What about the Mountain West? -Doc I'm telling you,

there's no more football.

Now do that thing that makes us all sick.

In 1979 I ate a plate of fish so sour

that it nearly killed me with food poisoning.

It was disgusting and sometimes sports disgusts me too.

This is Sour Fish.

Alright, gaze into the rotten fish's rotten eye Doc,

what do you see?

The New York Knicks acquired a stomach-churning fish today

when they traded away a fundamentally sound team player,

Jeremy Lin for Monta Ellis,

a selfish, shot-heaving asshole who plays Knicks-style basketball.

New Yorkers deserve a player who reflects their values,

not a disciplined, articulate floor general like Jeremy Lin.

Ellis gives the Knicks the scranboard, fish poison they need

with his pigheaded chucker mentality, total lack of defense

and ability to completely stop caring.

Lin was no Knick. He looked for the open man

and drew fouls instead of missing reams of contested threes

and then pointing fingers at teammates

whose names he never learned.

Now that Lin's gone, the fans can watch Melo and Amare sulk

while Ellis tries to drive through triple coverage.

Okay, you've made me sick. Congratulations!

Next fish Doc.

I'm heaving up rotted fins just thinking of injured Derrick Rose

who announced that he'll play while strapped to a gurney

so he won't miss another minute of basketball.

He's a crippled genius.

One good shove on a fast break and no one's catching that gurney.

And you can use it in a trap on defense.

A long gurney is hard to dribble around.

You can't hide a sour fish on a fancy platter.

Rose is going to aggravate his injury

while putting himself at risk for bed sores.

Roll him up in the post

and he'll be able to take at least five charges

before the gurney breaks or he dies.

Kill your fish exit.

There's nothing he can do from a gurney

that he can't do better from a baby basket

worn by Omer Asik.

Don't talk about Turks, it puts me ill at ease.

Alright, what's the next corrupt fish coming up your gullet?

Spring training started this week and I'm already smelling sour cod

and festering white sauce

after hearing that Mariners' pitchers and catchers

have been too embarrassed to approach each other for a catch.

Pitchers hobnob with pitchers, the catchers stick together,

no one is crossing the diamond to ask for a pitcher-catcher toss.

It's pathetic.

The coaches need to break the ice.

Start light with some goofy knuckleballs and Eephus pitches,

and before you know it, they'll have some serious fastballs going.

Pansies! Back in the day Nolan Ryan would just start hurling fastballs

at whoever showed up.

They'd get the catcher's gear on real quick, believe me.

That's how you get the sour fish in,

throw it down their throat before it can swell shut.

My throat's never open around you Doc,

and for good reason. Okay, that's The Sour Fish.

When we come back, unfairly accused Lance Armstrong

blames 'roid rage in the murder of three Swiss doping investigators.

Awesome! Pebbling makes me happy.