Discretionary Indiscretion
Can you believe rich and famous people cheat on their spouses? No lie, it happens. Amazing. I can’t believe somebody who is rich, powerful, and constantly being told how great they are would ever play hide the sausage or honey hole bingo with someone other than their betrothed. What is more amazing is when these people actually keep their privates in the barracks. Now, respected NCAA coach Ricky Joe Pitino is embroiled in one of these “scandals”; he told cops that the chic who was tryin’ to fleece him for about $10 million also enjoyed a game of stuff the manicotti at a restaurant named Porcini’s, during an after hours happy hour. Who cares? Why does this amaze anyone? The AP and ESPN have almost become like late night, yet very vague versions of Skinemax movies.
Media outlets have been harping about how RJP has tarnished his image, and brought disgrace to U of L. Firstly, everybody in Louisville already knew RJP practiced ball with members of the other team on a regular basis. You couldn’t set your watch to it, or plan bowel movements around it, but you could get a guestimate on when it was going to occur – Monday through Friday, some Saturdays and the occassional Sunday. If you’re winning, people couldn’t careless about who you’re throwin’ it around with on the sidelines.
Whereas it is sad to see that RJP is just like other famous people when it comes to the sanitarium of marriage; but in the grand schematics of things, his buttering up the biscuit with a hoochie who eventually attempted to cash in her winning penis Powerball ticket is less surprising than a Jack-In-the-Box with amnesiatic repetitive disorder. As a side note, wouldn’t it be a bitch if everytime you heard a specific song, you had to hide and jump out at a certain time? The closest thing I’ve ever scene to such a scenario is being at a dance club when House of Pain’s Jump Around comes on. I just can’t believe RJP went with the Mick Jagger school of thought when it came to birth control. Meaning, pour out the man-milk and let the ovaries fall where they may. You’re rich enough, horny enough, and doggone it, you can afford to pay child support. You’d think rich, famous people would walk out of their homes with condoms on, sponges or diaphragms in, and/or thoughts of baseball and nude senior citizens dancin’ in their heads. But no, they come out to play knowing they are too hot to handle, and their genitalia aren’t too cold to hold. I would think after the umpteenth time, you’d come to realize you could loose the juice whenever you wanted to get it freshly squeezed.
The only aspect of this story that is worth talking about is, why did RJP’s executive assistant have to standby when all of this ugly bumping was going on? Wouldn’t you have told your assistant to executively assist himself outside? I mean, if you were marble sackin’ some random woman in a restaraunt, wouldn’t all the rocks fall out the pouch if you looked up and saw your assistant executing a one man play? That is the type of stuff that makes you start speaking in tongues and shouting French words. The fact of the matter is that RJP isn’t going anywhere until he starts losin’. And he probably won’t lose anytime in the near future, unless his penis starts drawing up the X’s and O’s. Sure, Little Rick is awful potent and can come off the bench in no time, but he doesn’t know anything but light, dark, light, dark, light, dark. So his job is safe, unless basketball starts being played in stadiums where the janitor is constantly flipping the light switch.
