Today, at long last, we will hear the closing arguments in the Casey Anthony trial. I predict it will go thusly:
PROSECUTION: She did it!
DEFENSE: No, she didn't! You did!
I'm not stopping there. The scuffed, worn, slippery grass of Wimbledon calls, you know. ("Wimpleton," as the locals designate this annual Holy Tourney.)
Nadal will win.
I won't even hedge by saying that were Djokovic to win -- in fine fashion, that is -- I'd also be thrilled. It's gonna be a great match.
I'd say it's been an awesome weekend for my sporting interests, except that Tito Ortiz managed to knock out Bader in the first round. On the upside -- Chris Leben has TOTALLY rehabilitated himself in my eyes, and Wanderlei Silva needs to do some thinking. (I contend that he is the animated, ripped version of Homer Simpson.) Congratulations, Chris.
Leben was transferred to my good side when he took on Yoshihiro Akiyama with short notice and good humor, then submitted him with 30 seconds left on the clock.
I failed to note yesterday's instance of prescience in this blog, having been distracted by scream-inducing spastic legs and yet another puncture of said legs by one Buddy the Kitten.
But you can trust me.
I called Sharapova's loss way-y-y ahead of time, based on my extreme disappointment in her semi-final match, a match that might as well have been played in the first round of some country club tourney. In Antarctica (South Sandwich territories...).
None of that, though, impugns the accomplishments of Petra Kvitova: Kde je vlakové nádraží?!
Lastly, a bit of non-prescience for you: Last year, or the year before, I cannot differentiate -- I wrote a post that included a discussion of women's tennis underwear. The number of hits that post receives at this time of year is astounding. Top searches include "tennis undies," "venus williams ass" and "serena williams cat suit." Also, somewhat inexplicably, given her [second] retirement in January: "justine henin's boobs."
Okay, so now you know exactly what I know.