What? You wanted to hear about a new sea star that feeds exclusively on driftwood? Oh, okay.
Jay-Z was at Wimbledon. He sat in the corner like a vacuum you thought you'd lost.
Nadal's foot is hurting because it also makes the Nadal face, which is the face your little brother makes after he's spent months practicing his carnival horse race skeeball game on a homemade sock-based skeeball machine, and finally the carnival rolls around and he beats everyone by like ten "leagues" or whatever the fuck they measure horse races in but all he wins is a headband and a beautiful Spanish model, and as we all know beauty is fleeting and death arrives like the death of your favorite musicians after they've spent the ends of their lives putting out one embarrassing album after another.
Mardy Fish is the last American, just like John Wayne and Barack Obama and that girl who murdered her mom or daughter or stepped really hard on her inflatable pool or whatever.
If Andy Murray were a real conceptual artist like everybody keeps
saying he is, he would retweet every article suggesting he shave with
the hashtag #yourmomneedstoshave. Alas Andy Murray is just some guy who
will lose to Nadal in the semi-finals unless he hires those dudes at
Wimbeldon who stopped shooting pigeons to shoot Nadal's bum foot.
Feliciano "Delicioso" Lopez is attractive to old British ladies. Congratulations! Unfortunately, my grandmother is more into pickleball these days.
Jo-Wilfried Tsonga looks and plays like Mohammad Ali. That is, he turns into an actually butterfly and carries the ball on the back of his wings while the other player chases him around and swats at him, never catching him, before finally Tsonga the Butterfly drops the ball right on the white line, which isn't even chalk anymore, it's some kind of weird titanium spraypaint, but at least the grass is 100% rye, and what Tsonga doesn't tell anyone but you can see in his face is that butterflies don't want to do something as inconsequential as win at tennis because they'd rather be losing themselves among the trippy patterns—hedgerows, garage roofs—you don't appreciate because you're too big.
When David Foster Wallace killed himself and my mother (who hadn't previously heard of him or read anything by him) emailed me an article about David Foster Wallace's documented mental illnesses, it was Federer who I found sleeping on my couch. And I don't even have a couch! When I walked through the door, I saw Fed's dozy Swiss I-used-to-be-a-fat-kid face and I followed his footprints (which were tiny cities of tinier bluebirds) back to the window he'd flown in through. Then Fed woke up and took me into his arms and bought me a custom-tailored white blazer and assured me that, when you get down to it, 1) nothing in life is documentable, 2) there are still whole tribes of uncontacted people living in dense jungles, no matter how many times helicopters take photos of them and some of them look exactly like people you went to high school with, and 3) there is in life, finally, only the way we avoid or don't avoid the smoke produced by inexhaustible contests of human desire, which is of course a conceptual smoke, which is a concept he demonstrated with his wrists.
Bernard Tomic is an eighteen year old Australian in the quarterfinals. He doesn't so much play tennis as do your dishes without telling you. He doesn't so much play tennis as replace your doors with automatic, Star Trek style sliding doors.
Djokovic plays tennis like someone who discovered that when he bought a can of Pringles it was only 3/4 as full as it should be; so he goes back to the store and tries to get his money back; but they tell him to talk to the company; but the company has a robo-operator no matter how many times he punches 0; so finally he rents an SUV with tinted windows and drives to the Pringles factory in the middle of "Nebraska" or whatever and crashes his SUV into the SUV parked in the spot reserved for the owner of Pringles; then he walks inside and steals Pringles from all the assembly lines; even after the alarms are going off and the lines have stopped moving; he even steals the half-done Pringles; the unsalted Pringles; the Pringles that don't hold their shape; the rejected Pringles; the raw potato and oil mash that is begging and pleading for its life (I'm not even a Pringles yet!) as Djokovic stuffs it in his cheeks like chewing tobacco; until finally Djokovic has eaten all the Pringles in the factory and set Pringles back an entire day in Pringles supply; and as the police are arresting him and his stomach is bleeding and his face is shining from all the oil, he turns to the security camera and makes that self-satisfied fuck you, world, ha ha, up yours face that I actually like and appreciate and respect a lot despite conclusions you might be reaching from estimating the tone of this analogy because tones are fleeting and tomorrow Pringles will be back on track and we are but measly sacks of willpower set against everlasting tides of progress and comfort equipment and dizzying economic inequality and faraway stars exploding in tremors of terrifyingly un-self-aware star gas.