We all know Ron Ron is a little off.  He’s like that irregular pair of pants you take a chance on at TJ Maxx.  We could only assume that the Palace Brawl would be Artest’s lasting impact on the NBA, but it seems that before Twitter was invented, he occupied his halftime respite in other ways as a member of the Chicago Bulls.

“I used to drink Hennessy … at halftime,” said Artest, who played with the Bulls from 1999-2002 and now is with the Los Angeles Lakers. “I (kept it) in my locker. I’d just walk to the liquor store (near the stadium) and get it.”

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It’s not enough to just tell Violet Palmer that she blew the call. Steve Nash also had to insinuate that she had the vision of Mr.  Magoo.  Either that, or he was saying that she looked like she was permanently wearing a Mardi Gras mask.

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Back in the Summer of 2007, my beloved Chicago Bulls drafted Joakim Noah out of the University of Florida.  From the moment he glided across the stage to greet the Commish, the entire Windy City thought to themselves, “did we really just draft the love child of Sideshow Bob and Shirley from What’s Happening?”  This was typified in the headline of the Chicago Tribune: You Must Be Joakim.  This clever title was the brainchild of Bulls columnist, Rick Morrissey, who had quite the bold claim.

I wrote that if in three years I realized I was off-target about the University of Florida center, I would drizzle salsa on the column and eat it.

Three years later Noah is averaging a double/double six games into the season.  Morrissey showed up to the Berto Center to hold good on his words.

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You know where I stand on the whole Bill Simmons thing.  He’s funny AND knowledgeable.  And if he was somehow able to cut off Joe Morgan’s mustache, I’d probably support him in the next election.  Here’s to Bill Simmons, don’t bang the intern.

Neck tattoos are to pro athletes what nape-of-the-back tattoos are to women. In other words, it’s a red flag. A big one. For an athlete, it seems to mean, “I am going to do some really strange things — you know, like putting a painful tattoo on my neck.” For a woman, it seems to mean either, “I’m easy” or “I needed to figure out a way to fit in with the other girls at the strip joint.” Either way, red flag.

The NBA, fearful of the damage an H1N1 flu outbreak could wreak on the league, has passed down an anti-handshake directive.  Players and coaches have been asked to greet each other via more sanitary means of contact, like fist pounding, or maybe chest bumps.

“No handshaking,” Doc Rivers said. “I think it’s a good thing. A fist pound is just great.”

I heard Joakim Noah is thinking about sending smoke signals.

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I can’t stand the WNBA. Call me sexist, but they absolutely butcher the game. In no other sport is the dropoff in quality between males and females so significant. It’s like watching a bunch of housewives bicker over a recipe for a boysenberry pie. The only newsworthy event to come out of this season is that one of their stars, Diana Taurasi, got what was described as, “an extreme DUI.”  I never knew such a charge existed, maybe she was driving with ski goggles and rollerblades on.

Here’s my suggestion.  Lower the rim.  Chicks dig the long ball, but dudes are envious of players who play above the rim.  Sweaty women dunking on each other would suddenly make the game a little more enjoyable, not to mention there would always be a possibility of a “facial.”