It's Waxing Off, where our staff of female writers gather to discuss the latest sports news, and mock A.J.'s mustache. This week's topic: The DUI Epidemic, and athletes as role models.

Elway's Bitch:

Semi-retarded people get arrested every single day for stupid shit like bringing crack to an airport, or speeding around with expired crap all over their cars because they’re fucking lazy (me), or taking a shit in a public square at high noon because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Whatever. Cops has been on for 21 years for a reason. People do such stupid shit. But athletes are role models because they do the stupidest shit of all. And they get away with it. I guarantee you if my coworker, Carl, in the next cube over, unfurled his dick like the Dead Sea Scrolls in the middle of our Tuesday 8:30 a.m. sales meeting `a la Charles Haley, Carl would be fired. And I would be his girlfriend.


I guarantee you – if my friend Dan (whose wife has his balls pickling in a mason jar on her kitchen counter right now), gets pulled over for running a stop sign and then proceeds to engage in friendly banter with the arresting officer regarding blow jobs, Dan would lose his job, his wife, his house, and his pickled balls would be dangling from the ex’s front door wreath next Christmas.

I guarantee you – if my sister’s boyfriend (who just knocked her up) kicked two cops in the chest like he’s Ralph Macchio; spit in one cop’s face like he’s Larry Johnson; and followed that with intense negotiations regarding his possible release by “offering” the cops $1 billion (after his initial offer of $100,000 was rebuffed), the boyfriend would be arrested, lose his job and not be able to support my dumbass sister who didn’t know that antibiotics fuck with your birth control. Anyway, Eddie Belfour did all that shit and went on to win an Olympic medal two years later. Good for him. Good for all of them. They take on a public service by doing the shit we can’t, and I appreciate that. Not just role models. Heroes.

— Elway's Bitch is about to become an Aunt which means a lot less drug use, so she's going to be a lot less fun


Aileen Gallagher:

The summer of 1991, I was a candy striper at our local hospital. This involved pushing people around in wheelchairs, filling water pitchers, and being scared of old people. The patient of the summer was Phillies outfielder Lenny Dykstra. Driving home drunk with Darren Daulton from John Kruk's bachelor party, Dykstra crashed into a tree on Darby-Paoli Road. It's a tricky road; unexpectedly curvy – if you're from around there, you drive it pretty slow. (We've called it the Lenny Dykstra Memorial Curve since the accident.) They were on their way (presumably) to Daulton's house, which overlooked the course my parents played golf on. Dykstra busted three ribs, a collar bone, and his cheek bone. A rib punctured his lung and bruised his heart. At the time, the AP said both men refused medical attention (Daulton had a broken left eye socket!) but both later went to Bryn Mawr Hospital. The hospital I was born in and, that summer, the hospital where I spent several hours a week.


I never offered to bring Dykstra a magazine or fetch him ice chips. I'm sure no one was allowed to get near him. But I do recall someone – the volunteer coordinator, most likely – telling me that Dykstra was a total a-hole the entire time he was at Bryn Mawr. Now, granted, he was probably worried about his career and whether he'd ever play baseball again. But that doesn't make you any better than the people who are changing your sheets and helping you piss. So whenever I see Lenny Dykstra now, with his super system and magazine start ups, I remember that he was an ungrateful jerk to the people who saved his life and cared for him. And they were Phillies fans, too.

Aileen Gallagher is an editor at New York Magazine's website.


Denise Karl:

Role models; what would we do without them? Sadly we never look in our own backyard for them. We hardly acknowledge our local volunteer firemen, community patrols or the people at the local animal shelter. They and their non-paid community service go unnoticed. Yep, we of the digital age, look to high paid, highly recognizable, over-exposed celebrities. Whether they are athletes or movie stars, those are the ones that capture our imagination.
But we forget — they are people too. Simple humans are we with the same lapses in judgment and insanely stupid brain farts. They overindulge, under-dress and fall victim to temptation not unlike the rest of us. They just do it in front of cameras and reporters and end up on the 6 o’clock news.

My co-worker was stopped for DUI last year. No one was the wiser except his immediate family. Joba Chamberlain was pulled over for DUI and almost all of New York let out a collective GASP! “Oh NO! Not Joba! How can that be? The rising Yankee’s star? The boy who will be King? No no! Impossible!”

