this historic since the Tea Party got spicy.

Giants fans, pop champagne. Red Sox fans, check on your grandparents.

If Major League Baseball was a high school, the Oakland A’s would be that weird kid in the corner who smells like glue and keeps trying to trade Pokémon cards for vape hits.

This team has the competitive edge of a drunk turtle. The only thing more empty than their win column is their stadium, which now doubles as a wildlife sanctuary for feral cats and used syringes.

Management? Imagine a group of raccoons in suits arguing over expired hot dog coupons. Strategy? Close your eyes and throw darts at a lineup card taped to a urinal.

They just lost a game where the opposing pitcher was actively tweeting between innings. I’m not kidding. Their cleanup hitter went 0-for-4 with 3 whiffs and a foul tip into his own nutsack.

The last time the A’s were relevant, people still used MapQuest. And now they’re relocating to Vegas? Great. Sin City finally gets something worse than herpes.

This franchise is the skidmark of baseball, persistent, disgusting, and somehow still clinging to the fabric of the league. Fold the team, salt the field, and build a Raising Cane’s.

Let’s not sugarcoat shit.

Game 7 is here and the Oklahoma City Thunder are about to pull their pants down, bend over the scorer’s table, and get absolutely face-fucked by a team named after 2006 car insurance. This ain’t basketball. This is sanctioned gape.

The Pacers don’t even play good basketball. They just show up, breathe heavily through their mouths, and throw hands until someone’s crying in the locker room. You ever been jumped in a Waffle House parking lot at 3 a.m.? That’s Indiana’s game plan. Except they’re doing it with Rick Carlisle looking like a grumpy substitute teacher who's seen your OnlyFans.

Shai Gilgeous-Alexander might be smooth but he’s about to be smoother when Tyrese Haliburton finishes waxing that ass. Jalen Williams got that dog in him? Cool. Haliburton’s bringing a fuckin’ pack of pit bulls. Chet Holmgren is built like a haunted Q-tip and plays like he just found out what a chest pass is. If Myles Turner sneezes near him he’s snapping in half like a breadstick at Olive Garden.

Let’s talk Giddey. This boy moves like he's always four seconds behind the rest of reality. Spins for no reason. Dribbles like he’s caught in a TikTok loop. He looks like he’s about to pass the ball to a ghost from 2017. And when the cameras are on? He freezes like a deer with commitment issues.

Meanwhile, Indiana’s bench looks like the cast of a Netflix prison docuseries and plays like it too. Buddy Hield pulls up from half-court like it’s a warm-up. TJ McConnell doesn’t know fear. Or consequences. That man's entire life is just five-hour energy and unpaid parking tickets.

Thunder fans keep yelling “we’re ahead of schedule.” Yeah, you’re ahead of schedule alright. For another flaming postseason choke job. Y’all gonna have to call 911 when Isaiah Jackson’s nuts drop on your forehead during a fast break. This isn’t a rebuilding year. This is a rawdog reality check.

Game 7 isn’t gonna be a basketball game. It’s gonna be an execution with sneakers. OKC’s gonna walk in talking strategy and walk out bleeding from every metaphorical orifice.

Balls Deep International.
We don’t do predictions. We do post-mortems.