Kevin Durant needs a nickname.

Not 'cause he leads the Big 12 in both scoring and rebounds.

Not 'cause he's most important freshman playing Division I basketball this year.

And not 'cause he's a nicenasty mix of Kevin Garnett and Glen Robinson.

Wait....that last one is the reason.

Yeah. And it's the reason that his nickname is what it is:

"Nicety."

He's got that nasty KG-like competitive streak. Not to mention's #21's lean, mean body.

He's also got that nice, score-on-you-every-way-from-anywhere game like the Big Dog.

So...there's only one word that could possibly fit Kevin Durant.

And we're gonna need a little help from Michel'le to do the proper christening.

Anyone know where she's at?

You know Joey, right?

He just ate 50 hot dogs in 12 minutes. And he's about to take down reigning hot dog-eating champ Takeru Kobayashi on the fourth of July.

But that's only the beginning for the prodigious face-stuffer.

Joey Chesnut is gonna be huge.

First, there will be an endorsement deal with French's All-American Mustard.

Then "The Chesnut" gets added to the menu at Waffle Houses nationwide. (He also ate 18.5 waffles in 10 minutes.)

Next comes a tour of Hooters where he'll go head to head with amatuer eaters in a series of wing-munching exhibitions. (He ate 173 in 30 minutes.)

Of, course, there'll be a movie about his life. Which should premiere the weekend before he successfully defends his title in a pay-per-view, steel-cage eat-off against the dreaded Kobayashi on July 4, 2007.

After that, Joey Chesnut is gonna walk away from it all.

He's gonna retreat to a resort in an undiscolsed location. After he loses 40 pounds he'll re-emerge with a new book chronicling his special diet and exercise regiment. He'll tour all the morning talk shows flouting the book before he ends up on the Food Network with his own show about healthy-eating. The show will have a nice run. Say three DVDs worth. And then, it'll happen.

Kobayashi.

Doing his best Clubber Lang impersonation. Speaking in broken English, "Chesnut nothing. I real champ. He not outeat me." It'll be all over the sports channels. The internet. The cooking shows, too. And Joey Chesnut will have no choice.

Joey Chesnut will return to competitive eating. He will chew. He will ####. And he will vanquish Takeru Kobayashi in the most intense, belly-stuffing, earth-shaking, Pepto-Bismol-taking battle of the bulge ever witnessed by mankind, womankind and childkind.

It will be historical. It will be legendary. It will make Joey Chesnut rich. And me richer.

Only in America.

I hate green peppers.

I hate driving in Washington, D.C.

And I hate the Detroit Pistons.

I hate the Pistons because of their obnoxious PA announcer. I hate the Pistons because they beat the Lakers in the Finals two years ago. I hate the Pistons because I think they're overrated and everytime they win a series I think I might be wrong about that. But I really hate the Pistons because everyone else hates the Pistons.

It's true. I did a scientific study to prove it.

I asked 17 people at my neighborhood saloon: "Don't you hate the Detroit Pistons?"

The results were astounding.

8 people replied, "I guess so. I'm a Wizards fan."

4 people responded, "Hell yeah, I'm a Bulls fan."

4 people said, "I don't really follow basketball."

1 person didn't speak English, but I could tell by the way he spoke Spanish that he had some kind of hatred in his heart and I think it's safe to say it was for the Detroit Pistons.

So, there it is. I proved it. Everyone hates the Detroit Pistons.

Okay, maybe I didn't prove that everyone hates the Detroit Pistons. But I did prove that 17 people in at a random bar could not say they liked the Pistons. If those people can't say the like the Pistons, that must mean that they hate the Pistons. And that means it's okay for me to hate the Pistons, too.

Which is very important to me.

'Cause I wouldn't want you to think I was just a Grumpy Smurf.

...person to write about Barry Bonds today.

Sike. Just kidding. Or not.

I mean I could write about Barry Bonds. I could take the pro-Barry side and write an entry about how all the great men in history have taken liberties with the rules in pursuit of their own brilliance. I could take the anti-Barry side and give him a literary tarring and feathering. I could even sit the fence and juxtapose Barry's natural gifts with his alleged unseemly nature. None of it would matter, though.

(Have I said this before? I feel like I have. Anyway...)

Barry Bonds hit another home run today. Put an asterisk on it. Put a truckload of asterisks on it. That doesn't mean it didn't happen.

Does that home run mean what you want it to mean? What I want it to mean? What Barry wants it to mean? Who knows?

Value is, and always will be, a construct. Babe Ruth can be completely erased from the record books and he'll still have the same value. He is as much a man as he is a myth. Fortunately for him - and perhaps for the 12-year-old-boy inside of every baseball fan - myths mean a little more than mere men.

Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs. That happened. And that had value.

Barry Bonds has hit his 714th home run. That happened. It has value, too.

Is one equal to the other? I can't tell you that. You'll have to construct it for yourself.

Just don't let another 715 writers try to get inside your head and make up your mind for you.

Actually, I need a ride. A place to crash. And tickets to the World Cup.

Anyone?

No? Fair enough.

I guess I'll settle for watching it at home.

Strike that. I'll just find a proper pub to watch some of the matches at.

That's what you'll be doing, right?

No? Well, let me give you some free advice:

Whether the names Sven Goran Eriksson, Ronaldinho and Pavel Nedved mean anything to you, you need to watch the World Cup at a bar where people who wave flags other than the Stars and Stripes have gathered to drink themselves stupid, sing silly songs and cheer/cry over their team's fortunes in Germany.

It's unlike anything else you'll ever experience in your life.

Don't believe it? Let me explain:

Take a room full of Boston Red Sox fans, mix in a room full of Pittsburgh Steeler fans, sprinkle random members of the Raider Nation in there, add a bunch of New York Knick fans, squeeze in some Cameron Crazies and some Texas Exes, add the guys sitting at the sports book at the Mirage during the first weekend of March Madness and you'll almost understand what it feels like to watch the World Cup with a group of Englishman, Argentians, Brazilians, Mexicans, Italians, Spaniards or anyone else whose team has advanced this far in the tournament.

 The World Cup is that bloody mad. And it makes perfect sense.

Remember that feeling of being a kid, chasing a ball around with other kids from your block and suddenly another group of kids you've never seen before saunters onto your  block  thinking they're gonna take that ball from you and all your neighbors?

Imagine millions of people live on your block. Imagine that your block has never had a ball, or maybe always has a ball or maybe you had it once a long time ago and need to get it back. Imagine that there are only a handful of kids on your block allowed to compete for all of your honors and the rest of you get to watch the contest to determine who will claim the ball.

That's pretty much what it's like to watch the World Cup in a proper pub. Minus, of course, a kajillion gallons of alcohol.

Lucky for you, there's still time to find a place on your block to watch the matches. There's even time for you to get to Germany to see 'em live in person.

Oh...and if you decide to go, hit me up. I still need a ride.