Uh, people. He’s a kid. A young man who hasn’t learned much yet. Do we really expect these people to be SMARTER than your average JOE? The only ones who are REALLY smarter are their agents (and maybe their accountants). They are the same dumb asses as we are, just with a ton of money and entitlement.

No human is perfect and we should never expect them to be. We all make mistakes. As for me, I have only two people in this world that I hold above all others. Father Tom Hartman (did you hear the Angels sing at the mere mention of his name?) and the man who designed my company accounting program, Jeff Fiddelman. And even then, someone told me Father Tom was suspected of having an affair with his secretary. So far…. Jeff hasn’t disappointed me…. Yet…..

— Dee Karl NY Islanders 7th Woman, 7th Woman Blogspot.



Let my player profile reflect the fact that I'm a die hard Sixers fan – always have, always will be. Having said that, I'll confess that I loved the 95-96 Sonics team that took the Bulls to 6 games in the finals. Maybe it was the fact that the Sixers hadn't had a good team in years and finished with 18 wins that season, or maybe I was just sick of the Bulls' dominance. Either way, I fell in love with GP, Shawn Kemp, George Karl, and everyone else on the Sonics that year.


I quickly made room on my bedroom walls for dozens of magazine pages of GP and The Reignman, to the point that my dad asked me, quasi-seriously, if I was racist against white people (I then pointed out that I had one picture of Detlef Schrempf on the wall).

I had so much emotionally invested in that team, that to this day I still remember where I was when Peter Vescey broke the story that Kemp had a drinking problem. I looked up to him, was in denial and refused to believe a word of it. Well you know what? It turns out, Vescey was right. Drug and alcohol problems continued to plague Shawn throughout his career. Of course then the Sonics brought in the immortal Vin Baker who has openly admitted to showing up drunk to practice and games. Are we sure Ahmad Rashad isn't hitting the bottle now that he's working with GP on Game Time? Can someone do some recon on this and get back to me?

If I was making the kind of money most of these athletes are making, I'd hire someone to drive me around quicker than you could say “rum”. I'd probably hire someone to feed me if necessary. I cannot for the life of me understand why any athlete, or celebrity for that matter, would ever get pulled over for a DUI, speeding, or rolling through a stop sign. Having said that, I will always look up to Shawn Kemp for what he did on the court, not off. If you remember the GP-to-Kemp alley-oops, its hard not to.


— Susan is a freelance writer/disenchanted accountant and would like to reiterate her love for the Sixers, despite what the above column may indicate.



Yo, it’s tuff out there for a pimp. Athletes are under an ungodly amount of pressure from the moment they first notice they’re handy with a ball and run faster than the other kids. If they aren’t strung out on ‘roids or drugs, accomplished rapists, or BDSM freaks into underage tranny little people by the time they hit the big game it’s a goddamn miracle.


But D.U.I. is epic stupidity. You are rich, famous and adored by any number of drunken ex-frat boys and all of the gold-diggin’ hos in the bar and could, as a last resort, score a ride from one of them. But why not hire a driver, dumbass? Take a friggin’ cab/limo/car service!

By the time I was 15 I had a fake ID and frequently partied with my hawt older sisters at bars frequented by players with the local NFL and NBA franchises. I watched and learned, people. After collecting free shots from admirers and nuzzling coke whores all night, those dudes would invariably stumble out to the valet and zoom off into the night in their Porsches, Corvettes and sweet-ass Trans Ams, which they shortly thereafter wrapped around an innocent light pole or crashed through someone’s living room. Or were caught inflagrante delicto with the team owner’s wife. Whatever. All avoidable with a little foresight: embrace the Designated Driver, you dopes. Hire one, it’s a shitload cheaper than the D.U.I.

I’m never surprised or particularly disappointed by my favorite athlete’s moronic off-field activities, but, as someone who loves cars I have to plead: Won’t Someone Please Think of the Cars?


— Trouble is a Philly-Proud auto journo and leader of the Metro Denver Philadelphia Eagles Fan group. She’s never had a D.U.I. because she isn’t lazy or stupid.