The Sport Count: 10 000 hits in seven weeks.

No, wait, make that 13 000.

No, wait, make that 15 000. In the past three hours.

Thanks Deadspin. Thanks Ball Don't Lie.

This is fucking amazing:

Get Your Tear Ducts Ready, Rocket Fans!

The Clippers: There Will Be Blood.

New Low: Starbury Tattoos Shoe Logo On Head.

The Top 7 NBA Criminals.

Does Brad Miller Love The Sticky Icky Icky?

Donnie, I'll Give You Fourteen Dollars And A 2018 Second Round Pick.

First Obama, Now Kobe.

Gee, I'm proud of The Count. 3500 hits in three weeks. That's The Count!

PS Been very busy lately. Yes, I finally got GTA IV.

The Count just launched a new site: The League Count. So all you United States-based rugby league freaks, get your click on.

The Sport Count (which is really the NBA Count now, I guess) is still going strong. Somewhat surprisingly. Two weeks in and we're at 2000 hits. I feel like Sebastian Telfair at a gun convention.

Smoked joints ('smoked joints'? I'm 45 apparently) on the roof of Broadway with Rory and Allan. Then we saw Don't Mess With The Zohan. That film is worse than you think it'll be. But the joints / Broadway / seeing-a-movie trio mad up for it.

Rory, Alex and I had a Boys Night Out: Sex & The City special last Wednesday. Went to Gold Class in the city (those seats are ridiculous!), drank three bottles of Killawarra (note: not that great after the 3rd glass), and gossiped, talked about emotions and put arms around each other.

Just a really heterosexual night, that's all.

(If you're wondering, the Sex & The City movie is pretty retarded, doesn't make heaps of sense (as in 'why would she do that? What's the guy thinking?'), is literally an hour too long and is far less funny than the drunk secretaries behind you think. Another thing: if you sit in the front row, you've made a mistake. Big's head is fucking enormous. You notice the blood pulsing in SJP's giant veins. The French guy's penis is five-foot high in your face).

Saw Michael Bublé two weeks back. What a ridiculously charming, talented guy. Terrible seats (the good ones sold out in literally seconds -- and yes, I was at the ticket website at 8am like the other Bublé freaks), and expensive beers, but it was a fantastic show.

I like how the TheSportCount.com is working out. Alex and James are fun. Only real surprises: a) no daily Ron Artest feature and b) people are actually reading it.

The Sport Count: A real energy guy off the bench.

There are a lot of snake eggs in the backyard.

You know we back, right? Clear the streets out.

Boom boom boom.

For all your music needs: Lily Allen's norks, Death Cab For Cutie stealing from Brian Wilson, John Mayer making me love him more.

Fuck me, finished work for the week and came home to a letterbox with these:

Commonwealth Mastercard: $25 (nice, taking things slow).
Virgin Mastercard: $75 (I can deal with that).
Energy Australia: $201 (take it easy, fuckers)
Water: $178 (hmmm).
Car Registration due: $250 (annoying).
Compulsory Third Party Insurance: $468 (christ).

So that's $1197 in one day. What're the odds?

Thanks for that, letterbox.

It's a good day to have an okay-paying job.