At a certain age, that rage seeps from your system and you’re mostly left with a vague Ghost O’Marley sense of indigestion and a minor ocular muscle sprain from the eyerolling at the dumbass drama queen of a boy carrying on about the woman who found her good taste in men a bit late but not too much so.

At that point (or right around the time you see Elvis Costello whip through a 90-minute set with no encores to hurry to the next gig), you have a bit more trouble tapping into whatever drew you into a teenage riot lo those many years ago.

Fiona Apple helped revive the song awhile back when VH1 (remember when they appealed to old people?) hooked Fiona up with Elvis (much to Diana Krall’s consternation; she’s seen this film from the other side of the camera) to recall Sinead O’Connor’s service to Prince on “Nothing Compares 2 U”.

She finds a second reading of the song that, frankly, the song doesn’t deserve and chills you to those now-numb toes.  You’re pretty sure that you should, you know, call into VH1 and get someone to take that nice Apple girl home to make sure nothing felonious happens and everyone’s rabbits stay unboiled.

But we’re not here to laud the song or the singer.  We’re here to talk about the little boy who’s fucked.

‘Round halfway through, the director finds a raven-haired beauty entranced by the scene, leaning into her burly boyfriend and set them in the camera frame all artsy’n’shi’.  However, stage right, there’s a few young girls and the 21st century version of “Brady Bunch”’s Oliver obviously foisted on the girls to take with to the concert so Mommy and Daddy could spring clean the liquor cabinet.

Take one look at that kid.  He’s so fucked.  Fuckity fuck fuck fucked.  He now holds a passport from the great nation of Fuckedtonia.  He hails from Fuckedtonia.  Uses the Fuckedtonia stamps to mail his gas bill.  Bemoans the taxes in Fuckedtonia but always pays them on time.  Sings the last two lines of the Fuckedtonia National Anthem just before a sporting event and glares at the asshole that shouts, “WOO!” just before the end of the song.

The substantial and potent powers of Fiona Apple set before a moody stage racked with one of your better sets of musicians are telling Oliver, the boy dragged around by the older kids begrudgingly to keep ratings up, that he is wanted in all dimensions posited through string theory if he would only somehow crawl into the flowing robes of the haunting woman that brings all light through her eyes and all night through her lips.

SO fucked.

That kid is doomed to date a succession of domineering goth girls and stabby Kathys (because no self-respecting goth will touch Baby William Katt now) and agree to sell his car at a discount to an ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend and never get the full payment and listen to 3 am crying jags from jangled girls who treat him like their gay friend before making out with him and then weeping again until the tab wears off.

Why?  Because Mommy and Daddy sent him to play in Viacom’s den of polished iniquity so they could blow enough coke up their noseholes that Mommy sneezed and Juan Valdez’s burro flew out.

And that’s why we need a national health plan: afforable drug treatment centers.

Color us dense, but we noticed something recently on Pro Basketball Reference while researching The Fall of Flip that we found rather striking: Flip Saunders has a height and weight listing under his coaching profile.  (5′11″, 175 lbs. for those of you counting at home.)  We couldn’t believe it.  This is important information about the coach?  Is there a weigh-in day for coaches where George Karl strips to his boxers and wiggles onto the scale?  (”Okay… minus the 12 oz of Schlitz in his hand, he’s 6′2″, 185 lbs.… George, put the other foot on the scale.  Seriously.”)

We kept checking randomly.  Only some coaches have measurements.  Allan Bristow, Kevin Loughery, John Lucas, Bill Fitch – yes.  Frank McGuire and Jim Boylan – no.  Okay, we figured: it’s bleeding through from their player profiles when they were pros.  Except, of course, Fitch and Saunders never played in the pros.  So maybe college stats?  But why track college stats of men that never played in the pros? We’re not sure.

Until someone proves otherwise, though, we will assume now that there is a head coach weigh-in day in the NBA and that’s the day that Jeff Van Gundy (5′9″, 150 lbs.) called in sick each year.  (”Sorry, Jeff… the only way the scale can detect you’re there is if we weigh you while you hang from Alonzo Mourning’s leg and then weigh him separately.  Oh… oh, stop crying, Jeff.  It’s okay.  You’re the Knicks’ big boy!  Yes, you are!”)

We, of course, see an uptick in Punisher T-shirts sold in rural Nebraska a few years ago and a trespassing charge for watching teenage girls undress in their own homes.  

(Considering the demographics of this blog, we expect that young man is reading now.  Hey, Ryan!)

We’re, howyousayinyourhumantongue… unconvinced.

However, this may also be because we have seen video evidence of alien life ourselves with much more clarity than any grainy CCTV footage could provide.  We have brought this video to you at great personal risk from a powerful cabal whose sole purpose is to prevent us from delivering this to you.  Look quickly before it disappears forever, along with us:

[youtube:http://youtube.com/watch?v=6PLWvSqkDAU]

That shady cabal, of course, consists entirely of NBA lawyers.

(… that I’m open!  Throw it here!)

Back soon, true believers. This Tuffy life be hard livin’. Tuffy will tell you someday over drinks. Lots of drinks. (SPORTSbyBROOKS stories still appear on the right.)

[youtube:http://youtube.com/watch?v=6Dddvr9YJI8]

Actually, this is an excuse to shill for the Treehouse Fort tonight (8 pm ET) and mention that we’ve got a bit in this week’s Voodoo Sabernomics on Babes Love Baseball again.  Ken Griffey, Jr. is poked with pins until he ‘asplodes.

UPDATE: Camp Tiger Claw is on my list.  He knows what he did.  

Pictured here is one Nicolas Swisher, getting his fuzzy friend painted for Mother’s Day.  (Hey, we’re not here to judge.)  However, we wanted to take a moment to point out the bill of his cap.  He’s used some kind of gel pen to draw a cross and “D.30″ on it.  The latter is apparently short for “Dirty 30″, his self-styled nickname. 

People, this is why we are in charge of nicknames around here.  First, it’s not cool to assign yourself a nickname.  Second, when you do assign yourself a nickname, you give yourselves crappy ones like “Dirty 30″.  Honestly, “Dirty 30″ next to a cross may be the worst cross-promotional idea since G.I. Joe dated Barbie.

As the master of nicknames, Mr. Swisher, we will take care of giving you a new name.  Your new name shall now be… “Nick Swisher”.  Because you’re in the penalty box for awhile.  No nicknames for you until you’ve learned your lesson about self-naming.  You’re cut off.  

(Like that pink abomination on your chin.  We appreciate it’s for a good cause and all, but the last time we had something like that on our face… well, that was the one and only time we’ll ever attend a bachelorette party.)

Man, the previous title holder* dies and everyone slugs it out to replace him.

*Totally unproven!  Apology printed!  Didn’t happen!  Not any of those other times, either!  Please don’t hit!

(Note: Now fixed. Still.)

Seriously, what did I ever do to Steve Martin?

For the record, this isn’t funny at all. I really did have to pee.

(H/t: The esteemed J-No)