A: In. My. Pants.

I was going to draw-up a bloggy Top 10 list of these strangely inspirational “Where Will Amazing Happen?” NBA ads (scope out all 17 here). But then I quickly realized the clear number one would be this ad of LeBron James completely schooling Paul Pierce and dunking KG’s brains out, like some sort of divinely chosen basketball grizzly bear hustling his way through a Man vs. Beast trout fishing event at Yellowstone.

As a diehard Cs fan, whose blood flows thick in green like the leprechaun’s gravy, that wouldn’t fly. But these ads are incredible, and LeBron James is a trout smashing beast:

Also notable: while both Celtics editions of this series are spectacular showcases of KG and Pierce’s championship-caliber dominance, Rondo pops out just as impressively, collecting the steal from Rodney Stuckey to start off the fast break for KG, and doing a little jibby jab to get Cleveland dancing enough to set up Pierce’s drive.

Where will Rondo’s “Where Will Amazing Happen” happen?

A lot of people seem to get a big kick out of the word “shat,” even though “shitted” is a much more eloquent variant.

I certainly see the appeal. Shat would seem to be the standard and historic preterite/past participle of everyone’s favorite smelly verb, and so its presence in a sentence inevitably invokes a nice bit of tension between the strict gramatic traditionalism and the inevitable vulgarity. (It even works when constructing haughty blog posts!)

But shitted is poetry; much more expressive, funnier, a surprising and livley addition to any BM-related anecdote.

BRIAN: And then who walks into the Bratskellar? BAM! Wayne Brady!
FRANCIS: What did you do?
BRIAN: I totally shitted myself.

or

GRANDMA: I just shitted that entire bag of Sugar Free LifeSavers.

As with anything, much depends on the rythm of the sentence, the relationship between fellow nearby words, adjacent phonemes, etc.. But pounds for donuts, shitted is a far more engaging option. Try it with friends.

BONUS!
In Canterbury Tales, Chaucer uses “shitten.” Not bad!

In the Creator’s brand new, classic coastal town,
     lesbian children buy each other ice cream sandwiches,
     play hopscotch upon a patch of slippery eels;
             Old stump mother’s wear pizzicato aprons
        wash large spoons with their beautiful tongues
        and live inside the bellies of gigantic washing machines.

My own mother weaves marionette
     strings on an old broken loom,
          has found honey in rusted oil canisters.
  She broke her flower’s arm in a trip
               with falling, and a man named Josephine
            Appleseed, has bet me to differ.

    I am complacent enough as bubblegum
         is on subway tracks, with fields
         of almost melting popsicles attached
      by veins to my wife in Oregon.

Bella opens the bathroom door
   to wash goofy figurines.
She sits in a purple-plaid fizzled white tub
            soft grey, the tiles, with plastic pet people
            some floating, others sunk to the bottom.

Outside her window, an unhappy ocean is on fire
   and when it all burns up, which is all it will,
   there will only then be left the salt, and Mr.
            Gandhi will be happy, but he will be hungry.

(
Far off and long ago in a rural distance
   a plum light hangs large over dirt roads,
   as tow trucks towing other tow trucks
  drive past a young woman’s future grandfather

            Who takes a large bite of asparagus
                            and smiles despite his teeth.
                                                                                )

I’m a casual, predominately accidental viewer of Jim Rome is Burning, and I should admit I’ve never listened in on Rome’s radio show.

But I’m absolutely certain Jim Rome himself wrote this Craigslist ad:

The Jim Rome Show and Jim Rome Is Burning are looking for a writer(s). Looking for someone who comes at it from different angles, knows sports thoroughly, and is hungry, competitive and driven. Must be willing to grind. Tremendous potential payoff and upside for the right candidate(s).

I am out.