Yesterday marked the horrifying 27 year anniversary of the 76ers deciding to draft a gawky 7-foot, 7-inch, unathletic version of Frankenstein’s monster over the sublimely talented Penny Hardaway in the 1993 NBA Draft, dooming the franchise to mediocrity until its resurrection by Allen Iverson.
Bradley made a living hanging out at the three-line and meekly patrolling the paint for some of the sorriest Sixers squads I’ve ever seen, while Hardaway and a young Shaquille O’Neal led the Orlando Magic to an NBA championship appearance and several successful postseason runs.
Bring up Bradley to any Sixers fan, even if they weren’t alive during the mid-90s, and they’ll instinctively wretch as memories of the least intimidating ever version of the Slender Man permeate their subconscious.
Half a season into his rookie year and Philadelphia fans knew the organization had drafted a complete dud.
This intrepid Coggin reader, @Cmalet50 on Twitter, and his buddy knew Bradley was a slob months before he even stepped foot on an NBA floor. He shared an incredible story with the Uncle Coggin, which you can see read after the jump.
Enough is enough. At this point I think we’d all rather watch replays of “Little Big League” and “Major League” on the MLB network than get our hopes up for the off chance the player’s union and the owners decide to stop lobbing passive aggressive tweets at each other to, you know, actually play baseball.
70 games. 60 games. 50 games. 90 games and we play into December in front of rats with open bottles of Schnapps at Citizens Bank Park….who gives a shit. It doesn’t matter at this point.
Ahh ha! The game is afoot, dear readers, and Detective Coggin suspects the most foulest of play.
It is my theory, my friends, that Mike Missanelli, the ill-tempered 97.5 the Fanatic midday show host, was the victim of a MOST DEVIOUS scheme yesterday afternoon that has sent shockwaves through the Philadelphia region…nay….THE WORLD.
There’s nothing like the horrific sight of a 300-plus pound man covered in tattoos scraping a cheese grater across the forehead of an agonized Italian-wrestling stereotype named “Little Guido” to truly bring out the finest of South Philadelphia.
ECW was quite it’s own little adventure back in the mid-90s for wrestling fans who wanted a little less athleticism in their wrestlers and a WHOLE lot more blood and profanity in a show. Hosting shows at the infamous 2300 Arena on South Swanson Street where very little wasn’t allowed, ECW crowds did not give a flying fuck about much of anything as long as they could binge drink, watch wrestlers bleed profusely and yell at scantily clad managers to show their tits.
I watched a few PPVs recently (CyberSlam 96 and ECW Barely Legal) on the WWE network and was THRILLED to be able to step into a time portal and people watch when the action spilled over into the crowds.
So many mullets, so many polaroid cameras, very few teeth…let’s take a look at some of the finest fans in attendance at the two PPVs shall we?
The perfect ad doesn’t exist, you say. No simple advertisement could so truly encompass the spirit of a business or a product so perfectly, so succinctly, so ELEGANTLY that it immediately takes your breath away and makes you drop down to your knees to thank GOD that such beauty exists in this world.
Nothing like this could ever exist, you say. Nothing could bring the world together in such harmony and love, to unify the breaks that divide us so deeply at times, to be so utterly sublime that it quite literally stops you in your tracks and demands your attention.
You wouldn’t think an advertisement, let alone a local advertisement for a Philadelphia bar, could make you YEARN for better things.
That is until Locus Rendezvous Bar & Grille, located conveniently on 15th and Locust in the heart of Philadelphia, decided to air this beauty to bring us all together and make us believe in hope again.
It’s time to grow up and face some hard truths. We’re living in a moment in time where we need to be direct and up front with our friends, our family and our lovers. We can’t be nice for the sake of being nice, so it’s time to accept what’s right and wrong.
It’s time to grow up and accept the fact that Rookie of the Year is a piece of garbage. It’s nothing when compared with the cinematic masterpiece that is Little Big League.
Coronavirus this, coronavirus that…it’s all you see on social media and the news. It’s scary stuff and we’re literally ONLY ONE WEEK into this entire shit show. The NBA felt like it suspended its season 10 years ago.
Did we step into a time warp? What year is it?! Who’s president?!
But you know what’s going to get us out of this quagmire? Family? Friends? Religion? VOODOO?! No no, of course not, those are all dead ends!
What’s really going to get us out of this rut is to laugh heartily at the past misfortunes of others who for some reason felt it necessary to share their innermost sporting humiliations with a guy who blogs under a sled pseudonym.
We asked for your submissions for the induction ceremony into the Coggin Toboggan Hall of the Absurd, and boy did you guys throw some good ones my way. Hit the jump for the best ones (and a bonus one from yours truly).
He’s still green. He’s still morbidly obese (less so now). He still hails from the Galapagos Islands and never saw a bald head he didn’t want to shine. But a funk now emanates from his green fur – more so than the normal mildew odors baking in the August humidity – an aura of negativity that creeps into your brain like cheap, money hungry tendrils overwhelming the synapses of your mind that control the last vestiges of pure positivity and happiness you can experience.
The once incorruptible has become sullied. By who? Well it depends on who you ask, but the big green guy isn’t the same anymore, in appearance or attitude.
The changes to the Phanatic are fine. The reasoning behind them SUCK.
Congratulations on the Super Bowl victory, Andy Reid! Thank god the Eagles won one first or you’d be the most hated man in all of Philadelphia.
Shy of Andy actually winning a Super Bowl with the Eagles, this is by far the best circumstance for him to win one (from our perspective anyways). The Eagles got theirs first, enough time passed between Reid’s inglorious exit and his own championship, and we all get to revel in his success without wanting to slit our throats if he won one before we got to experience a parade.
This Sunday the WWE is hosting its best pay-per-view of the year. The organization’s ROYAL RUMBLE is BY FAR the best PPV the wrestling brand puts on every year, with pops and surprises that no other event can top.
So as always we decided to COMPLETELY rip it off with our own Royal Rumble.
For those unfamiliar with the concept, a “Royal Rumble” consists of 30 wrestlers entering the ring every two minutes in an all-out, every man or woman for themselves brawl. The entrants are eliminated when thrown over the top rope, and the final man (or woman) standing wins the event and gets to headline Wrestlemania.
What better way to honor the WWE’s best show by putting on our own knock-off event with far less athletic and far, FAR LESS famous contestants that are flimsily connected to Philadelphia in the thinnest ways possible? SOUNDS FUN TO ME!
Of course, as its done the past four years in a row, The Coggin Toboggan hosts its own annual All-Philadelphia Royal Rumble on the Friday before WWE’s event, completely overshadowing the real deal with its complete lack of morals, its utter depravity, and absolute disregard for human life and well being. As always we’ve invited 30 of the most ruthless and knuckle dragging Philadelphians to bash each others brains in for minimal glory, absolutely no prize money, and a dark spot on their careers they’ll never be able to erase.